Page 12 of Holiday Hopefuls
“That’s really okay,” I squawk. As is evidenced by Dr. Rhodes flinching from the closeness. Dropping to my knees, I begin shoving the runaway belongings back into my bag.
Inches away, Dr. Rhodes grabs a pen and notebook. Pieces of his long, slicked-back honey hair fall forward, which he effortlessly wipes away.
I roll my eyes as loudly as I can, knowing full well I would accidentally smack myself in the face if I tried to look that smooth.
A smirk pulls into the corner of his sculpted lips and that award-winning five o’clock shadow.
Frantically, I search for the most important item—the flyer that brought me here.
Too bad the good doctor finds it first.
Leaning back onto his heels, Dr. Rhodes picks up the once-folded paper, shocked eyes never leaving the advertisement in his hand. “Where did you get this?” he breathes.
Pulling in my lips, I glance back to the front desk, where Mrs. Lanahan is knee-deep in an insurance discussion. That must be her favorite pastime, right after making snap judgments about why people come to visit Dr. Rhodes. Looking back to the doctor, I find those intense eyes already staring back at me.
With his gaze never leaving mine, he stands to his full height. Waiting. When I don’t immediately follow suit, a large, calloused hand reaches out. “I think we’d better go have that chat, now. Miss … ?”
“Rutherford.” Quickly, I shove the last errant chapstick into my purse before pushing myself up from the ground. Upright once again, I readjust my green wool skirt, working up the courage to look this man in the eye.
“Ms. Rutherford?” His low, deep voice pulls my attention back to his stupidly handsome face.
Squaring my shoulders, I pretend he’s one of my students. Mainly so I won’t run away from embarrassment. “Which way was it to your office again, Dr. Rhodes?”
Those sculpted lips tip down ever so slightly, dark blond brows furrowing. But without another word, he turns on his heel and heads back toward the hallway from whence he came.
After one more look at the occupied receptionist, I take off down the hall after him. Thanks to his ultra-long legs, I have to take about three steps to every one of his.
Despite this being a small practice of only three professionals, the converted house gives the feeling of endless space. Revived hardwood floors follow the length of the hall, as does the deep olive paint with gold filigree covering each closed door. Mauve and cream wallpaper covers every wall, with various pictures layered in a gallery style hung up along them. Moments in time of who can only be a younger Dr. Rhodes and the two Dr. McNalleys.
Our footsteps echo through the hall, barely covering the sounds of a crying woman behind a passing door.
“In here.” Dr. Rhodes opens a seemingly random door on the left, motioning for me to go inside.
“Thank you,” I mutter, politeness kicking in before I can help myself. Brushing past him, cozy hints of cinnamon and apple lingers in the air.
Given the size, the room was probably a closet at some point. Or a bedroom for the guests you hope don’t stay long. A simple, dark chestnut desk sits pushed up against the nearest wall, while a mustard loveseat takes up most of the far wall. Next to it, a bronze floor lamp glows, giving the space an intimate feeling.
“Nice office,” I say, taking in the tiny space.
Behind me, the door clicks into place right as the leather rolling desk chair protests its master. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“I’m not here for a session.”
“I gathered as much,” he says dryly. Turning back toward him, I find an unamused Dr. Rhodes holding up the flyer. “Where did you get this?”
Before he can say anything, I snatch the paper from his grasp as nicely as possible. Opting for the only other open seat, I unceremoniously plop down onto the loveseat and let out an unnecessarily large sigh.
Across the small abyss, Dr. Rhodes waits with a patient mask in place. Ever the professional.
But how badly he wants an answer to his question is palpable.
Taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I carefully refold the paper in question. Meanwhile, the self-preservational instinct gnawing at my insides shouts to make him wait.
Too bad I need his help.
Clearing my throat, I start at the beginning. “My best friend found it in a bar.”
“In a bar?”
