Page 50 of Healed in the Alpha's Embrace
“Hey,” Heather said as she wrapped her arms around me from behind and nestled her chin on my shoulder. “How about we do some girl stuff today?” She playfully spun me around. “Nails, shopping, girl stuff!”
Every twirl as we danced around the kitchen had more laughter spilling out of me, louder and more carefree than I could remember in far too long. It felt good. No, that was an understatement. Laughing freely was truly amazing, a liberating experience, with no thought to George’s opinion or whether he considered it appropriate.
“Girl stuff sounds perfect,” I said once I caught my breath. “I can’t remember the last time I did something like that.”
“Then it’s settled.” Heather beamed at me, her support unwavering. “We’re going to have a blast.”
“Thank you, Heather,” I said, giving her a squeeze. “I really needed this.”
“Anytime, Zoey.”
As we grabbed our purses and headed out the door, I felt truly free. Leaving my prison behind had been the hardest thing I’d ever done, but at moments like these, I knew it was worth it.
As Heather drove into town, I sat in the passenger seat and relished the thought of treating myself without having to account for my time. Without having to justify every purchase, even something as simple as having my nails done, I could choose whatever color I wanted, not something that George deemed appropriate.
As my thoughts swirled in the mire, I felt suffocated by my internal struggles. I had to gather the courage to open up and speak to someone.
I cleared my throat. “Do you know a local therapist, or should I do something online?”
Heather’s hand found mine, her touch warm and comforting. “I discreetly made some inquiries, and everyone I spoke to recommended Elaine Allen as the most skilled in handling situations like yours.”
I grabbed my phone from my purse and searched for Elaine Allen’s information. I called the number on her website, and someone or something must have been watching over me because she had a cancellation for later in the week. Before I could lose my nerve, I gave my details to the receptionist and booked the appointment.
“Well done,” Heather said. “You’re doing the right thing. A problem shared is a problem halved, and all that. Having someone neutral who won’t judge is probably for the best. Anything you tell me is filed away, so when I meet George, he meets my torture file. I’ve decided cutting his dick off and making him eat it is too easy. There is so much more I plan to do if I ever meet the sorry fucker.”
I laughed, as I’m sure was her intent. I wouldn’t spend too much time thinking about the upcoming appointment. I’d doneit, and now I wanted to go out and enjoy my girly day. I’d stress about when the time came.
Hourslater and laden with shopping bags, we practically skipped into the small café, where the comforting smell of freshly baked bread greeted us. Taking our seats, we placed our order, eager to satisfy our growling stomachs.
I pushed the last of my omelet around the plate, barely listening as Heather prattled on about the latest gossip from the hospital. But then she shifted gears, her gaze sharpening like she could see right through me.
“Spill it, Zoey,” she said. “How was dinner with Noah?”
“Fine,” I said curtly, avoiding her piercing stare. “Just fine.”
“Uh-huh,” she hummed. “And do you like him?”
“Heather, no. I mean, he’s nice, but...” I trailed off as I fumbled with a napkin, tearing it to shreds.
“Zoey.” Heather’s sigh was loaded with frustration. “It’s okay to be attracted to Noah. You know that, right? It’s okay to move on.”
“Heather, I’m not… what I mean is, He’s a nice guy, and he’s looking out for Roland,” I protested feebly, but she threw me that look, the same one our mom used. The one that said she didn’t buy a word I was saying.
I sighed. “Besides, I don’t think he’s interested in me in that way, Heather. I’m broken.”
“Cut the bullshit, Zoey. You’re amazing. Broken pieces and all. Maybe it’s time you start finding yourself again. See what everyone else sees.”
Before I could formulate a response, my breath stuttered at the sight coming our way. Noah walked toward us, a beautiful older woman on his arm. His mother, undoubtedly—they shared the same sandy blond hair, the same generous mouth.
“Zoey?” Heather nudged me, but I was lost in Noah’s smile when he saw us.
“Hey,” he rumbled in his familiar and comforting way.
“Hi,” I stammered, my heart fluttering against my ribs.
“Zoey, this is my mother, Angela Alexander.”
“Hello, Zoey. I’ve heard so much about you,” Angela said warmly, her greeting as soft and comforting as a well-worn quilt. Her smile—Noah’s smile—was genuine, and my surprise at being a topic of conversation between the two must have shown on my face.
