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“He’s not complaining.” I transfer the hot beverage from her possession to mine. “And neither is his bank account.”
Having your therapist – that is technically a psychiatrist – move into one of the guesthouses on your property in order to provide steady round the clock sessions isn’t cheap, especially when you have to fly him in on your private jet from where he’s vacationing with his girlfriend in Italy as well as her back to Mistletoe, Montana, the place she’s trying to convince him to move to.
Expensive doesn’t even begin to cover it.
However, getting the help I know I need is worth it.
Getting the help, I know others need me to have is worth it.
I want to get things back on track and in order.
I want to be there for my brand.
My company.
My family.
I understand I can’t do this shit alone.
And thanks to Clark, Lauren, Hamilton, and J.T. I know I don’t have to.
“Homework yet?” investigates the other male in the room prior to Lauren offering him a lemon shortbread cookie.
“Just the amends list.”
“That’s where you write the person you wronged on the left, what aspect of your relationship was damaged in the middle, and actions you can take to begin to repair it on the right?”
Finding myself impressed by the fact that he remembers the activity from my first rehabilitation stretch is what prompts me to simply nod and use the back of my free hand to wipe away the building perspiration on my forehead.
“Tell me Bryn’s at the top of that list.”
There’s no hesitation to nod again.
“Good.” Firmness in his expression isn’t surprising nor unwarranted. “It’s definitely time you put ‘The Cat’ first, Mr. Wayne.”
Chapter 20
Brynley
“I look like a pregnant yellow seahorse.” Dramatically pausing in the middle of my penthouse living room for Mom, Evie, and Jenni is accompanied by a sneer. “Which is the male by the way.” Pointing to the area in front of me where the two-tone yellow evening dress is poorly framing my stomach precedes another jeer. “In nature, this pouch would be on the dude, and he would be the one having to deal with pregnancy problems like trying to make it from breakfast to lunch without puking or through an episode of Deep Space Nine without bawling away his mascara.” Both hands fall defiantly onto my hips. “I don’t wanna be a seahorse!”
“Gah, you say the most top-cheddar shit,” Jenni dreamily swoons under her breath. “You’re such a fuckin’ beauty.”
“Let’s not hit on the boss’s pregnant fiancée,” Evie instantly reprimands. “I like you on payroll. Plus, finding your replacement is simply something I do not have time for in this phase of our PR strategy.” Her fingers deliver an exasperated ruffle to her long red locks prior to sighing at me, “And can you give me something to work with here? You were the one who refused to meet with Taylor for styling this week.”
No shit.
First and foremost, who the fuck wants to meet with a recently retired Swedish supermodel especially when you’re pregnant and agonizing over how much longer you’re going to be able to wear your favorite tank tops?
Second – and almost equally as important – why would I wanna be styled by Runway Barbie when I’m actively trying to avoid the limelight?
I don’t know the status of my relationship, let alone if I’ll ever walk a red carpet or gala stage with him again.
I didn’t wanna meet to play dress up when I’m over here basically drowning in unknown waters.
What if we’re over?
Really over?
