Chapter Eight
Hamish
My weekend proved relatively quiet as I read all the reports from my team.
In the end, we hadn’t embedded someone at the studio, and it didn’t appear we would need to.
Marianne reported lots of people coming to meet Ollie, but that everything really seemed okay.
Ollie exuded warmth and charm, which people reacted to, but no one had broken down.
The pair had encountered more smiles than anything, and by Friday afternoon, she’d concluded she likely wouldn’t be needed again.
Hala and Ian reported much of the same—by the end of the week they’d only had a couple of counseling sessions.
Hala recommended Julie Reyes continue with care, but she didn’t spot any other people who weren’t coping.
I coordinated with Seamus, the production assistant, and confirmed that all cast and crew who’d been on set that day had spoken to one of us and that he’d given our information to everyone else associated with the production.
Some had called, some had dropped in, and some let Seamus know they felt okay.
At least they knew how to reach out to us if that changed. We offered twenty-four-hour-a-day counseling. Occasionally, I manned overnight shifts—sometimes when we might be low on staff, and other times to keep connected to why I did this job.
I spent Monday in debriefs with the team and a meeting with my boss, Alessandra, and her husband, Smith.
Allie appeared marginally less stressed, and her newborn son, Wesley, had slept through most of her workday.
Smith clearly wanted to cosset his wife and son—keeping them away from work—but my boss’s formidable attitude meant if she wanted to do something, she damn well did it.
Tuesday morning, I’d stood outside Cole Hamilton’s posh Point Grey home.
I’d had no idea what to expect, and even now, as I typed up my notes, I replayed the scene in my mind—Cole on the couch looking tired but in better shape than I’d expected.
Meeting Caressa for the first time—her looking as unglamorous as possible in pajamas and her riot of dark curls appearing more like a rat’s nest. How they’d been wary.
I’d found resistance—from both of them. I’d also had some hard-won victories.
As well as some awkward moments.
“Donovan is an interesting man.” Cole’s words. “Tell him to get his head out of his ass and to be honest with you. He’s carrying on like being shot was no big deal—that being a hero doesn’t mean anything.”
Caressa had clearly agreed.
As I was leaving, after I put my shoes on, Cole had yelled from the other room, “Tell Donovan I say to mind his own fucking business.” Blunt. Very Cole Hamilton-like, I was discovering. He had an interesting relationship with Donovan.
I might’ve thought that was none of my business, but curiosity was eating away at me.
I’d replied to Cole, ensuring I could be heard in the other room, “Uh, yes, I’ll do that.” To Caressa’s laughing eyes, I whispered, “Although maybe not in those exact words.”
She wagged her finger at me. “Oh no. You need to quote Cole exactly. He’s going to check up on that.”
I said something about it not being my first rodeo. She questioned my age. After a bit of chitchat—where I hoped I’d won her over—I’d taken off.
With the certain knowledge that I was going to get a phone call.
So do I call him first? What’s the proper protocol for this anyway?
Unsure and somehow knowing seeking advice from Alessandra would invite more questions for which I didn’t have answers, I finished my report.
As I shut the laptop down, another moment from this morning hit me.
Cole knows Smith. And logically, he knows Alessandra.
Since Smith owned Club Kink and Cole had been there a few times—with Donovan, no less—obviously Smith and Cole knew each other.
And since I’d known Smith owned the club—and that he and Alessandra were into BDSM—none of this had been a shock.
Just not how I’d thought that session of therapy was going to go.
Smith knows Donovan.
I expected discretion from everyone.
So why didn’t Donovan bring up knowing Smith in a—
I hesitated. Professional capacity? Smith, professional, and Donovan…
I tried to shut down that line of thought.
Because that way led to madness. I could speculate about everyone’s relationship to everyone else, or I could focus on my job.
I moved to the kitchen to boil some water.
Chamomile was the perfect antidote to a racing mind.
Well, and one oatmeal cookie. I could allow myself one.
My phone buzzed.
My heart sank.
My head shouted.
Donovan.
Even though I knew better, I answered the phone. “Hello, Donovan.”
“Hey, Doc.”
I rolled my eyes. He knew that irritated me to no end—and yet he did it anyway.
Don’t give him what he wants. Don’t let it affect you.
Yeah, right. “How can I help you this evening?”
“You can tell me what lies Cole told you about me today.” He chuckled. That deep, resonant sound that always made butterflies flitter low in my belly.
“Of all people, Donovan, you must be aware I cannot share what is said in a therapy session. Hell, I shouldn’t even confirm or deny whether a session took place—”
“Cut the bullshit, Doc. I knew you were going, and given the conversation I just had with Cole, I can guarantee it took place.”
“Oh?” Don’t sound too interested.
“Yeah, oh.” He cleared his throat. “He says he gave you a message to give to me.”
I sighed. “This is some kind of weird test, right? If I don’t say the right thing, then you’ll both question my competence?”
“Jesus.” He bit off the word. “I know this isn’t a game for you. I know how seriously you take this.”
Sometimes I do wonder if this is a game for you, though.
Again, I sighed. “ ‘Tell Donovan I say to mind his own fucking business.’ ”
He barked out a laugh. “Holy shit. You actually did it.”
“Did what?” The kettle boiled, and I unplugged it.
“Swore.”
I rolled my eyes as I poured the boiling water into my mug.
I dumped the tea bag in. “Surely, I’ve sworn before now.
” Except a good chance existed that I hadn’t.
I was always prodigiously careful with my language.
Especially around clients. Except you’re starting to see Donovan as more than a client.
I sighed inwardly. Sometimes I hated my inner voice.
“Not an f-bomb. Not in front of me. Hell, I wasn’t even certain you were capable.”
I watched as the tea brewed—the color slowly seeping from the bag.
Occasionally, I liked my tea weak. Most of the time, I preferred a strong cup.
Well, assuming I had the patience to wait.
Tonight? I did not. I swirled the tea bag with a spoon, then removed the bag and dumped it into the compost container. “Why are you calling, Donovan?”
He chuckled. “I wanted to see if you’d repeat exactly what he said.”
“And now you know I did. But to what end?”
“Why did Cole say I should get my head out of my ass?”
“For that, you would need to ask your friend.”
“He knows.”
I’d just picked up my mug. As my hand shook, I put it back down. “Knows?” My chest seized. Had I given something away? About my relationship with Donovan?
“That I’m not being honest with you in our therapy sessions.”
Okay. Close call. “Is he right? Are you not being honest with me?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m asking you.”
He snickered. “Just like a therapist.” With a touch of derision in the word.
“This is important, Donovan. You called me. And I’m happy to take your call—as a counselor.”
“I want more.”
“Wanting and getting are two different things.” I sipped my tea. “I might want a million dollars. I’ll get a salary from my job when I work.”
“Do you want a million dollars?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If you won the lottery—a million bucks—would that make you happy?”
I hesitated. “Many people who win the lottery don’t find greater satisfaction. I wouldn’t want my life to change, so theoretically, winning should have no effect on me.”
“Yeah.” A moment passed. “But you could pay your mortgage off. You could give money to family and friends. Hell, you could donate to charity.”
“I’m fortunate that my friends and family are comfortable. I do donate to charity. Yes, not having a mortgage would be freeing—but having debt doesn’t define me. I have an excellent job. Benefits and a pension plan as well.”
“But a million dollars?” He sighed. “I have to say that I’m generally as happy as Cole is, and he’s way richer than I am.”
“Does that bother you?” I didn’t figure it did. And if it made a difference, I wasn’t certain what that might tell me—about either man.
“Nope. I had a shit childhood. I’ve fought and clawed for everything I have. Cole offered to pay off my mortgage. I turned him down.”
“Although that doesn’t surprise me, it’s also something remarkable about you. Most people wouldn’t turn down that generosity.”
“Unless something catastrophic happens—like being shot for real or losing my job or an injury I can’t come back from—then I don’t need the help.”
“You were shot for real.” I took another sip of tea.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. And you know what I mean.” Apparently, we were both being obtuse.
“I want things back the way they were.”
“Of course you do. You’re watching your friends suffer.” I went with plural because I assumed seeing Julie, Elouise, Seamus, and the others dealing with the situation would affect him. He carried an empathy that way. His closeness with Cole was so damn clear.
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m conflicted.”
I grabbed my mug of tea and headed toward the living room. I sank into my couch and settled before I continued the conversation. “About what?”
“If Meggibeth hadn’t fired those shots, then I never would’ve met you and Tyson.”
“That’s true.” Don’t say it. Please don’t say it—
“I can’t regret you, Doc. And I want more. I fucking want more.”
“You know—”
“Yeah, I fucking know. Doesn’t stop the longing.” With that, he cut the line.
For a long time, I stared at the blank screen. I sipped my tea and replayed the conversation in my head. Did I say the right things? Did I show empathy? Did I reveal too much about myself?
I just didn’t know.
In the end, I dumped my cold tea down the drain and headed to bed. I could always type up my notes in the morning.
Only as I lay in bed, wide awake, did I remember I hadn’t eaten a cookie.
Yeah. Right. Like that is the most important part of this evening.
I rolled onto my side and begged for sleep to claim me.
Eventually, it did.