Twenty-three more days.
It would be too much.
It would never be enough.
29
“She’s a whore,” Lawrence declared. “All women are in the end. Fucking selfish whores.”
Donovan glanced up from his notes, lips parted and poised to interject, but Marin sent him a quick look that was as effective as holding up her hand. He hid his smirk. Rush was getting confident. He’d be sure to let her know how happy he was to see her progress when she came over later tonight.
For the past few weeks, they’d made it an almost nightly occurrence. They’d work together all day, pretend that there was nothing between them, be professional, and then after her brother left for his nightly shift, she’d sneak over to Donovan’s place for a little nightcap.
Of course, a little nightcap often turned into the all-night kind. They were both sleep-deprived as hell. And Marin had twice gotten home after her brother because they’d gotten carried away and lost track of time. But goddamn, he’d never been happier to be an experienced insomniac. And on the nights she couldn’t make it over, he found himself missing not just her presence in his bed, but her company.
Last night, he’d given in to the urge and had called her. They’d ended up talking on the phone for over an hour and co-watching some silly thriller movie from the eighties. They’d put it on mute and inserted their own dialogue. It’d been ridiculous.
She made him ridiculous.
And she was about to tell him good-bye.
Three days. They had three days left, and he had no doubt that she was going to stick to her word and end things. He needed to let her.
But just the thought of letting her go had sent those old demons snapping at his ankles again. He could feel them there in the shadows, breathing, waiting, reminding him that he could run but never hide. Letting her go would be best for them both. But even knowing that, he found himself considering things he shouldn’t. Scary things. Selfish things. Like getting rid of the time limit. Like asking to meet her brother. Like telling her that he thought she was the most amazing woman and that maybe he’d changed his mind about that whole concept of The One.
But she still had no idea that he was a version of her worst nightmare, the thing she’d feared most all her life. There was so much he hadn’t told her about his past. About his present. Things that would frighten her. Things she shouldn’t have to deal with. But he was getting more and more tempted every day to come clean anyway, to lay it all out there and brace for the consequences. But even if she could get past those things, what were they supposed to do? Continue to hide and sneak around? Keep risking their jobs?
Plus, she might not even feel the same way. What if this really was all about sex and experience for her? What if she was ready to walk away?
The thought punched him in the gut. Fuck. He was in so much goddamned trouble with this woman. So much trouble.
He couldn’t let his mind go there right now. No time for panic attacks while trying to help clients. He forced his focus back to the session, waiting to see how Marin was going to handle Lawrence.
She stayed tall in her chair and didn’t flinch away from Lawrence’s tirade or harsh language. “Why don’t you tell us what happened to change your mind about Rebecca?”
Lawrence’s leg bounced up and down like he was barely able to keep himself sitting down. “I wrote her again and she sent me the same email about the sex toy. It’s a fucking form email.”
To her credit, Marin didn’t visibly react or do what Donovan really wanted to do—say, No shit, genius. Instead she nodded. “I see. So you’re angry because you feel like she tricked you?”
“She just wants to make money and make people buy her shit. I mean, I don’t care that she probably gets a pile of fan mail. Don’t make it sound personalized when it’s just a damn sales pitch. I feel like . . . I dunno. Like a fucking chump. Like she’s laughing at all of us dudes who watch her movies.”
Marin managed a sympathetic expression. “No one likes to feel like that. But maybe it would help to think about it from her perspective. Just like any other person who performs a role, she’s playing at something she’s not. She’s an actress. On screen, she’s the girl who wants every guy and who can orgasm a thousand times and is sex personified. She’s the fantasy girl. But no one is that in real life. She’s doing that job because she has bills to pay and her own goals to meet. It’s a means to an end. I doubt she’s laughing at her fans, but I think she probably sees you as customers. That
’s what you are.”
Lawrence looked ready to fight back, to disagree for the sake of disagreeing because he didn’t like what Marin represented—the truth. But finally he let out a breath. “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”
Ah, the unintentional trap so many people were good at setting in therapy. Come here, doctor. Just step right here. Confirm what I think about myself. Tell me these horrible things I think are true so I can redirect this anger at you.
Marin adeptly sidestepped the quagmire. “I think you’re good at keeping yourself safe.”
Donovan smiled behind the fingers he’d steepled in front of his mouth. Three points, Dr. Rush. Nailed it.
Lawrence’s hackles went up. “What the fuck is that supposed to be mean?”
Marin set her notepad aside and took off her glasses. Donovan had learned she’d do that when she wanted to have a let’s-just-talk-you-and-me vibe with the clients. He found it unbearably sexy.
Better yet, it was effective. Lawrence sagged a bit in his chair, his fighter’s pose softening.