“Says every person right before they pry.”
“But what’s a beautiful therapist,”—he put extra weight in the last word—“like you doing splitting tips with me in a place like this?”
“I could ask the same thing. What’s a hunky rock god doing in a place like this, splitting tips with me?”
“Hunky rock god?” He seemed to savor the words.
First rule of being in the same room as a player: don’t compliment them too much. They’ll make it a point to raise a girl’s stress levels. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I should get that printed on a t-shirt. Or a new tattoo.” He was totally letting her little comment go to his head.
“You let it go to your head.”
“I asked my question first. You go. Then I’ll go.”
“Because of your deep adherence to a scorecard?” she asked.
“No,” he said, slow. “Because I asked first. Therefore, by the rules of asking first, you have to answer first.”
“I am not aware of these rules.”
His brows drew together, forming two deep lines. “Your universe is pretty whacked, you know that?”
Yes, she sort of did. Hence, the whole holiday from it.
Now it was her turn to stare at nothing in particular. Nothing being the tattoo ink peeking from under the right sleeve of his shirt.
“I’m here because I tapped out and came home to figure out what I want to do with myself. I already told you this,” she said.
He leaned forward, further into her space. “You did, but I think there’s more.”
“Trust me, there’s not.” Nothing she was going to go digging through after a long shift, anyway.
“I get it.” He cleared his throat. “The figuring things out. You might say that’s why I’m here, too. Mine was more of a forced situation, given that my business partners are dumb asses.”
He frowned at his water bottle. Deep lines between his eyebrows became more pronounced. There was a lot to unpack there.
“What areyoufiguring out?” she asked, going with the obvious.
“Tonight? How to make a whiskey sour. Tomorrow? How to keep my band from imploding.” He ran his palm over his face and shivered.
Dimefront wasn’t exactly on her radar, as of late. But they couldn’t break up. Not to make his career about her, but it would totally add a dose of stress if her favorite band stopped making music. “Is that a worry?”
“Are you gonna turn around and sell whatever I say to the highest bidder?” The look he gave her was pure intensity with an undertone of fire she’d guess was anger.
“I’d never do that.” She used the tone that she used in session to show her patients they were in a safe space to share what they needed to share. “I’m a vault when it comes to secrecy. It’s literally been my job.”
“I’m not a patient,” he said with a hearty dose of grumbling.
“No, but you’re a human being, and I have always prided myself on creating space that’s safe for anyone who needs it.” Even when it raised her responsibility levels, which she’d noted were steadily rising throughout this conversation. She was at a solid three.
“Are you for real?” he asked. Not like he was being a jerk, but like he wasn’t sure if she was a phantom. A fantasy that would disappear in a puff of smoke.
She wasn’t, and she wouldn’t.
“I think so.” She fixed her eyes with his. “That would be an existential question we could dig into, but we’ve only got a few more minutes before we have to jump back into work.”
He paused. She knew this feeling well. The will-he-or-won’t-he-trust-me quandry. Every person was different.
