by Skylar Kade
In the past decade, she’d tried to give psychologists another shot, on the chance that it had been her youthful stubbornness that had stalled her progress. Each new therapist had provided her with alternate coping mechanisms, but none—even with her eagerness for results—had helped.
One former therapist had insisted she meditate. She was “former” for a reason. Another had suggested long walks, or hot showers. Another “former”. They were all “formers”, for one reason or another. David was the only psychologist she could stand, and that was only because he kept his psychobabble to himself.
She’d found her own ways of coping with the anxiety, some healthier than others. Alcohol had worked while she was in high school, but her decision making under the influence was so questionable she’d long ago written that off as a solution. Sleeping pills helped, but they made her groggy, which only increased her panic upon waking. Banishing her emotions to their corner of her mind had become a solid solution, but it exhausted her. Which left sex—intimacy—with David.
Dammit. It should have been the easiest solution, because what guy turned down no-strings sex? Carrie jolted from her chair and paced her office in the hopes that it would help her think.
Long weekends in bed with David flashed through her mind. Him bringing her breakfast in bed, laughing at stupid reality TV shows, long kisses for pure enjoyment…
But sex buddies didn’t do all that. Her excitement deflated, and she clunked her head back against the nearest wall. An alternate future presented itself. She would show up at his place after work, strip, get down and dirty, and leave. Simple, mechanical and…not fulfilling at all.
If she was being honest, she had left David’s that night with the edge of desperation gone, but it had been replaced with a deep-seated longing. Like she’d missed out on something important she’d later regret.
A knock sounded, and she saw two shadows through the frosted-glass panes of her office door. Thankful for the distraction, she stood to open it, but paused with her hand on the doorknob when she heard her boss talking with David.
Crap. It was as if her thoughts had summoned him.
Carrie opened the door to usher in the men. She’d banked on hiding in her office all day to avoid David, but that plan was out the window now. She stepped back and patted her hair, then scowled at the self-conscious gesture before she turned away from David to talk to her boss.
“Dr. G, how can I help you?”
He wore the look he reserved for the families of victims or interns who weren’t cutting it in his lab.
Unease snaked through her. She sat at the desk, knowing she’d need the support once The Talk started, and she was pretty damn sure this discussion would be unpleasant for her. Tension choked the room like yellow smog.
Gunnerson sat across from her and David leaned against the closed door, staying in the background, technically, but still overwhelming her senses. She could smell him—the scent that occasionally trailed down the hall to her condo and made her crave him even more.
He looked so solid, his tall, lean figure clad in a business suit. Reliable, with shoulders broad enough to cry on.
But Dr. Carrie Farrow never cried. Except where David was concerned, it seemed.
When David stared at her, his brown eyes took in the bags under her eyes and the lifeless strands of her hair. She stifled a curse and returned her attention to Gunnerson. David always seemed to know what she was thinking, which made him the most dangerous person she knew.
“Carrie, you are not ready to be back at work.”
Gunnerson’s words hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest. “I took the long weekend. I’m here now, working. I’m fine.”
She wouldn’t look at David, didn’t want to see his pity.
Gunnerson continued as if she’d not voiced a protest. “You are the hardest-working forensic anthropologist we have, Carrie.” He patted her hand as if soothing an edgy animal. “But your work is slipping.”
Hackles up, Carrie struggled to keep the frustration from her voice. “I’d think you’d appreciate a dedicated employee.”
He sighed and looked at the stack of work on her desk. “Dedicated, yes. Heading for burnout? Likely. I’d rather not lose one of my best team members.”
Pride bloomed in her chest, alongside panic. “Why don’t you let me worry about that? I have it under control.”
David shifted away from the wall, and she did her best Medusa impression. He could damn well stay out of it.
David took the seat next to Gunnerson. Visions of being called in front of the principal and school psychologist floated up from her memory, remnants of those awkward weeks at the beginning of her senior year before she’d been put on the home-study track.
“Dr. Cameron shares my concerns.” Gunnerson gave her hand a squeeze. She liked the feel of it, like someone cared for her enough to offer comfort. But she also knew how dangerous that could be. “Your health, mental and physical, is paramount to this company. And beyond that, Carrie, you know I care for you. I don’t like seeing you this worn out.”
Carrie said nothing, because all the words coming to mind were impolite and directed at David. Though pangs of betrayal hit her from Gunnerson’s gentle accusations, it was David’s compliance in this whole ridiculous affair that actually hurt.
David took up the conversation, talking as if he had no idea he was subjecting her to verbal torture. “No matter what you might think—what the rest of us might see in you—you’re not Superwoman. Hell, I’m sure even she needed the occasional break.”
Silence settled over the room until Gunnerson sighed and dropped the guillotine. “You can either attend counseling sessions with David, on a schedule he determines, or make use of your vacation time to relax and refocus.”
She started to protest and Gunnerson cut her off. “It’s not optional, my dear. I can’t take the risk of putting you out in the field when you’re not on your top game. Especially not on the overseas assignments you request. You know how dangerous they can be, and I won’t lose another anthropologist to distraction.”
He had her there, like a stab to the gut. When she had interned with Gunnerson in Egypt one summer during grad school, one of the other interns, sleep deprived and distracted, had fallen down the excavation shaft. His death hadn’t been quick or gentle.
She eyed the files on her desk and wondered how many she could sneak out before Gunnerson noticed what she was doing. However long he intended her to be out, she’d need something to keep herself occupied, aside from the four walls of her condo. “How long do you expect me to take off?”
“A week. At least.”
Her protest died when Gunnerson leveled his most serious look at her. “Sabbatical or therapy.”
Exhausted, battered by the high emotions in the room, she settled back into her chair to take in the two men intent on saving her from herself, even if it killed her. Gunnerson stared her down, as she would have expected. David, though, wore a carefully blank face. His eyes searched her and bared her soul with a look. She flinched away and locked up her stress. No one needed to see that.
“I suppose I’ll see you in a week then.” Therapy was not an acceptable option.
Gunnerson nodded, then rose. “That’s my protégée. You’ll be back in no time, Carrie.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, David took the opened seat.
“How many therapy sessions would you have demanded?”
His fingers slid across his pale-yellow tie. She tamped down the urge to grab it and haul him over her desk for a kiss, anything to distract herself from reality.
“I don’t know. It would depend on your progress.”
“Was this forced hiatus your idea?”
“All Gunnerson.” He shook his head and a lock of hair fell across his forehead. She clenched her fingers around the light wool of her pants so she didn’t reach for it.
“Fine.” She gestured to the piles on her desk. “If you don’t mind, I have a bit to get don
e with the time I have left today.” Ice weighted her words. David might not have brainstormed this idea, but he was complicit.
Hands up in a gesture of resignation, David nodded at her. “Sure.” He stood and leaned over her. His cologne wafted over her and evoked flashes of sex and deep, wet kisses.
“What else do you need?”
“Come over for dinner tonight. I know you haven’t been eating well, and don’t try to tell me otherwise. If you’re not well-fed, how do you expect to beat this exhaustion?”
Damn the man. Here she was distracted by his mere presence, and he was trying to fatten her up. She shifted in her too-loose blouse and swiped a finger under her tired eyes. Maybe he had a point. Her stomach growled and that settled things. “Only if you get Italian.”
His smile made her blood roar. “Sure thing, Care. But you’d better be there at six, or I won’t save you any garlic breadsticks.”
“I see you’ve found my weakness, Dr. Cameron.” She couldn’t keep the grudging smile from her lips.
Chapter Five
After work, David headed home and set his plan into motion. In the months he’d observed Carrie—first as a professional, then a neighbor, then a friend—he’d learned enough about her to know she would never actually use her “vacation” to relax. He’d bet his diplomas she’d snuck files home to work on, which would defeat the purpose.
At his most unbiased, he recognized in Carrie serious signs of depression and anxiety. As a professional, it concerned him. As a man who cared about her, it was terrifying. When his brother had presented the same symptoms years ago, he’d ignored it, sure his personal feelings had clouded his perception of Aaron’s mental health.
Every year on the anniversary of Aaron’s death, he agonized over that conclusion, even though he knew it hadn’t been his responsibility to diagnose his brother.
He’d be damned if he’d let Carrie slip any farther away, which left him with one option—entice her into taking a true vacation.
She needed to relax, to let go of the mud on her soul she’d tracked home from Rwanda, which meant she needed someone to keep an eye on her mental well-being and handle any emotional fallout as she purged herself of the dig.
Carrie needed…him. God knew, he had enough vacation time stored up to take a few days off. But how could he talk her into not only staying away from the office, but actually forgetting about work?
He assembled every tidbit of information he’d picked up and turned the data over in his mind as he pulled up to the Italian place they preferred. Bribery, coercion, begging on his knees…nothing would drop her defenses enough to achieve his goals.
David returned to his car with the scents of garlic and Alfredo sauce drifting up from the brown paper bag he carried. Down the street, two teenage boys started shouting at each other.
“Chicken! You’re too scared to talk to her.”
“Am not!” He shoved his blond friend. “It’s not like you ever talk to Mindy.”
David set the food down on the passenger-side floor then slowed to listen to their argument.
“Not true! I borrowed her pencil in math class.” The kid swiped at his red hair before he turned to the blond boy. “I dare you to ask Ashley to the dance.”
The blond went bug-eyed. “Well…well I double-dog dare you to ask Mindy!”
They tussled, like he had done all too often with his brother. On the coattails of guilt came his revelation.
He had to dare Carrie into her vacation. He recalled her betting him for the last piece of pizza, wagering over who would win The Bachelor, and taking the big half of the most delicious cupcake because she’d correctly guessed the first dance mom to break down in tears. For the record, no cupcake was worth watching that show again, but he’d give anything to spend hours watching Carrie’s reactions to it.
He zipped back to the condo, formulating his plan along the way. A couple of blocks from home, he stopped at a red light and the sign for a flower shop caught his eye.
Cherry on the sundae.
Before she left for Rwanda, Carrie mentioned she’d never been given flowers “just because”. A floral-delivery commercial had come on while they watched some reality TV show, and her offhand comment had pierced him. Every woman should get flowers, at least once, and if Carrie liked them, he’d send her bunches every week.
Getting flowers would, at worst, throw her off her defense. At best, it would soften her up—if he didn’t screw up and get the wrong flowers.
Inside the humid shop, he waved off the young girl behind the counter and browsed on his own. He gravitated toward the exotic blooms, evocative of the far-flung places she’d worked, until he remembered the day their coworker had received a potted orchid from her boyfriend. Carrie had crinkled her nose and said the flowers reminded her of a grim case she’d worked in South America.
Roses were also off the table. On Valentine’s Day when Gunnerson’s wife had sent him a dozen, the whole office gave him a good-natured ribbing. Carrie stared at them like they were poison and called them “funeral flowers”. That had broken his heart to hear and left him wondering exactly when she’d given them that name.
Carnations were too plain, daisies too cheerful. On the verge of giving up, a collection of potted plants caught his eye. Succulents jutted up from dark soil, their thick, fleshy leaves standing out because of their subtle beauty.
Just like Carrie.
A copper pot at the back of the display held four different varieties, one of which had tiny white blossoms on its tips—perfect.
Cradling the pot, he headed to the counter to pay.
The brunette cashier leaned in. “Good choice.” She swiped his card and handed it back with a smile. “These will live a good long time. I love the cut flowers, but they die too soon.”
Well if that didn’t cement his decision, nothing would.
At 5:59 p.m., Hurricane Carrie blew into his apartment.
“I’m here, not late!” The door slammed behind her, and he watched her from the kitchen as she set her small purse on his entryway table. She’d come straight from work.
Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, but wisps floated around her face and drew his attention to the tired creases around her eyes.
Shoulders sagging, she pulled out a seat at his small dining room table and leaned her elbow onto the top, her chin cupped in the palm of her hand. She was weary, yet beautiful, and he was torn between begging her to take a real vacation and kissing her until she went pliant in his arms and let him show her one time-tested way of relaxing.
He would do both if he had his way, but saving her would always come first, even if she hated him for it.
While he moved their dinner from the waxed cardboard boxes onto plates and bowls, Carrie reached for the succulents he’d placed in the center of the table, a blue bow precariously balanced on the arrangement.
“Beautiful. Who’s the gift from?” She drew her finger down one of the thick stems, and he bit back a groan. Damn him, he was jealous of a plant.
“It’s for you.”
Carrie sat up straighter. “What?”
Balancing two plates and the salad bowl, he brought their food to the table. Carrie had pulled the pot in front of her and was so busy studying the arrangement she barely acknowledged the chicken tetrazzini he set in front of her.
He let her examine the plants for a moment longer while he grabbed a bottle of her favorite white wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. Once those were set on the table, he kneeled next to her chair and waited for her to come out of her analytical zone.
At last, she turned to him. “Thank you, David.” Her smile lit up the dusky room. “I don’t know why you did it, but thank you.”
“Because I knew you’d smile at me like that.” His teasing words pulled a chuckle from her.
“Am I so predictable?” Her hand almost reached towards him but she dropped it, clenched, in her lap.
He took her fist and pried open her fingers. W
hen he kissed the pad of her thumb, she gasped. “Not predictable, no. But I know what you like.”
Watching her face for anything but yes, he lifted her hand to his mouth and nipped at her index finger. Her pupils dilated further as he kissed his way down her fingertips.
“Much better. You shouldn’t be so tense, Care.” As soon as he released her hand, she snatched it back and cradled it against her chest.
David stood and turned from her. She’d need a minute to gather herself again, though he’d only give her a small reprieve.
By the time he’d grabbed utensils and salad tongs, she’d recovered, her placid mask back in place, but she had removed the bow from her succulents and situated the pot next to her water glass.
They ate in strained silence. Of all the times Carrie could have pushed her feelings under the rug, this would have been a good one. Instead, their unfinished business hung between them like a noose.
With a soft clink, he set down his fork. The normally delicious tetrazzini did nothing for him tonight. He might as well forge ahead. “What are your plans for the week?”
Carrie froze, fork halfway to her mouth. Instead of biting into her chicken and pasta, she pursed her lips and pointed at him with the food-laden utensil. “I chose vacation. You don’t get to shrink me now.”
“It was an innocent question.”
“Nothing with you is innocent.” Her cheeks reddened as the double meaning sank in. “You know what I mean.” She set down her fork and started toying with her succulents.
“I bet you spend the week holed up, working on whatever files you snuck from the office.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I bet you forget to eat during your ‘vacation’.” He forced a bite of pasta before he snatched the breadstick off her plate and bit into it.