2. Talia

Chapter 2

Talia

D espite the ominous ticking of my internal clock, I dress with care. Slim black slacks, a black silk blouse, and bright red stilettos. My wet hair goes into a sleek bun. I keep my makeup understated with the exception of winged black eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of blush. No perfume, lipstick, or jewelry. The clothes are the real statement.

As I grab my purse and keys and head to my car, I’m aware I might be entirely off the mark. But there’s no time for more research, no time to carefully craft my persona as I usually do for a new client. So I went with my instinct—that Kieran won’t respond to someone who in any way resembles his late wife.

I already have height and hair color going for me. Elizabeth was blond. I’m a brunette. She was petite. I’m five-ten without heels. Most notably, however, I didn’t find one picture of her in black. She was most often photographed in pastels, radiating an air of delicate femininity next to her tall, rakish husband.

The drive to my office is spent lost in nebulous thoughts, so much so that when I pull into the private lot behind the building, a disquieting feeling of not remembering the drive rolls over me. Following it is a flutter of nervousness I haven’t felt in years.

“Why did I say yes to this?” I mutter.

I know the answer, of course. I just don’t want to own it.

When I see the time on the dash, my momentary self-reflection is forgotten. I hustle to the back door of my home away from home, its boxy, pale stucco walls and red tile roof softened by lush greenery on all sides. Inside, late morning sunlight streams through the front windows and down the wide hallway, warming the oak floors and the doors to either side of me.

The entire downstairs is mine: a main office, two additional work rooms, and a full bath. I rent out three of the four upstairs offices to other therapists. Their clients come in the front door and use the stairway; mine arrive and leave through the back. A privacy screen normally separates my hallway from the lobby. Since it’s Saturday, I leave the screen retracted. No one is here but me.

At least for the next four and a half minutes.

I stride to the door with my name mounted on a plaque, unlock it, and slip inside. The first thing I do is pull aside the curtains behind my desk, flooding the room with natural light, then I crack a window for fresh air flow. Next I turn on an oil warmer hidden behind plants, allowing my personal cocktail of soothing scents to mist out. The furniture is thankfully already where I need it—two chairs facing each other in the center of the room. There’s a couch, but he has to earn that.

On the small table beside my chair, I place a blank notepad and pen. I rarely take notes during sessions, preferring to compile my thoughts afterward, but it’s an effective visual tool. An unspoken language, just like the color palette of the furniture and decor. One of my former clients, an interior designer and television personality, called my office the perfect balance of sophistication and whimsy. They also said I had too many plants, but that critique had more to do with their aversion to dirt—or rather, dirtiness— than anything else. Case in point: at the end of our time together, they brought me a parting gift of another plant.

With the final sixty seconds rapidly dwindling, I take a swig from my water bottle and pop a mint, chewing fast. I’m swallowing the last of it when the eleven o’clock hits and there’s a knock on the door. I had a feeling he’d be prompt, mainly because I doubt he drove himself. A spike of adrenaline overwhelms my satisfaction at being right.

I let him wait three more seconds while I take a deep breath and center myself. Then I prop a hip against my desk and cross my arms over my chest .

“Come in,” I call.

The doorknob turns. Wood swings inward.

He stands before me. A king like he said he’d be. A stranger with a familiar face.

Six-foot-four and perfectly proportioned for it, Kieran wears sweatpants, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. In one large hand, he holds a baseball hat and sunglasses. Unsurprisingly, all the items attached to his person are black. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look like the broken man I was expecting.

He looks feral.

Even stalled on the threshold with only one foot inside the room, his presence permeates the space around me. I inhale subtly, catching a hint of expensive cologne. Something probably concocted exclusively for him based on his skin’s pH level.

At least he showered.

As soon as I think it, though, I realize it would have been better for me if he hadn’t. Scent is an effective weapon. I should have used a stronger oil in the warmer.

Time melts and stretches. It could be two seconds or two minutes that we blink at each other. My heart drums, fast then faster, before my head eventually confirms what my eyes can see: he doesn’t recognize me. As much as I knew he wouldn’t—he never knew my name, and I’m as different as he is the same—a small part of me had wondered if he would see through me to the shorter, chubby, braces-wearing teenager I was.

Reality snaps like a rubber band against my throat, jolting me into the present. Into the body of who I am today. My relief—and the ache of illogical disappointment—fades.

“Welcome, Mr. Hayes. I’m Dr. Stirling.”

He nods, and his cool, remote gaze finally leaves my face to flicker around the room. Free to study him, I notice what I didn’t before. Details his natural charisma blurred. Shadows smudge the skin beneath dark eyelashes. A short beard—more scruff than anything refined—covers his jaw and makes the sensuality of his mouth even more pronounced. His hair is too long for its cut, and his eyebrows are drawn together like he isn’t sure why he’s here. Though the latter might be a projection on my part.

Despite all my training on micro-expressions and body language, I have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. Par for the course for someone of his position—I’m sure he’s had his own training—but irritating nevertheless.

I’m already at a disadvantage as a woman. If I can’t secure my authority now, I never will.

“Come in and close the door.”

Please drips to the edge of my tongue. A light clench of my teeth holds it there.

When his eyes return to me, there’s new life in them. Waves in a formerly placid cove. But I still can’t decipher their depths. If eyes are a window to the soul, Kieran’s soul is a footstep from the void. He’s not broken yet. But he’s close.

With smooth grace, he closes the door and turns. There’s no hesitation in his movements as he strides forward and lowers his body to the chair I chose for him, placing his hat and sunglasses on the floor beside his feet.

I settle in the chair opposite his. A larger, more comfortable chair. I’m sure he registers the difference, maybe even realizes I manipulated him, but there’s no outward indication.

Oh, he’s good.

As I cross my legs, his gaze drops to my feet and pauses for an instant on my stilettos. No subtle flaring of his nostrils. No twitch of eyelids. Zero physical reaction, but it still feels like a victory.

His eyes lift back to my face. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Stirling.”

Goose bumps unfurl like wings across my lower back. One wing his voice—deep and lilting, warm and a little bit rough—and the other the movement of his lips shaping the words. All familiar and not, distorted by time and memory and faded fantasy. An absolute mindfuck.

I’ve never been more thankful for my skill at masking emotion.

“You as well,” I say with a brief nod. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“I think we both know the answer to that,” he says flatly.

“Indulge me.”

The silence stretches, as does our eye contact. The urge to drop my gaze grows the longer he stares at me. In another life, I might laugh at his clear bid for superiority. After all, it’s his fault I grew claws .

The sudden buzz of my phone on my desk ends our stalemate with no winner declared.

“Apologies,” I murmur as I snag the device and put it on silent.

When I look at Kieran again, his eyes are roaming the framed degrees and certifications on the wall to my right. Depending on the client, I either display them or don’t. If I’d had the time—or thought about them at all—I would have removed a few of them.

Nothing to be done about it now.

Kieran’s gaze stalls, and I know exactly which frames have caught his attention. Another moment passes before his eyes return to me. The blue is frigid. The vast, underwater depths of an iceberg.

He finally deigns to answer my question. “My brother informed me this morning that he’d have me removed as CEO of the company I founded if I didn’t present myself here.” His gaze flickers back to the wall. “Though I suspect he was obeying the whims of my sister-in-law.”

“And why do you think he felt it necessary to threaten you?”

He sighs, an ocean of annoyance conveyed in the sound despite little to no change in his expression. Color me unsurprised when he ignores the question and nods at the wall.

“That fancy degree from UCLA. Is it real?”

“According to the bank that acquired my student loans, yes.”

“You look a little young for a PhD. ”

“I have one of those faces.”

His eyes narrow. “Unlike my brother, I looked you up. Made a few inquiries.”

I uncross and recross my legs, gratified when a muscle ticks in his cheek. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Mr. Hayes.”

His fingers drum on the arm of his chair. When he realizes what he’s doing, he stops immediately. I almost smile.

“No one could tell me shit about what you actually do. They made you sound like the Wizard of Oz. Your website is vague, your social media presence almost nil. Besides that ridiculous Buzzfeed article, I have no idea if you’re a legitimate professional.”

“You’re right—that article is ridiculous.”

A moment’s stillness betrays his surprise. Then something predatory flares in his eyes, warming them like an electric current. I do smile then. Just a little.

He opens his mouth, but I beat him to it.

“As you can see from my accreditations, Mr. Hayes, my skillset is rather unique. It allows me to customize different therapeutic approaches with each client. If you’re willing to do the work, together we can change your life. If you’re not…” I shrug. “I wish you the best of luck.”

He doesn’t like that—my easy dismissal—and all at once the ice melts from his eyes. They’re now the searing blue heart of an inferno. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, a primal warning of danger. I muse that it’s the same response a deer must have when a wolf is near.

But what he doesn’t know is that I’m what he said I’d be. A queen of the jungle. If he so much as snarls at me, I’m going to take a nice big bite out of his neck.

Something of my inner dialogue must reflect in my face because he tenses, then abruptly relaxes back into his chair. The fire in his eyes fades to a pilot light. I know better than to think he’s submitting—more like misdirecting me. He probably uses the technique in business to keep adversaries on their toes while he plans their demise.

“Color me intrigued,” he says in a droll tone. “What kind of approach would you take with me?”

I tell him the truth. “I don’t know yet. I usually have weeks to consult with new clients and prepare.”

“Well, I can tell you right now we won’t be needing those last several.” He nods toward the frames.

My brows lift. “Are you sure about that?”

He bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “Yes.”

I nod, indulging him. “Okay. Have you ever been to any sort of therapy before?”

Instead of answering, he asks, “Can I be frank with you?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ And by all means, be whatever or whoever you want.”

His eyes narrow as he tries to figure out if I’m teasing him. But I have Mona Lisa’s perfect poker face.

“I don’t want or need to talk about my problems, or my sex life, and I definitely don’t need whatever that is.”

He points an elegant finger at a certification on the wall. Without looking, I know it’s the one that says Tantric Sexology and Breathwork Practitioner . It sits between Board Certified Sexologist and Somatic Sex Therapist .

I have the wicked impulse to tell him I’m also certified in erotic massage, intimacy surrogacy, and kink coaching. But he’d probably run, and I don’t want him to. I want to give him the same gift he gave me seventeen years ago. If I can.

“What do you need, Mr. Hayes?” I ask mildly. “Because from the conversation I had with your sister-in-law this morning, it seems to me you’re one misstep from the psych ward or a rehab facility. Given the fact you’re here, showered and sober, I think somewhere inside you is a voice crying out for help.”

The words are a calculated risk. Or maybe a leap of faith, as alarming as that prospect is.

Full lips compress, then release on a slow exhale. “Fair point.”

I hold his gaze. Hold it… hold…

Finally, dark lashes flutter as his eyes lower. Relief so sharp it’s painful seizes me; I bite the inside of my cheek against a gasp.

There’s hope for him, after all.

“I still don’t see how this can work,” he says.

“It’s my job to worry about that.”

Momentary surrender forgotten, his eyes meet mine. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.”

The barest edge of helplessness in his voice makes my shoulders relax a fraction even as my heart rate kicks up. I may be a mystery to him—and I’ll keep it that way—but he’s no longer so much of a mystery to me.

“What I’m hearing is you don’t trust me, and that even if you did, you’d still find it difficult to share your private thoughts and feelings. As much as you may want change, you think we’re wasting our time.”

He nods slowly. “Exactly.”

“Out of curiosity, have you ever trusted someone enough to show them the deepest, darkest parts of yourself?”

Another predatory flash in his eyes. He wants to lie. I see the moment he decides not to—there’s an infinitesimal release of tension in his jaw and a sardonic twitch of his lips. Another surrender. Smaller but no less important than the first.

“Can’t say I have.”

His accent is suddenly thick, his voice close to a growl. My long-sleeved blouse conceals another bloom of goose bumps. I’ve hit a fault line, though I’m not sure which one. Childhood trauma? Early relationships? Or his marriage?

I nod, refocusing. “It’s perfectly natural to have defenses against vulnerability. I’m not asking you to trust me off the bat. Give me three weeks. If you still think this is a waste of time, we’ll go our separate ways.”

His fingers clench on his thighs. He forcibly stretches and relaxes them. “Fine.”

I retrieve my pad and pen, then jot down an address. “I’d like you to meet me here tonight at nine.”

“Tonight?” he asks sharply .

I look up through my lashes. “Yes. Do you have plans?”

His jaw clenches. “No.”

“Great.” I tear off the paper and extend it.

He grabs it and reads the address. “What is this place?”

I smile fully for the first time, knowing it will unsettle him. It does; he shifts in his chair.

“A rage room.” I stand, signaling the end of our session. “Don’t be late.”