“I insist. Nothing to be concerned about. C’mon.”
Reluctantly, he passed the secretary—still tapping her keyboard—and followed Gen into Dr. Quinley’s office.
The room was decorated in furniture that would have been modern in the 1950s. Several plants hung from holders made from what looked like twisted white rope. Stacks of books and papers cluttered the desk. The second-story windows framed a view of an outdoor atrium at the center of the complex.
Instead of sitting behind her desk, Dr. Quinley selected one of the four leather and wood chairs positioned around a circular brass coffee table, like camp chairs around a bonfire. The doctor wore a loose shirt and pants. She tucked one of her moccasins underneath herself and began chewing on seeds she scooped from a small bowl. “What’s your relationship?” Her brown eyes twinkled with interest.
He sat there stiffly, with no idea what to say.
“Um.” Genevieve shot him a humorous glance. “One notch above strangers?”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, I broke into his cottage while under the influence of OxyContin. And ... he found me there, sleeping in a pile of my own clothes wearing my robe backward.” She started to giggle at the absurdity of it. “He searched my purse and found my Oxy, and it was mortifying. And then I realized I needed to get clean and asked him if I could rent his cottage, and he said no. So then Isort of stubbornly charmed him into it, and one of his conditions was that I get psychological counseling. Which, clearly, Idoneed. And he’s—” her giggles increased—“a health nut so he very kindly brought me all kinds of organic GM whatever—”
“Non-GMO,” he supplied. “I hate GMOs.”
“Of course you do.”
“And pesticides.”
“Yes. Anyway, because of him, I survived on organic, non-GMO foods for a week while going through withdrawal.” Tears of amusement fell over her eyelashes. “He drove me here because he doesn’t trust me to follow through on our bargain. And that”—she swept out both arms like a conductor—“is our relationship.”
Dr. Quinley placed her seed bowl in her lap and threw back her head to laugh along with Gen.
Dr. Quinley might need psychological counseling.
“He’s not very fond of me at all.” Gen bent forward, a forearm across her stomach, shoulders shaking. “I think Sam views me as an enormous”—more giggles—“pain in the booty.”
She wasn’t wrong. Yet, he found he couldn’t look away from her.
Gen was so ... vivid. He’d been living in a black-and-white world. She was Technicolor. Her shirt was bright pink against the fall of all that hair. Light sparkled against her big gold earrings. Her pretty face creased with uncontrollable laughter.
Humor tugged at his own lips in response. He gave in to a small smile.
Dr. Quinley continued to laugh. “In all my years of counseling, this is a first.”
“We’ve managed to shock my counselor, Sam.” More crazy giggles. “Congratulations!”
“Congratulations, Gen,” he replied.
“I told my sister about the Oxy yesterday,” she said to Dr. Quinley. “But why in the world would I want to bring her here, whenI can have my disgruntled landlord here with me instead?” Gen wiped her eyes. “Whew!”
“Laughter is good medicine,” the doctor stated.
“My emotions are taking me on such a ride! Every minute of the day, I feel like I’m on the verge of crying or laughing.”
“That’s normal at this stage.”
Sam wasn’t convinced thatnormalandGenevievebelonged in the same sentence. Still, he was having trouble focusing on the doctor and not on Gen.
“How do you feel about everything Genevieve just said, Sam?”
He snapped his attention to Dr. Quinley. “I feel it was pretty accurate. Can I go?”
The doctor regarded him as if he’d said something delightful. “Not just yet. We’re having too much fun.”
He looked from side to side, wondering if he was being filmed secretly for a show that pranked people. Was this a setup?
