Chapter 3
Callie
“You have really got to stop doing gigs on Monday nights.” Slurping up more water, I peer across the small table at Aaron in all of his rockstar awesomeness. Despite the week just getting started, Theo’s Place is buzzing with energy from the band’s last set of the night.
“Sorry, Cal,” he shrugs. “Gotta do what I gotta do. Besides, you’re here in sweats. It’s not like you had to get all dressed up or anything.”
“Excuse me, but I came straight from pilates class.” Tilting my drink toward Ian beside me, I continue, “The girl running the class tried setting me up with her brother. Again.”
Aaron’s younger brother scoffs. “How many times does that make now?” His teasing hazel eyes sparkle as his tightly trimmed beard stretches with a grin.
“At least six.”
He winces. “Maybe you should just put her out of her misery and meet the poor guy.”
Rolling my eyes so hard I nearly give myself a concussion, I reach for another french fry, turning back to Aaron.
Like his younger brother, Aaron sports tousled brown hair and a strong jaw.
But where Ian looks every part the mortgage lender banking employee, Aaron exudes rockstar rebellion.
“Anyway, I’m just saying, some of us have work in the morning.
” Aaron narrows his eyes as my grin slides into place.
“Though you all definitely killed it up there.”
Aaron playfully puffs out his chest.
“The new songs seemed to go over really well,” Ian offers. Leaning back in his chair, he looks my way for validation.
I nod, grin widening. “Definitely. Can I venture a guess as to your muse?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aaron pushes up the sleeves of his Henley, exposing full sleeve dragon tattoos, before digging into the fry basket.
Sharing a quick look with my best friend, we turn back to the locally famous rockstar at the table.
The same one who refuses to dress any way but casual on stage.
He regularly reminds us that if it’s good enough to wear on a construction site, it’s good enough to wear while playing music.
Of course, Ian and Aaron’s side remodeling company has never been known to host paying fans of Aaron’s music.
“Any time you’re ready to admit it, we’re here.” I raise my hands in false surrender. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Ready for a day full of your family?” Aaron asks, shoving another handful of fries into his waiting mouth.
“Look how smoothly he changes the subject,” Ian teases, elbowing me in the ribs.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I groan. “Thanksgiving is a week and a half away, and I’m already dreading it.” Propping an elbow on the table, I rest my chin in my waiting palm.
“Everything will be fine.” Aaron reaches for his own water. “Connie will be there, so it’s not like you’ll be totally on your own.”
Biting my bottom lip, I refrain from teasing him about my sister. “Sure, but so will Chris.”
Aaron snorts, examining his greasy hands. “Yeah, that guy’s a prick. Hey, I’m gonna run and wash my hands. Be right back.” Since we picked a spot in the back, it’s only moments before he disappears down the short hallway to the restroom.
I turn to Ian. “They’ve started trying to get me to go back to school again. Find a ‘real’ profession.” Crossing my arms, I shake my head. “Maybe I’ll just skip it.”
Ian laughs. “You can’t skip your family’s Thanksgiving. No matter how badly Ira and Lillian try to derail your career.”
“I could say I’m sick.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Like Lillian wouldn’t barge through your door and drag you there herself unless you had the Bubonic plague.”
“That woman’s definitely a force to be reckoned with,” I grumble.
“What if you just say you promised to spend the day with us?”
“Wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m pretty sure they’d notice if I didn’t go next door for the rest of the day.”
“Check this out.” Aaron says as he sits back down at the table, one random piece of paper richer than before.
“What’s that?” I ask, scrunching my nose. Taking the proffered flyer, I read aloud, “Has your family been on your case lately? As your date to this year’s holiday festivities, I’ll use my professional training to convince your family that your shortcomings are their own doing.”
Ian chuckles. “What? No way.”
“Who’s Dr. Oliver Rhodes?” I ask as I skim the rest of the flyer. Looking back at Aaron, a sickening feeling settles in my stomach. “What?”
Caution marrs Aaron’s every feature. “So … ”
“Oh no.” I wince.
“No, no. Hang on. There’s this woman at my gym. Her name is Joanna. Well, her wife and brother-in-law have a therapy practice downtown. I think it’s one of those converted historic houses.”
Ian leans forward. “Aaron … ”
Casting a glance at Ian, annoyance fans the anxiety flame raging in my chest as he just sits there so damn intrigued. Why are we even discussing this?
“She’s talked about this other guy who co-owns the place. This Rhodes guy.” Aaron points to the name on the paper. “Supposedly, he’s super cool.”
“Apparently cool enough to help gaslight someone’s family,” Ian finally says.
Squinting at him, I look back down at the paper. “I think this means the guy has to be insane. I mean, there’s no way this would even work.” Looking at Ian for any kind of support, my brows join the stratosphere.
The man has the nerve to sit there looking like he’s actually for this. “It might not hurt to go meet the guy,” he shrugs. “You never know.”
Incredulous laughter tumbles from my lips. “Excuse me? That’s probably how I’ll disappear, never to be heard from again.”
“Here, Cal,” Aaron says, offering me his phone.
Staring back at me from the bright screen is a strange man in his early thirties with piercing blue eyes smiling into the camera.
Dark blond hair styled perfectly with some kind of mousse compliments his perfectly shaped stubble, hardly disguising a sharp jawline.
Broad shoulders are covered by a suit jacket, finished off with a tie matching those striking eyes. There’s no denying the guy is hot.
Then I notice the name of the practice. Rhodes, McNalley & McNalley Therapy Collective.
John McNalley, single father to the sweetest student in my class—Cici. This just gets better and better.
“Well, I guess it’s settled then.” Grinning, Ian claps my shoulder.
“Wait, what’s settled?”
“You’re going to spice up your Tuesday by meeting this guy!”
Making my way toward the door, it’s exactly as Aaron described it.
A large, renovated Victorian house nestled among all the corporate offices exuding charm and warmth.
Inviting plum paint that covers the exterior walls reminds me of a haunted house toy that once sat on my Scooby-Doo birthday cake when I turned seven.
Briefly, I glance down at the walkway to see if it’s lined with candy bones.
While I would’ve been shocked if it had been, I can’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment when nothing but designer pavers greet me.
My heeled booties click through the snow on the old, wooden deck.
Large windows showcase a former living room that now acts as the waiting room.
A large Christmas tree is on display in the frontmost window.
Any of my kiddos would drool over it if it was in our classroom.
Smiling to myself, I shake my head at the thought of their pure wonder. And their easy distraction.
But approaching the door, my smile rapidly disappears as I’m reminded why I’m here.
The bell above the door dings, announcing my presence in the cozy reception area. “Um, excuse me?”
Across the space, a woman old enough to be my great-grandmother smiles warmly from behind a tall mahogany desk positioned near a hallway. “Hello, dear. You don’t have to let the cold in, you know.” She makes a point of looking over my shoulder to the door I’m still holding wide open.
Never know when you’ll need an exit strategy.
“Oh. Uh, right.” Letting go of the antique handle, a gust of cool air kisses my cheeks as the door swings closed.
My cheeks that are now the color of my flaming hair.
When I turn back to face the receptionist, a patient smile waits on her plump, overly made-up face.
Expertly coiffed gray hair moves on its own thanks to a space heater placed on the far side of the messy desk.
Polished fingers poised over a dingy keyboard, the woman watches while I seem to have some kind of brain malfunction.
Gingerly, I make my way across the restored wooden floors, my boots announcing my every movement.
“What can I help you with, dear?”
Face to face with the reality of what I’m about to do, my saliva chooses this moment to travel down the wrong tube. Esophagus reacting, I quickly pull a hand to my mouth as the coughing ensues.
“Do you have an appointment?” she tries again.
“No.” Cough. “I.” Scratchy death. “I was hoping to—” Delicate noise of me clearing my throat.
“Would you like some water, sweetheart?”
“Please,” I manage to croak out.
The woman swivels to the back side of her desk, opening a mini fridge and retrieves a small bottle with a branded label.
Rhodes, McNalley & McNalley Therapy Collective.
Yep, I am unfortunately in the right place.
Taking a swig from the bottle, my organs finally understand that the assault is over and it’s okay to work properly again. All while I pray to the hot chocolate gods that John McNalley isn’t hanging out near the waiting area.
“Now then, shall we try that again?” The receptionist gathers up a pleated navy skirt before sitting back down on her perch. “You were saying you don’t have an appointment?”
Sheepishly, I shake my head. “No, ma’am.”
“I can help get you scheduled, if you’d like.”
“Oh, um.” Replacing the cap on the bottle of water, I think about the folded-up flyer in my purse. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Rhodes? Today, if possible.”