Page 37 of For Her Own Good

“I didn’t know what you’d like best, so…”

He holds them toward me without totally looking at me. Right, I am wearing a towel. And that’s probably awkward for him. But the question is, why is it awkward? Is it awkward because hedoeswant me or because hedoesn’t? If it’s the former, we’re in business because I want him and we’re both consenting adults and yes, I get that for quite some time he was in a position of power and significant influence over me, but he’s not anymore. I’m the one with a shit ton of money, I’m the one who said I didn’t want to see him, and he respected that. I’ve got a pretty good bullshit meter and Lowry doesn’t register. The man is earnest to a fault.

Also, it’s been fifteen goddamn years. Yes, he’s got some street cred with me because of our time together before, but… I am a grown-ass, adult woman. Give me some fucking credit. Trying to take that away from me by saying I can’t possibly make a real decision is some paternalistic trash that can jump in a dumpster fire. It’s…possible I have some feelings about this.

If this is awkward because he doesn’t want me, then this is all going to go according to plan. I’ll come on to him, he’ll be mortified and explain nicely that I am an attractive woman, just not one he personally finds attractive and then I can go back to my apartment and medicate my mortification with some more prosecco. And a bubble bath. And calling Holden to make him come eat tuna salad out of a bowl with Doritos. It tastes better than you might think. But only the Nacho Cheese ones. Not that Cool Ranch nonsense.

I take the pile from him, but not fully receiving them until he looks me in the eye. Like he’d be able to tell if he let go, they would fall.Look at me, Lowry.

“Thank you.”

And then I step back and shut the door in his face. There. Enough for now. I need a minute to, I don’t know… I need one of those boxing coaches who would rub my shoulders and get me all psyched up and shoot me up with painkillers because let me tell you, this prosecco is some weak-ass sauce. I can barely tell I drank any at all. But that’s for the best. If I were obviously sloshed, Lowry would pat me on the head and probably try to distract me with an animated movie, and let’s be real, that would probably work, especially if he let me sit next to him on the couch. And like doubly work for me to pass out if he cuddled me or petted my head. I’m so fucking easy.

Chapter 13

Lowry

When Starla emergesfrom the bathroom, she looks more bonnie than any woman wearing mismatched, oversized sweats has a right to.

“Thanks for these, they’re, um, warm.” She shrugs and looks even more darling, if that’s humanly possible.

“You’re not going to win any fashion contests, but, uh, aye. I’m glad you’re warm.”

I swear to God I have a decent vocabulary that I often make good use of.

“Not going to catch my death now.”

I shake my head because I’m too far gone to say anything. No, she’s safe from that mysterious chill my gran was always so worried about, but my heart might stop. It feels painfully right to have Starla in my home, freshly showered and wearing my clothes. Perhaps not the pants because they look somewhat ridiculous, but maybe if she wore some of those leggings women all seem to wear now, and the grey Hopkins sweatshirt I’ve had for…well, a long enough time, that she’s currently swimming in.

No, I can’t think about that at all. What I ought to do though is ask her why she’s here. I never did find out because I was too busy getting her undressed.Way to be a professional, Campbell.

“No, you aren’t. And now that that’s taken care of, did you want to tell me what you came here for?”

I have to stop myself from saying more like, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to see you, but…” Because I am all but encouraging her to drop by whenever, so we can… I don’t even know, but it’s not a good idea.

Her face is flushed which is a good reminder that she’s been drinking and whatever she says needs to be taken with a grain—nay, a boulder—of salt.

“I came here…”

She takes a few steps forward and I take a few back, landing myself against a wall because apparently all of my spatial abilities desert me in the face of a woman I’m very likely in love with. At least I don’t have any knickknacks to knock over.

I’m not afraid of her, not at all. I am afraid of myself, afraid of what I might do, afraid I won’t be able to marshal my control and keep my hands to myself, because this isn’t right. People say things like “The heart wants what it wants,” which of course it does. But that doesn’t mean the body and the brain have to go out and get it.

Self-control, decency. These are things I’ve prided myself on my entire life. Doing the right goddamn thing—hence the title Saint Lowry—and for fuck’s sake, I took a vow to do no harm. I should’ve switched seats on that plane. I should have never called to refer Lois to her, could’ve had Lois do it herself. I should have listened when Starla told me she never wanted to see or speak to me again. Christ, I’m a sorry excuse for a human.

The way Starla is looking at me now though says she doesn’t think so. A few more steps and then she’s standing directly in front of me. When we’ve both got bare feet, she’s small enough that I could tuck her under my chin if I held her to me, and the idea makes me want to weep. I am a weak man and she deserves a strong one. One who is not so fundamentally flawed and haunted. But because I’m weak, I don’t stop her. Don’t tell her to go.

I allow her to take another step forward and Lord in heaven above, I stop breathing when she lays her palms flat against my chest and looks up at me.

“I came here to tell you that I like you, Lowry. Not as a friend. Not as my former doctor. But as a man. You’re thoughtful and intelligent and handsome and funny, and I…I like you very much. It’s, um, really hard for me to say this out loud and to be so earnest, because you know that’s not really a thing I do, but I’m saying it now because I wanted you to know, and I’m hoping you like me back. Not as a friend. Not as your former patient. But…as a woman. Who you might like to kiss. I’m, like, right here, so if you did…want to, that is, now would be a good time. Just saying.”

Goddammit. Goddammit all to hell. I’ve done a lot of difficult things in my life. My career requires me to do difficult things nearly every day and usually far more often than that. Everything I’ve ever wanted for over fifteen years is standing in front of me, hand literally over my heart and telling me she wants me too, her eyes round and bright as she offers herself to me. God-fucking-dammit.

Having to peel Starla Patrick’s small hands off my chest when I would like nothing better than to heft her up, instruct her to wrap her legs around my waist while I rutted into her with her back against the opposite wall, is among the most personally difficult things I’ve ever had to do. Nevertheless, I do, slipping thumbs under her fingers and breaking what seems to be a seal between her hands and the thin fabric of my shirt. So thin I could feel the warmth of her hands pressing against me, and Christ—I feel as though I am stripping away a level of my soul as I pry her hands from my body and guide them back toward her.

Hell, asking Maeve for a divorce was easier than this. Likely because Starla looks a thousand times more devastated than Maeve did. Chin wrinkled on the verge of trembling, a crease formed between her brows, tears brimming on her lower lashes. It crushes my soul to think I’ve hurt her that much. But I can’t—cannot—ever have an atom of doubt in my mind that any feelings Starla might have for me are fake. That they were fueled by alcohol. It needs to be her choice. Her stone-cold sober choice.

“I’m flattered. Very, very flattered. But…you’ve had a drink or maybe more. I can’t—”

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