Page 91 of The False Flat

The hair flipped back in my face, and this time when he leaned in to tuck it behind my ear, his lips moved in too.

His kiss bordered on urgent, and I fell into it, swimming in its depth, awash from head to toe in a connectivity that made me lose my orientation in space. When his lips were pressed into mine, a promise solidified, a promise to never let go.

When we pulled apart, our chests rose and fell in tandem as we both recovered our breath. My lips tingled, and I licked them, looking into his eyes.

He was Grant. Not a number. My glorious, mustached Grant. Maybe I didn’t need to see the therapist.

“I’d better get to work,” he said, struggle tightening his stance. Control. I loved that it took that much effort for him to keep distance from me.

I needed to go, too, as I—thankfully—had another full day of new-client meetings. But this whole no-sex-until-Penelope’s-sure thing was his idea, and I didn’t want it to be easy.

“Meet you at Hal’s?” I asked, shoving my feet into violet heels that popped at the bottom of my all-black power outfit. Then I went to him, ran a hand up his chest, and put my lips teasingly close to his. “Maybe tonight we’ll come back here, and you can give me another kiss like . . .” My hot breath slid over his mouth as my finger traced the vein at his neck. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his jaw tightened.

“You’d better go.” His swallow was visible. Control. I wanted to break it.

I flicked my tongue over his mouth, pulled back, and winked at him. Then I slowly walked out the door, his gaze heating my backside.

CHAPTER 34

I’LL TAKE “MORE THINGS TRYING TO RUIN MY LIFE” FOR $1,000, ALEX

I stood outside the therapist’s office, reading the number 1-0-0 over and over again until the zeros turned into eyes that started boring into me.

I’d picked a therapist at random. Well, not completely random. When I’d opened my eyes, my finger was pointing to a Chandler Taylor. Chandler sounded too much like Chad. I fudged a little and went with Dr. E. Schultz, a few names above, because the name Schultz sounded vaguely familiar, like the universe was giving me a sign.

My arm shook as I pulled the door open and walked up to the white wood reception desk with a tiny succulent in a marbled pot, comforting myself with the idea of a ride after I left. (Grant had insisted I take Gaia. And I melted a little that he trusted me with his prized possession.)

“I’m here to see Dr. Schultz. My name is Penvelope.” I shook my head. “Penelope Auberge.” I needed to breathe, to calm down. I needed to picture this woman as a number. I concentrated. Her tortoiseshell glasses said she was an eight. She morphed from scary receptionist to a delightful number eight with turtle essence.

“Yes, of course.” The eight’s smile reflected in her eyes. “I see you’ve already filled out our new-client forms online. Thank you. Let me grab today’s intake paperwork. You can bring it back to the room with you.” She disappeared for a few seconds, and I looked around the empty waiting room.

Thankfully, this place looked nothing like a medical facility. The chairs were like ones you’d find in a posh living room, in varying pastels, sitting atop abstract rugs of the same shades. Despite the room’s attempt to make people feel like they were visiting a friend rather than seeking psychological guidance, I was pulled into the past. Aunt Tif. The little girl. The numbers. My mother. That memory sharpened. My limbs turned to gelatin, and my eyes cut to the door as I waited for my mother to walk in and pull me out again, to tell me I didn’t need to see a therapist. Therapists asked questions.

But my past wasn’t going away, no matter how much better my life became. Loss had made my existence a colander; everything fluid had been drained away, leaving a hard shell of a person behind. I’d been this way for too long to change what was now a fundamental part of me, at least on my own.

I recognized my need to be here. That had to mean something. I knew I was a number-obsessed, emotionally crippled disaster. I also knew, even after just one month together, that I wanted a life with Grant. And he deserved someone who didn’t have—

The eight returned, smiled like she completely understood the plight of everyone who walked through the door, then led me to Dr. Schultz’s office and instructed me to sit in one of the two chairs across from a slim desk and fill out the paperwork. Dr. Schulz would be right in.

The room was spartan, efficient, so free of clutter that I could only focus on my thoughts. That smell, I’d smelled it before, but I couldn’t place it.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

I tried to focus on the words on the intake form.

“Pen?” The voice came from behind me, and like the smell, I recognized it instantly. Dread circled from my head to my toes. Of all places, what was she doing here?

I stood, whirled around. “Elaine?” Grant’s Elaine.

No, not Grant’s anymore. Someone else’s Elaine now.

Beautiful, sophisticated, therapist Elaine . . . therapist.

Chunks of information fell into place. The familiarity of the last name. The perfume.

This couldn’t be happening.

Why hadn’t I put this together? How could I possibly be standing here in front of the woman Grant had dumped for me?