Chapter 15
Fifteen
River
I can’t deny that I really want to sleep with my husband.
Who wouldn’t want to with the foreplay he’s been dishing out since I moved in?
When he trailed his fingers down my arm during training this morning, pressed his chest against my back, and spoke low into my ear .
. . it set my blood on fire. No doubt it was another one of his games, and as long as he keeps playing, so will I.
“River.”
And that show I put on for him last night?
I’m quite proud of myself for that. That’s what he gets.
If I’m being honest, maybe fucking him isn’t the only way I want him.
He acts like he cares for me and shows up when I need him.
He lifts me up and encourages me. The more he’s kind to me, the more of his kindness I crave. What if none of that is real?
“River.”
And like he does every day when he’s in town and I’m about to leave for work, this morning, he had a cup of coffee in hand, ready for me. Along with another forehead kiss and well wishes for a good day.
A throat clears. “River.”
My eyes snap to Aspen. I blink, pushing all thoughts of Carter from my mind, then look at the screen in the front of the conference room to see where we’re at in this meeting. All eyes are on me. Heat blooms my cheeks.
“Sorry . . .” I trail off, silently begging Aspen with my eyes to swoop in and save me. “I was just thinking.”
“About your pitch?” Aspen asks, supplying me with a lifeline.
I nod. Obviously, she knows my mind was elsewhere. Clearing my throat, I flip through the pages of my notebook.
“I was watching other teams and what they do to elevate the experience for their fans and bring in more ticket sales. I didn’t only focus on professional hockey, but all sports, and above all, one of them stood out to me. The Lakers. When you think of the Lakers, what do you think of?”
I look around the room. “Anyone?”
Aspen speaks up first. “Kobe Bryant.”
I nod. Of course, he was a legend. “What else?”
“Laker Girls,” Trey chuckles.
Luke snaps his fingers before pointing at Trey. “That’s what I was going to say. The Laker Girls and Magic Johnson.”
I smile as a few other people chime in with the same.
“I’m not a huge basketball fan,” I admit. “But the Laker Girls are the first thing I think of when someone mentions the Lakers. What if we adopt something similar? What if we hire performers?”
When I finish explaining all the logistics, Aspen taps her pen against her notepad.
“We do need more engagement with the crowd, and I bet we’d see an increase in ticket sales if we market it right.
Plus, they can help with charity and community outreach, taking some of the slack off the players. Got a name for them?”
“Well, I was toying with some names that go with The Blaze . . . maybe The Heat? I’m still thinking on that.”
“Good job, River,” Aspen says to me, then turns to our PR manager, Teagan. “Can you and River work together on this?” she asks.
Teagan nods, then goes into more PR business. When the meeting wraps up, Aspen leans over and mutters in my ear, “We’re talking later.”
Oh no, I’m in trouble.
My stomach grumbles as we walk out of the conference room, but I ignore it. I have too many things to do today. Probably because I’m distracted by thoughts of a certain someone. I round the corner of my doorway, stepping into my office, and stop.
What’s that?
My heart stutters to a stop when I see a paper bag on my desk.
I walk over and hesitate before picking it up.
A scribbled note rests underneath the bag.
My nerves settle, and I release a sigh of relief when I see Carter’s handwriting.
I hate that I even have to worry about it, but up until I left for New York, Jaxon would stalk me and leave unwanted gifts for me.
For a split second I was worried that he had found me.
Noticed you didn’t leave for lunch. Take a break.
Love,
Carter
Who is this man? Eager to eat, I don’t even check to see what kind of sandwich it is, I quickly unwrap it and scarf down a bite. The blended flavors are heaven in my mouth. Mmm. My god. What is this?
I’m on the verge of a foodgasm when I hear someone’s heels clicking down the hallway.
“Mrs. Graham.” Hannah giggles as she walks through my door.
Covering my mouth full of food, I roll my eyes and respond, “Stop calling me that. What’s up?”
“You wanted me to remind you of your appointment at three.”
“Shit!”
I wipe my mouth, wrap up my sandwich, and toss it into the bag, then grab my purse and dash out the door. I’m already by my car when Hannah calls out my name. I stop and spin around.
She jogs up to me and hands me the bag. “You forgot your food.”
I take it from her hands, thanking her as I hop into my car. The drive takes about thirty minutes with traffic, which gives me plenty of time to eat on the way.
I’ve always dreaded therapy days. And though my therapist has helped, the sessions are hard. But today’s different. For some reason, I’m excited to talk to her.
After checking in, I step into the small waiting room.
It’s dim. The only light in the room comes from a lamp that rests on an end table next to the loveseat.
Relaxing music streams in the background.
On the other end table, in the corner, there’s a diffuser releasing eucalyptus oil into the air.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think you were at a spa.
It’s a trick. A mask. As soon as you step outside of this room and into her office where you have to face your demons, that calm feeling immediately evaporates, and anxiety rears its ugly head.
Dr. Bailey opens her door and calls me in. I toss my book back into my purse and join her in her office, sitting down on the cliché sofa.
“How is River today?” she asks.
It’s the first thing she always asks.
“Good,” I respond.
A smile spreads across her face as she picks up her pen and begins writing. “So, last week I sent you with some homework. Have you given it any thought?”
I laugh under my breath. “I’ve given it too much thought, actually, but I can’t answer that question yet.
My uh . . .” I stop to clear my throat. Of course, she knows about the situation with me and Carter.
I mean, lying in therapy isn’t really gonna get me very far.
“My husband encouraged me to train in self-defense.”
“Learning self-defense can be empowering for domestic abuse victims. And how’s that going?” She looks down, scribbling more. “Married life, that is,” she clarifies.
“It’s going.”
What am I supposed to tell her? That my husband is driving me all kinds of bat shit crazy?
That I’m sexually frustrated? That Carter’s too nice?
Then she’ll dissect that. She always questions: “Why?” and “How does that make you feel?” If she asks me one of those, then I’ll have to ask her if she’s ever seen my husband .
. . because . . . hello? He’s hot as fuck.
You pair his good looks with forehead kisses, sweet gestures, and ruthless mind fucking, and who wouldn’t need a bucket and a wet floor sign?
Which brings me back to the question, how am I supposed to know what’s real and what’s not?
“How are you two getting along?” she asks, dragging me out of my thoughts.
Dr. Bailey tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear and smiles, her blue eyes looking at me curiously. She’s always smiling. How can you listen to people who’ve been through the shittiest circumstances and still smile like that?
“We’re getting along good.” I thread my bottom lip between my teeth. The same question plagues me over and over. “How am I to trust that I can see past a facade and discern someone’s true nature?”
The question is out of my mouth before I even realize.
Dr. Bailey rocks back in her chair as she studies me like I’m a puzzle to be solved.
“That’s a good question. The simple answer is you already know the signs.
Many people find themselves overlooking those signs and falling back into the same patterns over and over again.
So, as long as you don’t do that, and you trust what your gut tells you, I think you’ll be okay.
I assume you’re talking about your husband? ”
I nod in response.
“Let me ask you this. How long have you known him?”
“A little over a year.”
“Okay. And in that time have you noticed any red flags? Love bombing, gaslighting, or manipulation?”
Does excessive cunt teasing count? No, probably not.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Controlling behavior, excessive lying, easily angered or agitated?”
I shake my head to each of those. “No. The only thing he’s done is pursue me. Relentlessly.” I chuckle.
“Ah. He’s persistent.”
“Well . . . that’s one way to describe him,” I mutter.
“Anything else?”
“He’s the only person who’s been able to pull me out of my . . . episodes. Not even Aspen could do it. He calms me down. I guess what bothers me is he’s almost too good to be true. You know? And that makes me wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.”
“What do you think that stems from?”
I sit there with what I know is a “what the fuck” look on my face. Where do I think that stems from? Hell, I don’t know. If I had all the answers I wouldn’t be here sitting in her office, now, would I? But instead of voicing that, I shrug my shoulders.
Her pen moves across her paper, then she sets it down, steepling her fingers together. “River, you mentioned that your mom and dad didn’t display a healthy, loving marriage to you when you were growing up?”
This isn’t news. We’ve been over this time and time again, but I nod anyway because she’s obviously going somewhere with it.
“Then you ended up in an abusive marriage of your own.”
I nod again as she picks up her pen.
“Is it possible that you may be projecting?” she asks.
“Umm.”