Page 80 of Look, Don't Touch

“And I’m a serial dater who pushes a man away the moment he tries to get too close, while you won’t even dare to let a man see how wonderful you are.” My aunt smiles at me. “No one needs a man to be happy. We’re proof of that, but I’d sure as hell like a partner I can rely on in this life. It’s taken me a long time and a man almost half my age to realize it, but I have with the help of Astor.”

“He’s not half your age,” Astor blurts. “He’s thirty-one.”

“You’ve been going to therapy?” I share a look between them.

“Yes, for the past year,” she admits.

“I’ve been begging you to go forever. What made you finally decide to go?” There’s exacerbation in my voice, but also shock.

Her smile is sweet and slow. “Arlo Judge.”

I pin her to the seat with my glare.

“After speaking to him at the gala, I watched him.” She wiggles one svelte shoulder. “I can’t tell you why. Maybe because he’s objectively gorgeous. Maybe because he is mysterious and interesting. Maybe because his face had gone from sour to bright when we spoke about you. Either way, I watched him ignore his friends and other women’s overtures—and there were several—to catalog your every move through the night. I saw him gather his courage to go and speak with you.” Her brows droop, and the smile slips from her face.

“He said a few words, but you didn’t even register him to be able to acknowledge them. It was like the invisible barrier around you since the incident suddenly revealed itself. It was impenetrable. And I realized that I had the same type of defense. You didn’t see the potential for love and care or even connection right in front of you. At that moment, I knew that the two greatest possibilities for love in my life—besides you—had been right. I was physically present, but emotionally unavailable to them and even myself.”

The potential for love and care and connection.

Her words crash against my walls. They connect all the chinks Matt’s loss, Arlo’s care and attention, and years of therapy created. My walls shudder.

Connection.

It’s what I feel when I’m around Arlo.

“I watched him go back to his friends and resolve to make a change in his life. The following Monday, he called to inquire about becoming your patient.” Her gaze flits to Astor. “I made my call later that day.”

My gaze slides to my friend. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Nope.” Astor sits straighter in her chair if it’s even possible. The woman’s posture is that of royalty. “If you’ll recall, I did challenge you to dig deeper and face more than I have in a long time.”

“I remember.”

“We know you’re going through something,” Astor continues. “A fundamental shift in how you interact with the world. It’s a scary time, but also full of possibility. We want you to let us in fully and completely. No more half-measures. We want to help. We can help. If you’ll let us.”

Nat nods in agreement. I measure her readiness for what I’m about to say. There’s a determination in her features I haven’t seen. A calmness in her usually flirty gaze.

“If you’re ready to face this, I think we should go home.”

I expect her to make excuses about my patients or the gala or having just gotten back from a trip, giving me an out before this madness gets good and started.

“You’re right.” She stands, rounds my desk, and pulls me up into a hug that squeezes the air from my lungs and shocks me as much as her agreement. Just as quickly, she releases me. “I know a guy with a jet.”

“Of course you do,” I grumble.

“I’ll talk to him this afternoon and let you know when we’re going. Then you can spill your deepest, darkest secrets to me on the way. Then I’ll tell you mine.”

“Count me in,” Astor adds.

“You’ll have to spill too,” Nat threatens, and my friend beams.

My insides quake. “Can’t wait.”

I pull the files I’m going to ignore for the night from my bag in an attempt to trick myself into actually looking at them. The one on the top draws my attention. I most definitely had not put it in my bag, but I have a feeling I know who did.

“Nat,” I sigh.

The file meets my coffee table with a whack.

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