He stepped around Rosie and opened the door for her, trying to be subtle about taking in a lungful of her perfume. Coconut. The gold bottle with a crystal pineapple on top was still sitting on her dresser in their bedroom, so she must have sprayed some on at work. As she moved past him into the building, Dominic looked for the pulse in her neck and was pleased to see it pumping quickly. Beat-beat-beat. The proof of her awareness gave him enough hope to follow behind her into . . . the sixties.
Dominic came to a dead stop just inside the door and cursed under his breath. No. This couldn’t be real. Each wall boasted a different mural, and if he wasn’t mistaken, they were trying to celebrate the four elements. Earth, wind, water, and fire. A mélange of blues flowed into a nature scene, then erupted into flames, only to be blown apart by a cloud. With a face. A chandelier of purple feathers hung from the ceiling, so long it almost reached the floor. A bubble machine sent sprays of floating orbs throughout the room, and soft music played, some kind of combination of xylophones and harps.
“I had no idea you hated me this much, Rosie.”
Was it his imagination or did she almost smile? Warmth in the center of his chest caught him off guard and he found himself needing to see that smile again.
“I didn’t know it was going to be quite so . . . colorful,” she murmured. “The reviews online were overwhelmingly positive.”
Dominic turned in a circle, finding his rear end mere inches from a giant snap dragon plant and stepping away before it took a bite out of his ass. “There’s a good chance his patients were high when they wrote those reviews,” he muttered. “And one of them must be his decorator.”
A laugh bubbled out of her, but she silenced it immediately, seeming almost surprised he could still get that reaction from her. How long had it been since he’d made her laugh? When no amount of mental searching landed him on an answer, his throat grew tighter.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly after a few seconds. “Maybe there’s a method to the madness. In a place like this . . . how could anything we say be embarrassing?”
With a frown, he opened his mouth to ask what she could possibly be embarrassed about, but a door on the other side of the room burst open. Pungent marijuana smoke drifted out around a bald man in sandals and a Green Party T-shirt.
Dominic took Rosie’s hand and pulled her toward the exit, but she dug in her heels. “You’re free to leave,” she said.
“Not without you,” he gritted out, all too aware that the stoned hippie was strutting in their direction as if his hips were detached. “We can find someone else.”
“I like it here.”
“Jesus Christ, I forgot how stubborn you are.”
“That’s because I haven’t been in a long time.”
Dominic’s mouth snapped shut. He wanted to take her face in his hands and dig into that statement before it drove him insane, but a hand settled on his shoulder. “Believe it or not, Team Vega, your reaction to my waiting room is not uncommon.”
“Team Vega?” Rosie asked, waving away a waft of smoke.
“Yes. That’s correct.” The man clasped his hands together. “We have four sessions scheduled. During that time, we are all Team Vega. Rebuilding what is broken will be a collective effort. It will be daunting at times. But there’s some good news.”
“Enlighten us,” Dominic said drily.
The man nodded. “At the end of our four sessions, we should have an idea whether this marriage is worth saving.” His eyes ticked back and forth between Rosie and Dominic. “I can already see we have conflicting opinions on that matter.” Before Dominic could question the therapist’s observation, the man stepped back and gave a slight bow. “I’m Armie Tagart. You can call me Daddy.”
Dominic tried to pull Rosie out the door again.
“Only kidding,” Armie called on his way into the back room. “Follow me into the epicenter of healing, if you would be so kind.” He paused in the doorway. “That’s not a joke. I really call it that.”
There were times a woman admitted she was wrong. This wasn’t one of those times. She was going to brazen this rash decision out if it killed her. Rosie had come home from the gym Sunday morning, her muscles locked with unfulfilled need, and she’d fired off an email to the most woo-woo-sounding marriage counselor on Long Island. Just to spite the man who’d turned her into an addict for his body while withholding everything else.
Rosie lifted her chin and sailed into the back room of the therapist’s office, refusing to show an outward reaction to the lingering scent of pot. She didn’t have to make eye contact with Dominic to know he was the poster boy for skepticism. She could see his body language in her periphery as she looked right and left, searching for a place to sit.
“On the pillows,” Armie directed, indicating what appeared to be a blanket fort in the corner of the room. “Why not conduct our session in comfort?”
Having no choice but to soldier on, Rosie set down her purse on the corner of Armie’s desk and crossed the room, dropping into a cross-legged position on a crocheted heart pillow. When Dominic made no move to join her, she arched an eyebrow at him and he sighed, toeing aside a stuffed crocodile and taking a place beside her.
Armie draped himself across the remaining pillows like Cleopatra preparing for a repast of grapes. “A little bit about me, before we start. Like I said, I’m Armie Tagart. I’ve been counseling troubled couples on Long Island for thirty years. I have no idea about my success rate, because I don’t believe in weighing wins and losses. These are feelings we’re dealing with. Hearts, minds, and expectations. They’re messy and complicated.”
He scratched the top of his bald head. “My methods are unorthodox. They might make you uncomfortable from time to time—and that’s the point. To push past the limits of what you think yourself capable of as a partner and human being.” A beat passed. “Nothing leaves the safe space of this room. Nothing you can say will shock me or make me think less of you. We’re here for a common purpose. To save this marriage. And get high as hell.” He pointed at Dominic, who was preparing to launch a protest. “I’m kidding. Lighten up, brother.”
Rosie covered her mouth to trap a laugh. Dominic glanced over, appearing almost fascinated by her laugh, and his scowl cleared.
“Interesting,” Armie murmured. “Face each other, please. We’re going to begin by reintroducing your energies.”
Rosie and Dominic remained unmoving.
Armie chuckled. “Sometimes we become so wrapped up in a routine, we forget to look each other in the eye. When was the last time you had even ten seconds of solid eye contact?”
“In bed or out?” Rosie said, heat staining her cheeks.
“Again I say, interesting.” Armie made a wishy-washy sound. “Out of bed.”
“Ten seconds of eye contact?” she whispered. “I can’t remember.”
Dominic sighed. “No one does that.”
“We used to,” she said, her memory zeroing in on one hazy evening in particular. They’d climbed to the roof of the school during summer vacation. She’d locked her thighs around his waist, her forearms propped on his wide shoulders. With the sun warming their skin and a breeze cooling it, they’d looked into each other’s eyes so long they’d lost track of time.