Page 7 of Look, Don't Touch

“Hay Bale?” My aunt’s soft and soothing voice runs contrary to her usual bold and brashness. The sentiment tries to burrow into my chest. It scrapes at old scars and new bruises, trying to find purchase. I can’t allow it in. Not right now. “Hailey Bailey, look at me.”

Reluctantly, my eyes leave the untouched sushi on my desk and lift to Nat’s. Her face has graced the covers of every fashion magazine over the decades and just as many gossip rags. Just last year, Vogue did a piece on her for landing Louvet Mortourque’s latest campaign and walking the runway in Paris Fashion Week for the designer.

My aunt is stunning, even with the grim set of her natural brow. “Cancel your afternoon, go home, turn off your phone, and crawl under the covers.”

“If you want to leave early, just say so,” I deflect.

She smooths her hands down her ribs, emphasizing the contour of her blouse and corset combo. Her fingers interlock. An array of stunning gold and jewels adorn each digit as she sets her chin upon them and rests her elbows on my desk.

“I know. I know.” I shove the container away and collapse into my chair. “I look like shit.”

“Hailey, you look gorgeous…even with bloodshot eyes, dark circles under them, and more wrinkles in your clothes than my bedsheets after a visit from Laurent.”

“Nat, gag.” My dry—and apparently bloodshot—eyes roll.

“What? Are you twelve and not a sex and relationship doctor?” She straightens and brushes her long silver and blond plait over her shoulder. “I haven’t heard any of your meetings, but I have reviewed your intake forms. My gymnastics in the sack with a beautiful male model is tame compared to what I’ve read, which I will never speak.”

“Tame? He’s younger than me.”

Her grin expands to take up the entire width of her face. “Stamina for days.”

“I’m sure.” I pluck a piece of fallen rice from my more than bedsheet wrinkled silk blouse and flick it into the garbage can by my feet.

“You’ve run yourself ragged over the past week. You were in the ward all night, Hailey, and I don’t think it was the first time in the past few days.”

The first time I’d forgotten my overnight bag at home, though.

“If you’d shown up in yesterday’s clothes for a good reason, I might have let it slide.” She flourishes her hand with such elegance that she makes a living art installation.

“And what exactly is a good reason in your book?” I grab the wooden edge of my desk, needing an anchor for what I know is bound to come out of her mouth.

“Meeting friends out. Closing down a bar. Wrinkling some bedsheets of your own. Falling in love. Making me a pseudo grandchild. Getting arrested. Having an orgy. Take your pick. Or all of the above.”

I inhale for a five count and let it out for ten. The heavy breath reminds me of my client this evening and the only reason I’m not taking Nat’s suggestion and closing shop early. If I don’t look like shit, I sure feel like it.

“Saving a life isn’t a good reason?” Somehow, I manage to say the words without a wobble in my voice.

Nat opens her hand and places it on the center of my desk. I sit forward and take the comfort she offers. “Love of my life, it is not yours to save.” Her warm fingers curl around mine, holding me still for the truth. “That’s the hardest lesson to learn. You can guide. You can help. You can be there. You can hope. You cannot force someone to live when they long for death. It’s not right.”

My computer chimes with a five-minute alert.

We both jump as though we’d been conspiring to sell crack to children.

“Fuck.” I gripe.

Nat settles on a string of French expletives. She stands and straightens her olive leather pants. “I’ll get back to my station and my own business. So long as you know that you are not responsible for the actions of others. You are only responsible for how you react to them.”

I smile. “Maybe you should sit here, and I should go out there.”

“Nah.” Her long, slim frame saunters to the entrance. “Too many notes to take in here. I’m terrible at typing.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Any time, my love.” She winks and slips out of my office.

I dump the sushi in the bin, hating to waste it but hating the possibility of food poisoning more. I’d stared at it for an hour and a half before Nat joined me. My notes she hates so much hadn’t written themselves in that time, and the shuffle of my schedule hadn’t sorted itself out either.

Determination, sludgy black coffee, and the thought of my last client today got me through the afternoon.

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