Chapter 6 Rose
ROSE
The afternoon storm had turned into a full-blown monsoon—sheets of rain so thick you couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead.
It was after eight by the time I finally left the office. To say my meeting with Mr. Phoenix Steele had rattled me was the understatement of the year. I’ve had difficult patients—plenty of them, and not all men—but none who had destroyed my office.
Or tried to bribe me. With money and sex.
It took me ten minutes to stop shaking after he stormed out, and another forty to piece my desk back together.
Zoey had burst in the second he was gone, and I’d lied—said I tripped and knocked everything over.
Why I didn’t tell her the truth, I couldn’t say.
Maybe I was still in shock. Maybe I was ashamed.
Not just that it happened, but that I let it.
That I couldn’t control it. That I couldn’t control him.
And, if I’m honest, I knew Zoey. The second she learned a billionaire CEO had a meltdown in my office, it’d be halfway around town before I took my next breath. Call it professionalism—or self-preservation—but I wasn’t letting that happen.
I did tell her not to book any more appointments with “said jerk” until I had a chance to review his file.
And by review, I meant refer. Because no woman—therapist or not—should tolerate that kind of treatment.
I’ve never walked away from a client in my life.
But I’ve also never been spoken to like that.
I wouldn’t stand for it.
Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be back. That much I was sure of. A man like Phoenix Steele—angry, arrogant, drowning in pride—wasn’t coming anywhere near a therapist’s office again.
After the blessed disaster that was our session, I stayed late, answering emails, reviewing cases, returning voicemails that had piled up all week.
I was restless, wired, running on adrenaline.
When Mr. Jenkins delivered a Bloody Mary and a box of cinnamon buns to my office with a note that read Go Home, I finally listened.
When I’d purchased my first home—real home, not apartment—eight months earlier, I’d underestimated the drive from the office.
Not the length of time, but the difficulty of it.
My new home was located on the peak of one of the tallest mountains in Berry Springs, with a narrow two-lane road snaking up to it.
It was seven minutes from Main Street and my office, but any kind of weather, other than sun, added time to the drive, including the year-round fog.
Jagged cliffs hugged one side of the road and steep ravines the other.
That night, it had taken me twenty minutes to get home and when I’d finally made it up my long, curvy driveway, I was beyond exhausted.
Rain blurred the small, log and rock cabin against a black landscape that in sunlight showed miles of mountains in the distance.
In good weather, I had a postcard-perfect view from my deck.
That night, oak and pine trees that enclosed the house sagged under the weight of the rain sparkling off the branches in my headlights.
Despite the dilapidated wraparound porch and crumbling shingles, the realtor had called it a craftsman home.
I’d called it the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and was sold when I saw the sweeping windows that overlooked the mountains.
There was just something about it. Something about it that felt like home.
And that feeling was as foreign to me as Sunday dinners and family traditions.
I’d purchased it on the spot and began renovations the next month.
It was my little place, my own, and I loved it.
I rolled to a stop under the carport, an addition I’d added after I purchased my new BMW SUV. New house, new car, and the best part was that I’d saved up enough to put half down on both before signing on the dotted line.
Things were going well.
At least that’s what I’d thought.
I cut the engine and blew out a breath as I peeled each finger off the steering wheel. After grabbing my purse and briefcase from the passenger seat, I got out of the car—and stopped cold.
I stared at it for a moment, the vibrant colors of purple against the dark wood of my front door, the deep green leaves.
An exotic orchid in full bloom.
The craziest thing was that my first thought went to Phoenix. I quickly laughed that thought away, though, because Mr. Steele didn’t seem the apologizing type, especially to a woman. He also didn’t seem the type to send flowers for any occasion… unless they were Venus flytraps, of course.
No, I knew who they were from. They were a dramatic reminder of a decision I’d fought over sleepless nights. A part of my past that I wish would go away.
A gust of cold wind whipped my hair around my face, sending a chill up my spine. I glanced around the woods and down the driveway that disappeared into the trees. A solid minute passed as I stood there listening for any reason to justify the weird feeling that I wasn’t alone.
You’re being ridiculous, I told myself.
I sighed, crossed the deck, my heels echoing into the dark night. My immediate instinct was to kick over the flowers, but instead, I picked up the chilled vase. The smell hit my nose like a high-dollar perfume.
No—like a hundred pounds of guilt.
Right there in my hand.
Juggling the load that included more than the weight in my hands, I unlocked the door, stepped inside and kicked it closed with my foot.