Page 16 of For Her Own Good

Fair. Sure, not all men, but enough of them to have convinced her it’s not worth it. And I don’t relish being kicked. I bruise easily.

“We don’t need to discuss those losers, then. Unless you want to?” A quick and decisive shake of her head tells me no in no uncertain terms and I’m relieved. I’d listen to Starla talk about her exes, but I’d rather not. Jealousy would no doubt rear its ugly head and that’s not a good look for friends. “How’s business, then? Lois has been singing your praises, so I know personally you have at least one superfan.”

Unlike when I asked about her love life, Starla’s face lights up. “Lois is great. And she’s the kind of client I can really make a difference for. We’ve been focusing on the structure of her workday and how she can be more efficient while also giving herself breaks. And unlike a lot of my clients, she was quickly onboard with the idea that taking breaks could actually make her more productive. Sometimes I have to practically beg them to take a time out. Work smarter, not harder. But some of them are used to working so hard to make up for the things they’re not great at. They burn themselves out trying to run a marathon when they’re sprinters.”

“You know, I’d never thought of it like that, but that makes all the sense in the world now that you put it that way. Take advantage of that hyperfocus and don’t let them bang their heads against a wall when their brains need to run wild for a bit. I can see why you’re good at this. And I don’t mean that to sound condescending, I’m sorry if it does.”

“It doesn’t.”

She shrugs, swallows the last of her cocktail, and her cheeks might pink a bit. Maybe it’s from the Fabiola, or maybe it’s because she values my opinion and it makes her happy to know I’ve a good one of her. Very good—I think she’s incredible.

I rub the skin between my brows, trying to ameliorate the headache gathering there.

“Do you ever work with people who don’t have mental health issues?”

“Not really. I’ve had a few people sign on with me who didn’t have diagnoses when they started, but after I worked with them for a while, it became clear—to me anyway—that they did actually have something going on, but no one had ever identified it or addressed it. Especially women. We’re really good at compensating for shit, which can be great—part of my job is teaching people coping mechanisms and they’ve already got a lot of them—but it can also be a problem. I had one client who got a diagnosis of ADHD, started on meds, and it made a huge difference for her. What would her life have been like if she’d been diagnosed earlier? It’s so frustrating to see people whose potential is wasted.”

“That’s a—”

“Oh, no, I know that can be a huge trigger phrase for people. I mean that society as a whole is wasting all this brain power because it insists on everyone fitting into round holes. Well, a lot of my clients are squares. They’re fucking awesome at being squares and can accomplish so many incredible things, and just because they can’t fit into these round holes, people think they’re lazy. It’s infuriating. I love getting to talk to my clients’ coworkers or partners or bosses. Because I can hammer the point home in ways my clients aren’t always able to. But anyway, you were asking about whether I take on clients without mental health issues. Why, you need some help, doc?”

I like the way she says “doc.” It’s teasing and familiar, not like when she called me Doctor Campbell. Not as good as if she called me Lowry, but I’ll take it.

“I might. But I don’t want to take advantage of your professional acumen. It’s like asking your massage therapist friend if they could work out the knot you’ve got in your shoulder when you’re supposed to be meeting up to watch a match at the pub, or if your friend who’s an accountant could take a quick peek at your taxes during the previews at the movies. Kind of rotten to ask them to do their job for free.”

“I heard you were paying for dinner.”

Hell, that mischievous smile is going to get me into trouble. Makes my heart squeeze and something low in my belly get tight. Have to be careful though, because this isn’t a date. Friendly, yes, but the objective here is not to charm Starla Patrick back to my place for a nightcap and a good fuck—though that might exorcise some demons for the both of us. It’s to be a pleasant companion, and if I’m pleasant enough, perhaps we can be friends, and I won’t have to go another fifteen years craving her company, wanting to know how she’s actually doing.

“It’s a deal,” I offer.

“So, what seems to be the trouble?”

She takes a bite of her salad, but doesn’t take her eyes off me. Starla’s in professional mode now, a sharp cast to her features. I can almost feel her concentration alighting on me. I have all of her attention and it’s a heady sensation. I’d like to be at the center of her attention more often. Far, far more often. Probably more often than would be healthy for either of us.

“Not so much a trouble, really—”

She shakes her head, sending her high ponytail shaking behind her head. “Don’t do that. It’s bothering you enough to bring it up with me, so it’s obviously bothering you. And it’s okay to not be perfect. To need help. Doesn’t make you a bad person or a failure, or bad at your job.” She points her fork at me, a sly look in her eyes. “You taught me that. Listen to your own good advice.”

Busted. “Aye, you’re right. Thing is, I’d like to be better at my job, and better at being, well, human.”

“Wouldn’t we all?”

“I think I mentioned I don’t get to the gym as much as I’d like. I did tonight, because I knew I was meeting you afterward. If I’m going home, I often just go home. Because I’m tired, it’s been a long day, and would it really be so bad to have a break?”

She nods and chomps down on another forkful of kale. “You’re allowed to have a break. But it sounds like you’re frustrated by this, so maybe we can figure out an alternative. How do you feel in the afternoons? Like two to four or so? Do you feel like you’re at your best with your patients or do you feel like you’re dragging a bit?”

She’s a witch. Or has cameras in my office.

“How did you know that?”

The waitress clears our now-empty salad plates and sets down our entrees. We both ordered the sole, and it looks delightful. Smells delicious too. I can’t wait to dig in. And I do as she answers my question.

“You said it yourself, I’m good at my job.” She smirks, looking extraordinarily pleased with herself. So pleased. It’s goddamn adorable. “It’s a hard time during the day for a lot of people.”

“Okay, so what do I do about it, Little Miss Expert?”

Ugh, Campbell, if you’re trying not to be a condescending numpty, Little Miss followed by anything—even if it’s expert—probably isn’t the way to go.But Starla doesn’t look irritated. To the contrary, she looks smugly delighted. And tips her head in a way that… Och, I don’t know how to explain how changing the tilt of her head could make her look sweetly charming, but it has. Innocent but up to something, perhaps her coyness is hiding… No, definitely not.Knock those filthy thoughts right out of your head, Campbell.

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