Eventually, I tire of the traffic and when I park again, I do a double take at the office strip where I’ve ended up. After a quick scan of the building number, I realize this is the address on the doctor’s card. The man I met at the gala. The man I can’t stop thinking about.
Part of me knows this is strange. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m meant to be here. And when I climb out of my car and walk into the small office, something inside me settles. I know without asking the receptionist that he is here. And that being near him will ease every fear and worry I’m carrying.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asks. She’s a middle aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude and a sharpness in her brown eyes that make me second guess coming today.
“I’m here to see Dr. Livingstone.” My voice is shaky. Unsure.
She gives me a once-over, assessing. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I—”
“Name?”
“Celeste D’LeLune.”
“Sit.”
She points to a small seating area and I scurry away, nervous under her harsh scrutiny. She gets up and disappears down a narrow hall.
I wait, fingers twisting with nerves.
What am I doing here?
This is crazy.
I push to my feet, ready to slip out, when the woman returns.
“The doctor will see you,” she says and gestures toward the hallway.
Face heating, I duck my head and mumble my thanks, making my way down the hall. Artwork lines the walls. Landscapes featuring wooded glens, all except for one which depicts a woman standing between two large brown wolves. Her expression is complex, fierce yet vulnerable, strong yet sensitive. A storm is brewing behind them, but they seem impervious to it.
The hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. I pause and suck in a sharp breath at how similar the woman’s features are to my own. But then the receptionist makes a sound of impatience and I hurry on again, forcing the strangeness of it from my mind.
At the end of the hall, the door on the left is slightly ajar. Pausing outside, I knock lightly.
“Come in.”
At the sound of his familiar voice, my pulse races.
I push the door open and step inside, inhaling the scent of his cologne. He rises from a chair positioned next to a navy blue loveseat.
“Hello, Celeste. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Hi. Yeah, I didn’t expect to be here either. I hope it’s okay? Me showing up like this?”
“Of course it is. I’m happy you came.”
His smile warms the coldness that has seeped into my bones. I exhale, shoulders relaxing now that I’m here. With him.
“Please. Make yourself comfortable?” He gestures to the love seat, and I push the door shut, crossing the room quickly.
We both sit, close enough that our knees brush. I look away, taking in the tidy desk in the far corner and the adjoining bathroom on my right. Beside me, a cup of tea sits on an end table. At the sight of it, the room tilts slightly. My sense of déjà vu is nearly overwhelming.
When I look back at the doctor, he’s watching me. The silence between us is charged with attraction. I try to tell myself it’s just me. My weird sense of self these last couple of days. But his cobalt eyes only intensify the longer he studies me.
I search for words that will break the ice.
“Sorry, I should have called,” I begin but he waves me off.
“It’s not a problem. I’m glad to see you again.” His eyes shine with a strange expression that looks almost like hunger.
My stomach tightens. Attraction and something else send me leaning forward. “This is going to sound silly. Or maybe crazy,” I say and he grins.
“Sounds like you came to the right place.”
I shake my head at his joke. “I was just curious . . . have we met before? You seem so familiar.”
“I doubt it.” His smile is a bit mischievous as he adds, “You are a face I am sure I would remember.”
“Dr. Livingstone, I—”
“Please, call me Logan.”
“I wouldn’t want to cross a line,” I say, shaking my head. “Professionally speaking, as my therapist, I think it’s best if—”
“I have no desire to be your therapist, Celeste.”
“Oh.”
My disappointment is almost painful. The idea of leaving this place, of never seeing him again, is a wound I don’t want to inflict.
“What I mean is that I desire your company as a friend.”
I look up sharply. “Do you say that to all your patients?”
“None actually. You’re the first.”
The silence is awkward, and I’m all too aware that if I’m not paying him for this session—this meeting just ventured into a territory that feels a bit inappropriate given my engagement. Or maybe it’s the inexplicable attraction I feel for the stranger I’m currently alone with.
“I appreciate the offer but…” I push to my feet, urging myself to go while I still feel rational. “I’m engaged.”
“I’m aware.” He follows me to the door and when I turn back, he’s careful to keep his distance. “I’m not asking you to do anything that would insult your fiancé, Celeste. I enjoy your company and I feel a connection with you that I’ve rarely felt with anyone else. As friends,” he adds when I don’t answer. “To be honest, I don’t have many of those.”
His quiet admission affects me, and my heart opens a little at the way he glances everywhere but at me now.
“Dr. Livingstone. Logan,” I correct before he can remind me. He looks up and our eyes meet. And he’s right. There’s no denying a connection between us. Maybe it is something platonic. Something innocent that won’t make me feel like I’m betraying my promise to Corbin. “Your intentions seem pure, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I reach for the knob as a wave of dizziness washes over me. My feet falter and I can feel myself swaying as the room tilts.
“Celeste?”
My knees buckle and the ground comes up to meet me.
Strong arms come around me and lift me off my feet before I can faceplant into the worn carpet.
My stomach rolls with the sudden upending of my equilibrium and I squeeze my eyes shut against the nausea. When I feel the couch against my back, I open my eyes and look up at Logan hovering over me. His expression is tight with concern as he studies me.
“Are you all right?” he asks anxiously.
“I’m fine.” I try to push up onto my elbows but he eases me back.
“Careful. You nearly fainted.”
“I must have…I’ve been feeling…not myself.” I struggle to find a reason for the sudden episode.
“Do you have a history of fainting? An illness?” he asks.
“No.”
He cups my face in his hands and my mind goes blank at his touch. “You’re pale,” he murmurs almost to himself. Then, “Low blood sugar? When was the last time you ate?”
I bite my lip, trying to remember. “Yesterday?”
His expression turns clinical, and he tsks. “That’s not healthy.”
“I’ve had a lot going on.”
This time, when I try to sit up, he helps me. His hands on my shoulders are distracting enough to send my thoughts scattering all over again. But finally, my body registers how hungry I am.