Page 41 of Deadly Attraction
For a moment, he didn’t react. Then he laughed softly under his breath. “I’m sort of a mess, Dr. Collins, if you haven’t already figured that out.”
Back to Dr. Collins. The candlelight played across his cheekbones and cast circles under his eyes, now downcast to his plate.
“We make a good couple, then,” she said off-handedly, finding herself hungry again. “I wouldn’t want it to get out since it could ruin my career, but I’m a bit of a mess myself. You already know that, however.”
Another chuckle. His eyes locked on hers over the glass beer bottle as he tipped it to his lips, then he set the bottle down softly. “Psychologists aren’t allowed to have issues?”
“No.” She smiled sweetly, the smile she had perfected over the years to keep probing minds at bay. “If we can’t handle our own issues, how can we possibly help others with theirs?”
Light flickered in the depths of his eyes. He toyed with his beer, turning the bottle in circles on the table. “Don’t you go to each other for psychoanalyzing?”
“I haven’t found the right colleague yet for that.”
“I’d assume with your contacts, you’d have access to more than one who would qualify.”
“I have colleagues who are friends, but you can’t go to a friend and expect them to treat you.”
He looked thoughtful. “That’s a pickle, isn’t it?”
She shrugged and chewed a bite of beef tip. “I’ll handle it on my own. I always do.”
Whoops. She’d said too much. Behind his eyes, she saw the wheels turning. Analyzing. Another sip of beer. “You shouldn’t bear your grief alone. It will eat you up. Take it from me, I know.”
“Have you sought therapy for your issues?”
“Hell, no.” The face he made was laughable as he slapped the bottle down on the table. As if she’d suggested he try waterboarding for fun. “But you aren’t me. Therapy could help you, I bet. Me? I’m a lost cause.”
She’d once been teased about all the people, pets, and ideas she constantly tried to rescue.Emma Collins, the patron psychologist of lost causes.“It’s a myth that everyone can benefit from therapy, you know. Only those whowantto engage in therapy will actually find it helpful.”
“Ah, there’s the rub.” He grinned, leaning forward and pointing an accusatory finger at her. “You don’t want to talk about what happened with anyone, not even a fellow, trained professional.”
“Exactly.”
He sat back, looking pleased with himself, and tore into a bun. “I get it.”
She felt a bit pleased as well. Damaged people usually understood each other. “I thought you might.”
“It would be like me going to one of my coworkers and talking about a failed mission.”
“Not just any failed mission. One that cost someone close to you their life.”
His fingers stilled, a piece of bun in each hand. “Yeah. Like I said, Doc, I get it.”
So he’d lost someone close to him and blamed himself. “If you decide you’d like to talk about it, I’ll be happy to listen. As a friend, of course.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Not gonna happen, but thanks. I appreciate the offer.” And then, “Why as a friend? You don’t take adult clients anymore?”
Honesty warred with politeness. What did she have to lose by telling him the truth? He would be gone from her life in a matter of days. “I’m afraid I’m too…attached to you to be a proper therapist at this point.”
“Attached?”
“You’re not a stranger anymore, remember?”
The grin. The flippancy in her tone. It should have made him grin back.
He didn’t.
He stared. He smoldered.
