Chapter 15 #2
I drop into my seat, and Mom follows. “First of all, Evie will be my assistant starting on Monday,” I say as I shut my door.
Mom’s face falls as she joins me in the car. “Oh.”
“Right. Second of all, Jamie.”
“What about him?”
“He’d . . .” I fiddle with the heat knob. “He’s very protective of her.” Jamie has seen me say and do things I would never want repeated. He wouldn’t believe for one second that my intentions with Evie are pure.
“Okay . . .” Mom hedges, studying me. “And?”
“Thirdly . . . she’s not my biggest fan right now.”
Mom’s eyes shift to the back window. “Ah. I see.” Her head tilts. “Well, she looks upset about something. Maybe she needs to talk to someone about it.” She gives me an impish look. “Like a mental health specialist.”
I roll my eyes, but her words strike a chord in my conscience.
That was always one of my dilemmas in being with Evie—the inherent power imbalance that played a starring role in our relationship.
It is a big no-no for a mental health professional to treat a friend or family member.
You can’t be objective when you love someone, and there are plenty of conflicts of interest that could harm the therapeutic relationship, like romantic involvement.
Imagine a husband trying to be objective enough to treat his wife. It wouldn’t work.
But even though I wasn’t treating Evie, I was intimately involved in her struggle with self-harm because she refused to see someone about it.
So I became her someone. Subtly, of course.
I loved her, was constantly worried about her, and so I took it upon myself to perform psychotherapy whenever she wanted to confide in me, and I became her closest confidant. With everything—the good and the bad.
About the only thing I didn’t do for Evie was prescribe medication. That was one line I was not willing to cross. Aside from that, for all intents and purposes, I was her therapist.
I tap the steering wheel contemplatively, staring at Evie through my rearview mirror. “I might go speak to her.”
Mom perks up. “I’ll wait here.”
Evie startles when she notices me approaching and pauses from her frantic pacing to glower at me. “Spitfire,” I say, looking her over. She’s shivering, blowing warm air into her mittenless fingers. She must be freezing in those tights. “Why don’t you wait inside the car?”
Her top lip curls with contempt, and it makes my chest ache with sadness. “Don’t you think I would if I had the keys? You must think I’m a complete moron.”
I ignore her comment. “Did Maggie insist on driving today?”
She sighs. “She did.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I feel compelled to reassure her that I’ve never thought she was stupid. “Evie?” Her tawny eyes find mine again. “For the record, I have never thought you were a moron.”
She blinks, looking utterly guileless for a moment. That look . . . I ache to hold her. To reassure her of my love. She clears her throat. “Well, good. Because you’re the one who hired me, so . . .”
So she’s still planning on taking the job. Relief washes over me.
“So we’re still on for tomorrow?” I ask. She purses her lips. “Evie?”
She shifts on her feet and looks down. “About that . . .”
“You can’t back out on me now,” I warn.
Her chin lifts in mock defiance. “I didn’t sign anything binding, did I?”
My brows rise, and she hesitates, then smirks. She’s joshing me. “So did you find something else?” I ask, playing along.
“I did.” It’s a lie. She has a tell that she doesn’t know about—she twists her lips slightly when she’s fibbing, giving her the subtlest cheek dimple. I had to talk her out of a dimple piercing once, fearing that it might ruin it.
“I see.” I cross my arms. “And how’s the pay?”
“Good. The same.”
“Then I’ll double it.”
She stares. “You’re not serious.”
“Try me.”
She frowns. “Thirty-five an hour.”
I scoff. “Seventy, then.”
“You’re crazy.”
Crazy about you. Her eyes keep drifting toward the church entrance.
“Everything okay?” I prod.
She shivers. “Fine. Just cold.”
I wonder if she’s nervous about running into her dad and Francine. I consider asking her, but I know she won’t open up to me like she used to—even if I ask all the right questions. “Am I still picking you up for work tomorrow?”
She nods. “Please. That would be most helpful.”
I smirk. “Most helpful, huh? That’s good.” She flushes bright red, and it feels good knowing I can still make her blush like that. I take a step back. “See you tomorrow, then. Bright and early. Don’t be late.”
She gives me a two-fingered salute. “See ya.”
I turn but pause, grinning as I face her again. “So what’s under the coat, Spitfire?”
She freezes, then scowls. “Go away.”
“No,” I laugh. “Show me.”
“In your dreams.”
Probably.
“Please,” I beg, laughing as I bounce once at the knees like a kid. I can never seem to behave myself around her. I don’t know how to be around her and not flirt and banter and play. It’s our way. I am going to have a miserable time trying to keep things professional with her because of it.
She marches forward and thumps my shoulder.
Pouting, I cradle my arm to my chest. “Please tell me. Please, please, please.”
Her cheeks fill with air as she resists a laugh. “You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, believe me, baby, I do.” Her eyes flash with surprise as the term of endearment slips past my tongue, and my stomach does a nervous somersault.
Note to self: don’t call your new assistant baby.
She glances down at her coat. “Let’s just say that it leaves little to the imagination.” She lifts her face again, arching a brow. “Not that you would have to imagine anything.”
My mind goes utterly blank. Slowly, I back away from her.
Still, the memories come unbidden. How warm and right she felt in my arms. Her soft lips.
The way she looked at me while I held her—with complete love, adoration, and trust shining in her dark eyes.
I shun the thought, unable to remember that sweet look on her face without recalling the way she looked at me that next morning, when I broke her heart.
I don’t deserve those memories.
Employing Evie will either be the best decision or the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” Mom accuses when I join her back in the car. “Is there something going on between you two?”
Sighing, I buckle my seatbelt. “No.”
“Well, that interaction didn’t seem like nothing.”
Of course she was watching us like a hawk. My mother, the snoop. “It’s . . . complicated.”
She shrugs. “Back in my day, if boy liked girl and girl liked boy, then boy would ask girl out, and girl would say yes. Simple.”
“You’re talking like a Neanderthal.”
“Well, even Neanderthals get this stuff.”
I smile half-heartedly. “We’ve been through this, Mom. There’s Jamie. And the fact that she’ll be my assistant.”
“Yeah, but why do I get the sense there’s more to the story?”
Because there is. I’m quiet for a suspiciously long time, unsure how to respond. My silence must say it all.
“Uh-oh,” she hums as I back out of the parking space. “What did you do?”
My stomach turns. She knows me too well.
Jamie likes to tease that my tight-knit relationship with my mom is a sign I’m too in touch with my feminine side, but I come by my ability to relate to women naturally.
I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by strong, assertive women.
I have six older sisters, a fraternal twin sister, and a doting mother. Because of that, I understand women.
In another life, I used this intimate knowledge of the female psyche to my advantage. It wasn’t uncommon for the women I dated to tell me they thought they’d struck gold with me. To the naked eye, I’m a catch. Smart, generically attractive, funny. Not to mention women love doctors.
And I was a good catch . . . until I got bored. The old bait-and-switch was my specialty. Those women struck gold alright—fool’s gold.
Mom gazes at my profile while I try not to look too nervous or guilty. I think I’m failing. “Is she skeptical? Because of your past as a womanizer?”
I groan. “A womanizer? Mom, please . . . can we drop this?”
“Well, sorry, honey, but that’s what you were,” she retorts. “So, out with it.”
“We have . . . history. Okay?”
“What kind of history?”
I give her a dry look. “History.”
Her eyes widen before she leans away. “With Evie?” She tries hard to conceal her judgment, but I can see the condemnation in her eyes—the very condemnation I’d always feared seeing on people’s faces if they learned about us. Especially Jamie’s.
Shame weighs heavy on my heart. There were so many reasons I shouldn’t have pursued Evie—our power dynamic being the most obvious and ethically . . . questionable. I shouldn’t have given in to temptation, shouldn’t have gone there with her—of all people. My Spitfire.
I want to run and hide like I’m five years old. “Now can we drop it?”
“What exactly are your intentions by making Evie your assistant, Brandon?” Mom wonders, jumping straight to the point.
My body tenses. “Nothing. I have no intentions.”
She scoffs. “Oh, please, Brandon. Be honest with your mother.”
I shrug noncommittally, as if the stakes aren’t quite as high as they are. “I want her to trust me again. To forgive me, and maybe . . .”
“And maybe . . . ?”
I can barely bring myself to say it, knowing I deserve less than nothing from Evie. “Maybe give me a second chance.” Adam’s face flashes in my mind’s eye.
My skin warms as the car fills with silence. “Oh, honey.” She tuts, and my stomach knots with anxiety. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”
“It’s not a game,” I insist. Not this time. It hasn’t been a game for much longer than I’ve been willing to admit.
She sighs. “Do you want some womanly advice?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” I say, feeling lost.
“Rule number one when it comes to earning a woman’s trust—you need to know where you stand. If you can’t decide how you feel about her, then leave her alone.”
I grimace. “I know how I feel about her.”
“And?”
I hesitate. “I love her.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “But are you in love with her?”
“Yes,” I grit quietly between clenched teeth. I hate admitting it out loud for a thousand and one reasons. But mostly, it feels . . . wrong. Like I shouldn’t. Like . . . it’s forbidden to want her in this way.
“Well, I don’t know what happened, but I can certainly use my imagination.
” I wince. “So, focus first on repairing whatever damage was done in the past. Don’t pressure her—especially while she’s working for you.
A woman wants to feel pursued, yes, but she also wants to feel appreciated and adored.
Show her that you value her for who she is—not what she has to offer you.
Cherish her. Be patient with her. Help her understand that God’s love is what she really needs—and represent His love in her life until she’s ready to accept the real thing.
And one day, God willing, maybe she’ll see that you can love her as unconditionally as our heavenly Father. ”
My mother’s wisdom trickles into my chest like the steady, aromatic drip of warm coffee. She’s right. All I need to do is represent Jesus’ love in Evie’s life until she’s ready to accept the real thing.
Great. Makes sense.
No pressure.