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The footsteps slow slightly and then stop altogether outside my closed office door. I hear a deep breath, a sigh, long and pensive, and then there’s nothing but complete silence for what must be an entire minute.
Eventually, there’s a gentle knock.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open, and I look up to find Kael standing in the doorway with his hands buried deeply in the pockets of his scrubs.
With the way he’s got them shoved in there so firmly, the waistband sits low on his hips, showing off a small sliver of his bare stomach and a thin trail of dark hair that disappears south down the middle of a sharp V of solid muscle.
I look away instantly, busying myself with the enormous stack of papers on the end of my desk. “If you’re coming in, Mr. Jenkins, take a seat on the couch over there. And close the door behind you.”
I hear him exhale softly, reluctantly, maybe even a little hesitantly, but I can’t be sure because my gaze is still locked tightly on the paperwork. My thoughts are preoccupied with what happened earlier, and I’m flip-flopping between giving this guy a piece of my mind for the immature way he acted and ignoring it altogether, pretending it never happened in the first place.
What’s that saying about the best reaction being no reaction at all?
The door eventually closes, and then I hear footsteps as he crosses the room and takes a seat on one end of the plush velvet couch. There are two couches facing one another, separated by a glass coffee table. A lamp and a vase full of freshly cut peonies adorn the coffee table, along with a bowl of peppermints and a couple of strategically placed home-decor magazines.
I don’t know what home-decor magazines have got to do with anything. I highly doubt a rock star gives a shit about what curtain fabrics complement his throw pillows or floor rugs. I bet he has people who do that for him. Designers, landscapers, architects, those kinds of people.
“So, about this morning…” Kael suddenly says, making me look up, and the moment our eyes meet, an odd sensation comes over me.
There is something so sincere in his expression that it takes me aback, and there’s vulnerability in his voice, a softness that makes me want to delve farther into his soul and find out everything there is to know about him.
“I acted like a self-entitled dickhead,” he continues, his brows turning down, and I have to give the guy credit because he does actually look apologetic. “I let my temper get the better of me sometimes. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
“Did Chad tell you to say that?”
He clears his throat, tilts his head, and a boyish smile slowly spreads across his lips. “Not in those exact words. The dickhead part I came up with myself.”
“I thought as much.”
Pushing back my chair, I stand and make my way across the room toward where he’s seated on the couch.
“Maybe we should start over…” He extends his hand toward me, and as it comes closer, I can’t help but notice his thick forearms and the light smattering of hair across the back of his knuckles. He smiles again, and there’s something hauntingly familiar about it. It’s the kind of smile I’ve fallen for in the past, the kind of smile that’s made me believe in hopes and promises when in reality, there was never any hope, and the promises were broken over and over again.
I don’t recall moving my hand, but it’s soon engulfed in a huge, warm one with calloused fingertips, and at first, Kael’s grip is firm, his fingers rough, probably from playing the guitar, but who knows for sure. He holds my hand a beat longer than necessary, and then eventually he lets my fingers slide away from his tight grasp.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says with a shrug. “That’s my fault. So, again, I’m sorry about that.”
“I appreciate your apology.”
He nods slowly, his boyish grin sharpening his features as he studies me a bit closer, watching me intently as I take a seat on the couch opposite him, crossing my legs, straightening my skirt down over my knees.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look kinda weird.”
“Thanks,” I say, tucking my hair back behind my ears.
“No, I just mean your eyes look different than they did this morning. They’re all glassy. Not focused. You on something, Jonesy?”
Jonesy?What the hell? Is that a nickname?
I don’t know how I feel about this? How did he get so comfortable so quickly? I could make a big deal out of it, sure, and I probably should, but in all honesty I have much bigger issues to deal with here. A silly pet name isn’t going to be the mountain I die climbing to the top of today, so I let it slide.
“No, I’m not on—” I catch myself almost immediately, not willing to play into his little game. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I tell him in my best no-nonsense therapist voice, “We’re not here to talk about me, Mr. Jenkins. We’re here to talk about you.”
