I gritted my teeth. Flared my nostrils. Tried to intimidate her with my mind.
She laughed, humorless, but it was a laugh. “You were the one who asked for my help.”
“Ch-changed my muh-mind.” My face grew hot. From anger or embarrassment or maybe both.
She folded her arms and gave me her best admonishing glare. “You’re acting like a child.”
“You’re t-treating me luh-like one!” I shoved my hands into my hair, closed my eyes, and sucked in a breath. I wanted to die. I couldn’t say the most basic shit and it was beyond frustrating.
I stalked off in no particular direction. I didn’t have a plan, but I wasn’t going to stand here and be scolded. I debated going into the museum, but I felt like punching something, so walls covered in priceless paintings weren’t the best backdrop for my rage.
“Cade,” Tasha repeated for the fourth or fourteenth time as she stomped behind me across the lawn. I paused in front of a cement fountain with a huge merman, trident in hand, his stone beard frozen in mid-billow.
Behind me, her shoes scuffed to a stop on the cobblestones.
“You’re not going to heal overnight.” Her tone was soft.
If ever, I thought petulantly.
After a long pause, she announced, “Well. This place is as good as any,” then she left me standing there. Me and the merman. I silently asked if he’d mind helping me out of this one. He didn’t respond. We were kindred spirits.
Tasha returned holding a large blanket and a backpack. “Sun or shade? Pick one.”
I shrugged. She huffed and then marched over to a sunny patch of grass and dropped her things. She shook out the blanket and sat, unpacking books and papers.
We were really doing this.
Beyond stealing her car and stranding her here, I was out of options. So, I sat. Knees up, arms linked around them, I watched her with deep suspicion.
“So. Mouth exercises.” She held open a book and showed me a few illustrations. “Think of it as working out.”
Not this again.
She smiled, way too happy about my plight. “We’ll start with warming up your palate. Try this.” Her full lips rounded, her fair eyebrows lifting over comically wide blue eyes. “Ooo.”
No. Hell no. I sure as fuck wasn’t doing that.
“Then after the ooo,” she said, dragging her finger to another illustration, “you’ll do puh sounds.” She demonstrated by popping her lips as she enunciated, “Puh, puh, puh.”
I was definitely not doing that. I continued scowling, but my chipper therapist remained unfazed.
“Come on. Do it with me.” She did the ooo thing again.
My eyes slipped to her pursed lips and stayed there. I remembered the moment in the bathroom at Oak & Sage, the way I’d pressed her against the door, my lips very, very close to hers. I wished we could time-travel back to that moment instead of being stuck in this one.
“What about the puh sound?” She popped her lips a few times and I grinned. “You are impossible.”
You are beautiful, I wanted to say, but I also didn’t want to sound like that stuttering character from A Fish Called Wanda. Ken. Really old movie. Michael Palin was one of Dad’s favorite actors. Anyway. I related to Ken. Neither of us could string a smooth sentence together.
She turned a page in the book. “How about the kissing exercise instead?”
She had my full attention. My spine straightened and I released my knees.
“Pucker,” she said, her finger following the instructions on the page, “and then slide your lips left and then right. Like this.” Watching her mouth form a kiss was cute, and the Charlie Chaplin twitch she added, adorable.
I wasn’t doing that either, but I could watch her do it all day.
“From there you move on to whistling”—she regarded the book again—“and drinking from a straw.”
Drinking from a straw? I made a face when she pulled a few paper-wrapped straws and a bottle of water from her bag. She arranged them like torture implements on the blanket between us. I began to fidget, clenching my fists, biting my lip. I knew how to drink from a straw. Why the hell did I have to demonstrate it?
“Why?” I asked.
She stopped what she was doing and blinked at me. Every once in a while, if I felt confident I could speak a word or two out without tripping, I liked to surprise her. Ts were not easy. Helpful, since my therapist’s name was Tasha. A hard T.
Thanks, Fate. Appreciate the backup.
“Why…the straw?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Oh. Well, it’s a great activity for the tongue and cheeks. Drinking from a straw requires flexing the cheeks and”—she pinched her cheeks between her thumb and forefinger and made a fish face—“pursing of the lips. And sucking requires you to tighten your tongue.”
Parts of me were tightening the longer she talked. This session sounded less like therapy and a hell of a lot like sex.
“Think of it as an oral workout,” she added, feeding that visual.
If she kept this up, I’d sport a boner she could hang her backpack from. She realized what I was thinking slowly. Watching the blush creep up her neck and then dust her cheekbones was so enjoyable, I wished I could rewind the last few seconds and watch it again in slow motion.
“Cade! If you—if that’s what you’re turning this into, I’m… Listen. You came to me. I’m doing what you asked.”
I liked that she was flustered.
“I know,” I managed, and took a deep breath of relief. Nice when the words rolled off my uncooperative tongue without a fight. Rare, but nice.
“Also, smiling helps. Smile really big, then relax.” She demonstrated. Then she puffed up her cheeks and let them go. This was the most ridiculous display I’d ever seen. So why did she look so freaking cute doing it?
“Don’t be nervous. Just try it.”
“I’m n-… I’m n-n-…” I gave up.
She lifted to sit on her knees, her palms resting on her denim-covered legs. “Let’s start with the straw. There’s no talking involved with that one.”
I hated the gentle quality of her voice and more, the pity in her eyes. I snatched the water bottle, twisted off the lid, and took a slug.
“Not all of it!” She tried to stop me, but I swung out of reach.
Then I drained every last drop of water in the bottle down my throat.
“Thanks a lot. Now what are we supposed to do with the straws?”
I had a few suggestions, not that I could fucking say any of them. I crushed the bottle and tossed it onto the blanket like a gauntlet. There. That takes care of the straws.
Her eyes narrowed with determination.
I had a feeling she wasn’t giving up just yet.
Chapter Eight
Tasha
Cade was visibly nervous, his fingers twitching a frustrated rhythm on his leg. I thought of Moira’s assessment that his problem was in his head, which I agreed with, in part. The change of scenery had not improved his attitude. When he was angry or when anxiety crept in, his stutter worsened.
I wasn’t done trying yet, but he didn’t need to know that.
Pretending I changed my mind, I packed the straws and books back into my bag. He watched me, suspicious. He should be. I’d arrived at a theory of sorts. He spoke clearly when he was close to me. In the bathroom at Oak & Sage, and again at my house, he’d spoken just fine. Sure, it’d only been a word or two each time, but I was on to something.