Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Or this fascination.
It grows by the minute.
What is she writing? What is she thinking?
Has anyone ever encouraged her to write? Is this her first chance?
What made her decide to bring Waylon to therapy? Was it desperation…or is it too much to hope that she felt the same electric connection flowing between us in the supermarket?
I hold back my questions for now, but my curiosity multiplies. No end in sight.
After a couple of hours, she drops her hands away from the typewriter.
“I…think I’m done. For now.”
Calmly, I set down my pen, despite the fact that her voice just constricted every muscle in my abdomen. “You sound disappointed.”
She flicks me a surprised look, as if she wasn’t expecting such an astute observation. “Well, I…”
Remaining quiet, I lean back in my chair.
“I guess I always thought…I just needed an opportunity. Like this. And the perfect masterpiece would come pouring out. But it’s not like that at all. I’m indecisive over every word and instead of focusing on the story, I’m regretting all the ways I didn’t make it better.”
“I don’t know a lot about writing, but I gather indecision is a side effect for anyone creating art from scratch.”
“It’s far from art,” she says with a light laugh, the sound making my feel out of breath. “I’m still eager to dive back in tomorrow, though.” She looks over at me, still somewhat guarded, but not as nervous as before. “Thank you. For finding the typewriter.”
“You’re welcome.”
She glances out the window, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “What now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what do we do now?”
Anything, angel. Name it. “Why don’t you sit on the couch and we’ll talk through what you want to do next?”
She only displays the barest indecision, before pushing back the chair and crossing to the modern leather sofa, sitting in the same spot as before.
I resume my position across from her in my wingback, clipboard resting on my knee.
“It’s getting close to dinner time. Would you like me to bring you home for the night and we can resume our session tomorrow? Or would you like to have dinner with me?”
A delicious flush darkens her cheeks.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“What is it, Ashley?” Did she notice her thighs flexed when I said her name? “As I mentioned earlier, nothing you say to me will leave my confidence. Nothing you say will be considered shameful or wrong. Not even your darkest confessions.”
“I don’t know if I have any dark confessions, it’s just…it’s so strange to be given…options. What I would like to do. Where I want to have dinner. I went from living with my set-in-their-ways parents to Waylon. That kind of thing is usually up to someone else.”
“Now it’s up to you.”
Her chest rises and shudders down. “That’s how it should be.”
I want to hold her. “Yes, that’s how it should be, angel.”
That endearment slides right out without any forethought and it’s too late to take it back. Can’t play it off, either, because the way I said it matches how I feel when I look at her. Tender, protective. Hungry.
“I’m sorry,” I say, at a loss. “I hope that didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
She hasn’t blinked since I said it. “I’m not an angel.”
“What’s your definition of an angel?”
A beat passes. “An infallible being. With wings.”
“Maybe for me, an angel is someone faced with a lot of difficulty but manages to hold on to their sense of self. And their dreams.”
Silence passes slowly.
“I don’t think I should have dinner with you,” she whispers.
There’s a hard lurch in my chest. “All right. Because I’ve upset you?”
A small hesitation. “No.”
I wait, holding my breath.
She smooths her palm along the cushion of the couch and I can almost hear my words repeating in her head. Nothing you say to me will leave my confidence. “I guess I don’t really understand my…how I feel when I’m around you.”
It costs me a giant effort to remain seated.
I can normally predict what my clients are going to say. None of my preconceived notions apply to Ashley, do they? Professionally or personally. She’s one of a kind.
“Would you like to explain what you mean?”
“You confuse me.”
“How?”
“You give me freedom. But for some reason…” She wets her lips. “I don’t want to take freedom…from you. I finally have the chance to run free and taste some independence and yet, I want to stay around you. My body—”
Oh Jesus.
“What about your body?” I rasp.
“I’m not used to feeling anything but tension around men.”
“But around me you feel…”
She crosses her thighs in response, swallowing, pupils dilated.
“Are you aroused, Ashley?” I ask, on the verge of coming in my pants.
“I don’t think I know w-what it feels like to be aroused.”
My God, I’m burning alive.
If her honesty wasn’t undoing me, the telling side-to-side shift of her hips would. “I can ask you a series of questions to determine if you’re aroused. Or I can join you on the couch and make a determination. Physically.” My pulse is skittering, voice unnaturally thick. “But the latter would require me to touch you. Is that what you want?”