14. Chapter 14
I don’t expect to see him here.
That’s the first thing my brain supplies when I round the corner near the food court with a paper bag of art supplies tucked under my arm, and nearly collide with a wall of black wool and long limbs.
I stop short, breath catching, and then let my eyes lift.
Oh.
Oh.
Alexander Dormsworth stands a few inches away, turned slightly to the side, one hand loosely hooked into the pocket of his coat as he scans the environment like he isn’t a man who knows exactly where he’s going at all times. He looks different in the wild.
Not unrecognizable by any means, he still carries himself with the same quiet confidence and composed stillness that makes him feel like the calm eye of a storm. But without the office and the controlled environment, there’s something more striking about him.
He’s dressed simply in a dark coat over a fitted sweater beneath it.
Jeans that sit low on his hips and fit him far too well for someone who spends his days listening to people talk about their trauma.
His black hair is neatly styled but not severe, the kind of effortless order that suggests he doesn’t have to try very hard.
And when he turns after I’ve all but bulldozed him, his eyes catch mine.
Christ.
The man is unfairly good looking with all sharp and intense angles, especially in normal-people clothes. His icy blue gaze locks onto me and I still once I realize I’ve become the center of his awareness. The mall noise dulls into a low hum and everything blurs into background.
His mouth curves, just slightly and I curse myself for finding that attractive.
It’s not even a full blown smile, just recognition.
“Sadie,” He hums, like he’s been expecting me.
My heart gives a traitorous little kick, because that’s asinine and even I’m not that level of delusional.
“Dr. Dormsworth,” I reply automatically, then immediately want to smack myself for it.
He lifts a brow, gaze flicking over me in a way that feels different than it does in his office. He takes in my ripped jeans, my boots dusted with paint flecks, and the oversized sweater I threw on without much thought.
“You don’t have to call me that out here,” he murmurs mildly. “Alex is fine.”
Fuck—Alex is fine.
Because that’s going to be okay.
“Alex,” I repeat, testing it out. It feels strange on my tongue and all too familiar to be safe. “I didn’t realize you shopped at…” I glance around. “Well, a mall.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t. I’m meeting someone who does.”
Oh.
Does this someone come of the romantic variety?
Wait, why do I give a shit? He’s your doctor, Sadie, get your shit together.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how close I still stand and how tall he is.
He has to be at least six and a half feet if I had to guess, all long lines and quiet presence.
Standing this near him, I get a better sense of his features; sharp jaw, straight nose, a mouth that looks expressive even when it’s neutral.
The kind of face that could soften if he let it.
Oof, those are dangerous thoughts.
“Art supplies?” His words snap me out of my sudden fascination with my therapist.
“Yeah,” I croak. God help me. “Imogen has been persuasive.”
“About the paintings.”
I blink. “Yeah, you remember that?”
I don’t think I told him that but once.
“I remember most things,” he shrugs easily.
That should not be as attractive as it is. ‘Oh, I’m a man and I paid attention to what you said when you said it’. I am in desperate need of an intervention, because I’ve officially dived off into a whole cesspool of entirely unhealthy imaginings.
A beat of silence stretches, and it’s of my own awkward making. Charged enough that it makes my skin prickle, my brain trying to run a systems check. Mainly to keep myself from blushing like a hormonal thirteen year old with her first crush.
Your therapist, Sadie. My brain reminds.
Very bad. No touch. No lick. No think about. My brain continues.
Why does he look even better out here than he does in that office?
He seems to come to a decision about my silence and gestures to the food court behind him. “I was going to grab some lunch before my meeting. If you’re free, you’re welcome to join me.”
Um, yes please. My subconscious chirps eagerly.
I slap that bitch down to rationality where it lives on planet Not Happening. Only she’s brought a jet pack and is rocketing right back into the clouds.
“No professionalism required or notes, of course. Just lunch.”
Ugh, he gave the bitch jet fuel while he was at it.
“Okay. Lunch.” I nod.
And I make the monumental mistake of walking at his side toward a quieter corner of the food court, where I’m acutely aware of the subtle shift in the dynamic. There is no power structure here beyond the one we bring with us, and somehow that makes everything feel sharper.
We each grab a quick meal and settle down at a small table near the edge, away from the worst of the noise. I watch in keen interest as he removes his coat and drapes it over the chair beside him, movements unhurried.
And that’s not hot, so why is it?
I drop my bags into the chair beside me a lot less subtle than his own movements and dig into my food to keep from saying or doing something stupid.
“Do you always invite your clients to lunch?” I kick myself mentally for that word vomit that sounds a touch too flirty.
“Only the ones I run into by accident,” he punts me back into my corner where I belong.
Fair.
I eat to fill the sting of that comment, not that it had any right to sting. I’m sure he’s used to the strangeness of his clients searching for a connection when there is none.
“How does it feel?” He suddenly asks and my brows furrow as I look to him.
“What?”
“Seeing me outside of the office,” he muses.
“Oh… weird.” I admit. Then quickly add, “but not bad.”
“Why weird?”
“Because you’re human,” I mutter, before I can stop myself.
Ground open and swallow me now, please.
He chuckles, “I should hope so.”
I flush. “I mean—you know everything about me. Or at least a lot, and I know almost nothing about you.”
“Is that unsettling?”
“Yes, but I think that’s kind of the point.” I huff a laugh, trying to smooth over how bizarre I’m making this.
He watches me, and I don’t miss the way his eyes flick to my mouth when I smile before bouncing back to my eyes. It’s subtle, but I catch it and my subconscious is officially back to soaring. Waving her freak flag in the background and demanding I do something about it.
This is going to spell my doom.
I take a sip of my drink to buy myself time, straw making that awful sound it does when the drink is almost empty, heart thudding a little harder than it had been moments before.
He doesn’t comment, but I can feel his attention and how steady it is.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I blurt, more to myself than to him.
“No, it doesn’t.” He agrees, his mouth twitching.
Oh, I am in so much trouble.