I snort. “He would’ve had a fit if I suggested something like that.”
“What recreational activities were acceptable for a young St. Clair?” Her tone holds fake grandiosity, but there’s interest there, too.
I flip the cold towel over. It slips slightly and then her slim fingers are there, brief and wonderful. “Tennis, golf, sailing,” I say. “Languages. We’d go to museums occasionally, especially if he knew the… the docent.” I wave a hand. My skin feels flushed, too hot. Damn fever. “I came with him on most of his business trips. Travel was important for him.”
“What did you do? When he was working on the trips?”
“I walked around whatever city we were in.”
She rearranges herself on the couch behind me, and then something rests against my head. Definitely her thigh. This woman is killing me. “Tell me about it.”
I sigh. My throat feels shot to hell, but I do it anyway, because she asked. “He went to Europe a lot, Asia on occasion. I walked across London when I was eleven. It’s deceptively big. I had to ask someone to explain how the Tube worked so I could make it back to the hotel in time for dinner.”
She makes an incredulous sound. “At eleven, I was getting up at six every morning so my mother could realign my chakras.”
“Well, you seem very well-adjusted now.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I haven’t had my aura read in years, though. I might be all out of whack. Do you miss him?”
“Who?” I already know, and she knows it too, but she presses on. She’s brave. I knew that already, but she confirms it daily.
“Your grandfather.”
“No.” I reach for the buttons in my shirt. It feels as if my skin is boiling, as if the heat in here has ratcheted up ten degrees. “He wasn’t… I don’t know. It wasn’t easy being his grandson.”
“I can only imagine,” she says.
I’m halfway down my chest when I remember the scar. She’ll see, but she already has. She’s already asked too, and damn it, I’m too hot. I undo the last button and take a deep breath. Still too warm.
“He had expectations, then.”
“Doesn’t every parent or guardian?” I ask. “His were just very well-articulated.”
“Is that why you work so hard?”
“I’m sick,” I mutter. “I’m not lying on a therapist’s couch.”
Her voice turns teasing, and then she lifts the damp towel off my forehead. Smooth fingers rub circles at my temples. “Yes,” she says. “Your chakras are definitely off.”
I sigh. She’s good at what she’s doing, spiritual nonsense aside. “Realign them for me.”
“I really have no idea what I’m doing, you know.”
“Never admit that.”
“Right. Project confidence. Negotiate from your strengths. I’ve learned a lot, watching you do business.”
I don’t know what to respond to that, so I don’t, sinking into the feel of her taking care of me. It’s weakness, and it’s dangerous, and I should walk away. But I can’t remember the last time something like this happened.
In the background, an excited couple squeals as their renovated house is revealed.
“He didn’t want me anymore than I wanted him,” I say.
Her fingers pause. “How do you mean?”
“He wasn’t expecting an eight-year-old boy to raise, and I’d only known him as someone we saw once a month over dinner. But suddenly there was only the two of us.”
Her fingers finally run through my hair. “He asked for custody, then? After your parents passed?”