Page 10 of Holiday Hopefuls
Ian chuckles. “What? No way.”
“Who’s Dr. Oliver Rhodes?” I ask as I skim the rest of the flyer. Looking back at Aaron, a sickening feeling settles in my stomach. “What?”
Caution marrs Aaron’s every feature. “So … ”
“Oh no.” I wince.
“No, no. Hang on. There’s this woman at my gym. Her name is Joanna. Well, her wife and brother-in-law have a therapy practice downtown. I think it’s one of those converted historic houses.”
Ian leans forward. “Aaron … ”
Casting a glance at Ian, annoyance fans the anxiety flame raging in my chest as he just sits there so damn intrigued.Why are we even discussing this?
“She’s talked about this other guy who co-owns the place. This Rhodes guy.” Aaron points to the name on the paper. “Supposedly, he’s super cool.”
“Apparently cool enough to help gaslight someone’s family,” Ian finally says.
Squinting at him, I look back down at the paper. “I think this means the guy has to be insane. I mean, there’s no way this would even work.” Looking at Ian for any kind of support, my brows join the stratosphere.
The man has the nerve to sit there looking like he’s actuallyforthis. “It might not hurt to go meet the guy,” he shrugs. “You never know.”
Incredulous laughter tumbles from my lips. “Excuse me? That’s probably how I’ll disappear, never to be heard from again.”
“Here, Cal,” Aaron says, offering me his phone.
Staring back at me from the bright screen is a strange man in his early thirties with piercing blue eyes smiling into the camera. Dark blond hair styled perfectly with some kind of mousse compliments his perfectly shaped stubble, hardly disguising asharp jawline. Broad shoulders are covered by a suit jacket, finished off with a tie matching those striking eyes. There’s no denying the guy is hot.
Then I notice the name of the practice. Rhodes, McNalley & McNalley Therapy Collective.
John McNalley, single father to the sweetest student in my class—Cici.This just gets better and better.
“Well, I guess it’s settled then.” Grinning, Ian claps my shoulder.
“Wait, what’s settled?”
“You’re going to spice up your Tuesday by meeting this guy!”
Makingmy way toward the door, it’s exactly as Aaron described it.
A large, renovated Victorian house nestled among all the corporate offices exuding charm and warmth. Inviting plum paint that covers the exterior walls reminds me of a haunted house toy that once sat on my Scooby-Doo birthday cake when I turned seven. Briefly, I glance down at the walkway to see if it’s lined with candy bones. While I would’ve been shocked if it had been, I can’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment when nothing but designer pavers greet me.
My heeled booties click through the snow on the old, wooden deck. Large windows showcase a former living room that now acts as the waiting room. A large Christmas tree is on display in the frontmost window. Any of my kiddos would drool over it if it was in our classroom. Smiling to myself, I shake my head at the thought of their pure wonder. And their easy distraction.
But approaching the door, my smile rapidly disappears as I’m reminded why I’m here.
The bell above the door dings, announcing my presence in the cozy reception area. “Um, excuse me?”
Across the space, a woman old enough to be my great-grandmother smiles warmly from behind a tall mahogany desk positioned near a hallway. “Hello, dear. You don’t have to let the cold in, you know.” She makes a point of looking over my shoulder to the door I’m still holding wide open.
Never know when you’ll need an exit strategy. “Oh. Uh, right.” Letting go of the antique handle, a gust of cool air kisses my cheeks as the door swings closed. My cheeks that are now the color of my flaming hair. When I turn back to face the receptionist, a patient smile waits on her plump, overly made-up face. Expertly coiffed gray hair moves on its own thanks to a space heater placed on the far side of the messy desk. Polished fingers poised over a dingy keyboard, the woman watches while I seem to have some kind of brain malfunction.
Gingerly, I make my way across the restored wooden floors, my boots announcing my every movement.
“What can I help you with, dear?”
Face to face with the reality of what I’m about to do, my saliva chooses this moment to travel down the wrong tube. Esophagus reacting, I quickly pull a hand to my mouth as the coughing ensues.
“Do you have an appointment?” she tries again.
