Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“What do you expect from me?” I ask when she doesn’t answer the first question.
“Nothing. You’re welcome to speak freely or say nothing at all.”
I close my eyes again, choosing the second option, and that’s how it goes for the next hour.
The room is so calm and quiet, I jolt when she speaks again.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bremen. I look forward to seeing you again next week.”
As I leave her office, I realize that being stuck in my head thinking about all that has gone wrong in my life recently may have actually been worse than spending the actual hour talking to her.
I’m agitated when I leave the room, and even the sight of Brooks sitting on the couch doesn’t help improve my mood. He’s just one more reminder that my entire life has gone to shit.
Chapter 5
Brooks
I wonder if there is ever a time that Archer is genuinely happy. When he steps out of Dr. Kent’s office with a scowl on his face, I can’t help but wonder what they talked about.
I didn’t attempt to listen because the time someone spends with their therapist is sacred. I wouldn’t want someone to do that to me, but it has left me curious because he seems more pissed off than he did when he entered the room.
“I have to come here every week?” is the first thing he asks when I stand from the sofa.
“That’s how therapy works. Are you ready to go?”
“Since the moment we arrived,” he hisses, but the man doesn’t storm out, and I know that has more to do with the people still hovering outside than anything.
Archer’s face changes the second my hand hits the exit door. Instead of the scowl and irritation, that smile is back in place, beaming for the world to see. We’ve all done it, made other people believe things were perfectly fine when we were dying inside, and it cuts into me a little seeing that drastic change in him. It makes me wonder just how long Archer Bremen has been faking being happy.
Just like I did on the way inside, I press myself close to him and guide him out of the building.
The ridiculous and instigative questions bombard us once again. I stay silent. Archer keeps on smiling although I feel his muscles tense with each shout meant to gain a reaction from him. I pull my arm from around his back and slide my hand into his, squeezing just a little to give him some reassurance. He squeezes back, his palm growing clammier with each step we take. His smile is completely gone by the time we make it to the passenger side of my SUV.
I stand to the side when he opens his own door, and I realize we need to have a conversation about what type of partner he wants me to be in public. I was prepared to open the door for him, but he seemed eager to do it himself. I have a protocol to follow, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be adjusted based on his needs. I’d never second-guess opening a door for a guy I was hired to provide basic security for, and I don’t know why I’m second-guessing it now.
He doesn’t say a word after I climb inside, so I don’t bother engaging in conversation either. I’m relieved when he pulls out his phone rather than trying to change the radio station like he did the entire drive to the office.
I should probably ask him if there’s anywhere else he needs to stop, but I arrow the vehicle back toward his house, noting more than one photographer jumping into their own cars to follow us.
Wren put the alert out on some online channel paps follow for celebrity sightings. It’s not like Blackbridge Security called them and gave them a heads-up, so they can’t exactly be called off either.
I take a few extra turns, checking to see whether they’re following or just moving on to the next story. By the time I make the sixth unnecessary turn, none of them are behind us.
“We make a cute couple,” Archer says, turning his phone to show me a picture.
I’m not at all surprised to see a shot of us hugging in the middle of the parking lot, Archer’s face buried in my neck It probably went online before he entered Dr. Kent’s inner office.
“How did I not know your hand was on my ass?” I mumble before turning my attention back to the road.
The man chuckles but doesn’t answer me.
I pull up outside of Archer’s house without killing the engine, thinking I may need to schedule my own therapy session with all the confusion going through my head with today’s events.
I stayed professional at the sight of him trying to get a reaction out of me when I walked into his room and saw him with his dick in his hand, but my heart was pounding a mile a minute in my chest.