Page 6 of The Dark Before Light

If it ever leaks that he’s seeing me for therapy, we might as well ignite dynamite under the mountain ourselves.

Chapter 2

Talia

Despite the ominous ticking of my internal clock, I dress with care. Slim black slacks, a black silk blouse, and bright red stilettos. My wet hair goes into a sleek bun. I keep my makeup understated with the exception of winged black eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of blush. No perfume, lipstick, or jewelry. The clothes are the real statement.

As I grab my purse and keys and head to my car, I’m aware I might be entirely off the mark. But there’s no time for more research, no time to carefully craft my persona as I usually do for a new client. So I went with my instinct—that Kieran won’t respond to someone who in any way resembles his late wife.

I already have height and hair color going for me. Elizabeth was blond. I’m a brunette. She was petite. I’m five-ten without heels. Most notably, however, I didn’t find one picture of her in black. She was most often photographed in pastels, radiating an air of delicate femininity next to her tall, rakish husband.

The drive to my office is spent lost in nebulous thoughts, so much so that when I pull into the private lot behind the building, a disquieting feeling of not remembering the drive rolls over me. Following it is a flutter of nervousness I haven’t felt in years.

“Why did I say yes to this?” I mutter.

I know the answer, of course. I just don’t want to own it.

When I see the time on the dash, my momentary self-reflection is forgotten. I hustle to the back door of my home away from home, its boxy, pale stucco walls and red tile roof softened by lush greenery on all sides. Inside, late morning sunlight streams through the front windows and down the wide hallway, warming the oak floors and the doors to either side of me.

The entire downstairs is mine: a main office, two additional work rooms, and a full bath. I rent out three of the four upstairs offices to other therapists. Their clients come in the front door and use the stairway; mine arrive and leave through the back. A privacy screen normally separates my hallway from the lobby. Since it’s Saturday, I leave the screen retracted. No one is here but me.

At least for the next four and a half minutes.

I stride to the door with my name mounted on a plaque, unlock it, and slip inside. The first thing I do is pull aside the curtains behind my desk, flooding the room with natural light, then I crack a window for fresh air flow. Next I turn on an oil warmer hidden behind plants, allowing my personal cocktail of soothing scents to mist out. The furniture is thankfully already where I need it—two chairs facing each other in the center of the room. There’s a couch, but he has to earn that.

On the small table beside my chair, I place a blank notepad and pen. I rarely take notes during sessions, preferring to compile my thoughts afterward, but it’s an effective visual tool. An unspoken language, just like the color palette of the furniture and decor. One of my former clients, an interior designer and television personality, called my office the perfect balance of sophistication and whimsy. They also said I had too many plants, but that critique had more to do with their aversion to dirt—or rather, dirtiness—than anything else. Case in point: at the end of our time together, they brought me a parting gift of another plant.

With the final sixty seconds rapidly dwindling, I take a swig from my water bottle and pop a mint, chewing fast. I’m swallowing the last of it when the eleven o’clock hits and there’s a knock on the door. I had a feeling he’d be prompt, mainly because I doubt he drove himself. A spike of adrenaline overwhelms my satisfaction at being right.

I let him wait three more seconds while I take a deep breath and center myself. Then I prop a hip against my desk and cross my arms over my chest.

“Come in,” I call.

The doorknob turns. Wood swings inward.

He stands before me. A king like he said he’d be. A stranger with a familiar face.

Six-foot-four and perfectly proportioned for it, Kieran wears sweatpants, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. In one large hand, he holds a baseball hat and sunglasses. Unsurprisingly, all the items attached to his person are black. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look like the broken man I was expecting.

He looks feral.

Even stalled on the threshold with only one foot inside the room, his presence permeates the space around me. I inhale subtly, catching a hint of expensive cologne. Something probably concocted exclusively for him based on his skin’s pH level.

At least he showered.

As soon as I think it, though, I realize it would have been better for me if he hadn’t. Scent is an effective weapon. I should have used a stronger oil in the warmer.

Time melts and stretches. It could be two seconds or two minutes that we blink at each other. My heart drums, fast then faster, before my head eventually confirms what my eyes can see: he doesn’t recognize me. As much as I knew he wouldn’t—he never knew my name, and I’m as different as he is the same—a small part of me had wondered if he would see through me to the shorter, chubby, braces-wearing teenager I was.

Reality snaps like a rubber band against my throat, jolting me into the present. Into the body of who I am today. My relief—and the ache of illogical disappointment—fades.

“Welcome, Mr. Hayes. I’m Dr. Stirling.”

He nods, and his cool, remote gaze finally leaves my face to flicker around the room. Free to study him, I notice what I didn’t before. Details his natural charisma blurred. Shadows smudge the skin beneath dark eyelashes. A short beard—more scruff than anything refined—covers his jaw and makes the sensuality of his mouth even more pronounced. His hair is too long for its cut, and his eyebrows are drawn together like he isn’t sure why he’s here. Though the latter might be a projection on my part.

Despite all my training on micro-expressions and body language, I have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. Par for the course for someone of his position—I’m sure he’s had his own training—but irritating nevertheless.

I’m already at a disadvantage as a woman. If I can’t secure my authority now, I never will.

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