Page 38 of The VIP Package

A funny look crosses his face. “You’re welcome.”

We’re both quiet a moment, letting the hot water work its magic. I’m not used to an audience when I’m bathing, but it’s nice having Ash here. He leaves for a second and returns with a bottle of water.

“Drink this.”

“Yes, Daddy.” I love watching him wince when I say it. “You have a fridge in your bedroom?”

“Of course.”

“Obviously.” I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the water.”

“You need to stay hydrated.” He watches me gulp from the bottle, then takes it from my hand and sets it aside. “Let’s give it just another minute.”

“Okay.” I cast about for something to discuss. “Who’s the woman in the picture?”

“What picture?”

“On your dresser out there. Blue and white frame, little boy on her lap. He looks a little like?—”

“Get out.”

I blink. “Out of your house?”

“No, Camille.” He sounds unbearably tired. “Out of the bath. You’ve been in there too long, and you need Neosporin.”

I decide not to argue or push. Whoever the woman in the photo is, that’s none of my business. I’ve been a therapist long enough to understand that when people don’t want to talk about something, there’s no point in pushing. They’ll only dig in deeper, not trusting you as a safe place to share.

Ash hands me a fluffy blue towel as I step from the tub, then offers another for my hair. I wrap it around my head like a turban, conscious of Ash hovering nearby.

The whole time I dry myself, he doesn’t say a word. Just watches me closely, not speaking, not smiling. He sits like astatue carved with a frown on his handsome stone face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he hates the sight of my naked body.

“Brigitte and I were married nearly five years.”

My heart hits the floor and I turn at the sound of his voice. He stares straight at the wall, not making eye contact at all.

Swallowing hard, I anchor the towel at my breasts. “The woman in the photo?”

“Yes.”

“She’s very beautiful. Kind eyes.”

“Yes.”

I wait to hear more, braced to accept that’s the end of the story. It’s Ash’s decision whether to share more.

“The boy is my son, Grayson.” Pain fills his eyes as he stares at the wall. “Wasmy son.”

“Oh, Ash.” I step to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at the wall like the rest of the story lies there. “They died in an auto accident nearly twenty years ago. I rarely speak of it.” His throat rolls as he swallows. “Ineverspeak of it. Ever.”

“I understand. We don’t have to speak of it now if it bothers you. I’m sorry I asked.”

He looks up from the wall, blue eyes finding mine through the steam of the bath. “It was my fault they died,” he says softly. “When I tell you I don’t get involved—that feelings aren’t part of the equation—that’s why.”

That’s one hell of a statement to make. Empathy urges me to insist he couldn’t possibly be to blame. To spill platitudes and condolences, sympathetic words that might assuage his grief.

But I need to tread carefully here. “Guilt and grief almost always go hand-in-hand, regardless of the circumstances. If you want to share, I’m here to listen. If you want to change the subject, we can do that, too. You don’t owe me your pain, Ash.But if it feels right to share it, please know I’m a safe place to do that.”

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