Page 8 of The Dark Before Light

“You’re right—that article is ridiculous.”

A moment’s stillness betrays his surprise. Then something predatory flares in his eyes, warming them like an electric current. I do smile then. Just a little.

He opens his mouth, but I beat him to it.

“As you can see from my accreditations, Mr. Hayes, my skillset is rather unique. It allows me to customize different therapeutic approaches with each client. If you’re willing to do the work, together we can change your life. If you’re not…” I shrug. “I wish you the best of luck.”

He doesn’t like that—my easy dismissal—and all at once the ice melts from his eyes. They’re now the searing blue heart of an inferno. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, a primal warning of danger. I muse that it’s the same response a deer must have when a wolf is near.

But what he doesn’t know is that I’m what he said I’d be. A queen of the jungle. If he so much as snarls at me, I’m going to take a nice big bite out of his neck.

Something of my inner dialogue must reflect in my face because he tenses, then abruptly relaxes back into his chair. The fire in his eyes fades to a pilot light. I know better than to think he’s submitting—more like misdirecting me. He probably uses the technique in business to keep adversaries on their toes while he plans their demise.

“Color me intrigued,” he says in a droll tone. “What kind of approach would you take with me?”

I tell him the truth. “I don’t know yet. I usually have weeks to consult with new clients and prepare.”

“Well, I can tell you right now we won’t be needing those last several.” He nods toward the frames.

My brows lift. “Are you sure about that?”

He bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “Yes.”

I nod, indulging him. “Okay. Have you ever been to any sort of therapy before?”

Instead of answering, he asks, “Can I be frank with you?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ And by all means, be whatever or whoever you want.”

His eyes narrow as he tries to figure out if I’m teasing him. But I have Mona Lisa’s perfect poker face.

“I don’t want or need to talk about my problems, or my sex life, and I definitely don’t need whatever that is.”

He points an elegant finger at a certification on the wall. Without looking, I know it’s the one that says Tantric Sexology and Breathwork Practitioner. It sits between Board Certified Sexologist and Somatic Sex Therapist.

I have the wicked impulse to tell him I’m also certified in erotic massage, intimacy surrogacy, and kink coaching. But he’d probably run, and I don’t want him to. I want to give him the same gift he gave me seventeen years ago. If I can.

“What do you need, Mr. Hayes?” I ask mildly. “Because from the conversation I had with your sister-in-law this morning, it seems to me you’re one misstep from the psych ward or a rehab facility. Given the fact you’re here, showered and sober, I think somewhere inside you is a voice crying out for help.”

The words are a calculated risk. Or maybe a leap of faith, as alarming as that prospect is.

Full lips compress, then release on a slow exhale. “Fair point.”

I hold his gaze. Hold it… hold…

Finally, dark lashes flutter as his eyes lower. Relief so sharp it’s painful seizes me; I bite the inside of my cheek against a gasp.

There’s hope for him, after all.

“I still don’t see how this can work,” he says.

“It’s my job to worry about that.”

Momentary surrender forgotten, his eyes meet mine. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.”

The barest edge of helplessness in his voice makes my shoulders relax a fraction even as my heart rate kicks up. I may be a mystery to him—and I’ll keep it that way—but he’s no longer so much of a mystery to me.

“What I’m hearing is you don’t trust me, and that even if you did, you’d still find it difficult to share your private thoughts and feelings. As much as you may want change, you think we’re wasting our time.”

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