But it is something.
In my entire adult life, I’ve never had a man make me feel the way Tacker does just by his mere presence. While we’ve talked about serious issues and shared immense grief, we’ve also laughed together.
Talked as friends.
Communicated outside of counseling sessions via phone and text, especially the week he was gone for away games.
That in and of itself is a breach of my ethical duties to him, so the whole dating thing is probably moot. I not only can’t have an intimate relationship with him, but I also can’t have a friendship with him. Not really. There’s too much room for exploitation, which is why we have these rules.
Regardless, tonight is not a date, no matter how he makes me feel.
There’s a knock on my front door, and I swear my hands actually start dripping. I give a quick wipe of them on my butt, which is clad in a pair of nice jeans. Not the type I wear on the ranch, but skinny ones with frayed ends. I tell myself the fact I’m wearing a pretty blouse and a pair of flirty wedge espadrilles doesn’t mean this is a date.
Taking a breath, I send up a silent prayer for guidance and open the door.
There’s no other way to say it other than Tacker is a beautiful man. When I’d first seen him, I thought him handsome. But as I’ve watched his transformation—watched him start to find joy again—he’s simply beautiful.
I don’t notice he’s got one hand behind his back before he whips it out, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers out to me.
God.
When was the last time a man brought me flowers before a date?
Never, Nora. It’s never happened.
And it’s not a date.
“I can’t accept those,” I say, sadly eyeballing the beautiful blooms.
Tacker just smiles. “They’re actually for Raul. Can you put them in a vase and hold them until he comes by tomorrow morning?”
My heart flutters over his gallant attempt to give me a gift I should not accept. Smiling, I reach for the flowers. “Okay… sure.”
Stepping back from the threshold, I invite him in with a sweep of my other hand. When I turn for the kitchen, he shuts the door behind himself before following me.
“I can’t go out to dinner with you tonight,” I say as I walk, not daring to make eye contact. I don’t want him to see how disappointed I am to even have to say that.
“Then what do you want to do?” he asks, his tone way too jovial and accommodating.
I head to a cabinet, pull out a small vase, and bring it to the sink. As I fill it up with water, I say, “We need to talk. And figure out how to get back to where we were in our counseling sessions. In fact, we should probably head over to my office to discuss this so we’re in a more professional setting.”
Startling, I jolt when Tacker’s arm comes around my side, reaches for the faucet, and twists it off. His hands then go to my shoulders, and he whirls me around to face him.
“Just stop,” he says softly. “Stop with the counselor mode for just a moment, okay?”
I just stare at him, knowing if I set aside my role as his counselor, I’m putting myself in danger. But I find myself giving a slight nod of acquiescence.
“Put aside the fact that we have a professional relationship,” he says, his hands squeezing me slightly. “Pretend you and I met at a coffee shop, and we’ve continued to meet there for the last few weeks. And each time we’ve met, we’ve revealed a little more of ourselves to the other. Peeled back layers with each cup of coffee we shared. Then there came a time where I got up the nerve to ask you out on a date. Would you have said yes?”
I don’t even need to give much thought to that scenario. Of course I’d say yes, so I nod.
“Then I don’t see what the problem is, Nora,” Tacker says. “You would see me if we were just two people meeting casually. I’ve fired you. I already have an appointment to see Dr. Dumbfuck—”
“Dumfries,” I interject with a look of censure. “If you’re going to see another therapist, you at least need to take him seriously.”
“Dumfries,” he affirms with a smile. “I’m seeing him tomorrow, so you and I do not have a professional therapist/client relationship anymore. It’s just that simple. Why can’t you accept it?”
My gaze drops a moment, trying to remember all the reasons I had gone over and over again in my head as to why we shouldn’t be doing this. There are too many to count, yet the real reason I’m hesitant doesn’t have so much to do with the fact I’m his therapist—or was before he fired me—and everything to do with the fact that I’m a woman falling for a guy who has suffered a terrible trauma.