Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I get out of bed to close the curtains. It’s been raining ever since our foraging excursion, but the skies are clearing now. The moon is visible, just beyond the cedar tops, almost full, with fast-moving clouds passing over it like gauze. I stare at it for a moment, feeling a strange sense of wonder, of feeling plugged in and drawn to it, when movement below catches my eye.
I glance down to see someone underneath my window. He’s shaped like Kincaid, but with the moon behind him, I can’t see his face.
Yet I know he’s looking at me.
His cigarette glows once, and then he turns and disappears into the trees, the puddles rippling in his wake.
“Just out on your nightly walk,” I say softly.
CHAPTER 8
I’m nervous.
It’s my first counseling session with Kincaid, and I have no idea what to expect. I’m standing outside the north dorm, under the slight overhang of the roof, trying to stay out of the drizzle, but I can’t quite make myself open the door and walk inside the building.
It doesn’t help that I saw him again outside my window last night, but I should be grateful it didn’t result in another sex dream. In fact, I slept pretty well and didn’t wake up until my alarm went off. I still feel tired though. All the coffee at breakfast didn’t help; neither did the toast and peanut butter I pecked at like a bird, much to Lauren’s amusement.
I take in a deep breath and step inside the building. It’s warm in here, smelling of woodsmoke. There’s a long hallway with a handful of doors, and at the end, it looks like it opens up to a small common room, similar to the one in the main lodge.
I slowly walk down the hall until I find a door that says Dr. Wes Kincaid.
You don’t have to tell him anything, I remind myself. Showing up is mandatory. Showing yourself isn’t.
I rap on his door.
“Come in,” comes his now familiar voice.
I turn the handle and step inside. His office is dark, venetian blinds over the windows that are half-shuttered. Bookshelves crammed with books line all the walls, along with several diplomas, and artifacts that seem to be collected from a bunch of cultures: a lacquered vase, a broken pot, a small Peruvian statue. It smells good, like santal, and I spot an incense holder on one shelf, as well as various candles.
He’s standing at his desk, staring at something white and square in his hands that he quickly slips into his pocket before he takes his seat and finally meets my eyes.
“Please, come in. Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of the desk.
I walk across the room, my shoes squeaking on the hardwood, feeling self-conscious. The worn leather creaks as I sit down in the chair.
He folds his hands over the desk, and I take note of his attire today, a grey button-up under a dark vest. He looks every bit the psychologist today, including his eyes, which are flicking over my body and face as if searching for something.
Unfortunately, his professional attire doesn’t make him any less sexy.
He clears his throat. “How are you?”
I shrug. “Can’t complain.”
His dark brow arches up. “Well, that is good to know. Before we start, I should tell you that I’m videotaping this session.” He points at a small web camera on the windowsill behind him.
“Don’t you need my permission for that?” I ask, my body stiffening, hating the idea of being on film.
His smile is stiff. “Not here, I don’t. You conceded to that in your NDA.”
“Do you have a copy of the NDA so I can double-check?” I ask grumpily. “Doesn’t seem fair that I have no computer access to check what I signed.”
“How about we get to that later. I only have an hour with you a week, and I want to make it worth my while.”
I sit back in my chair, my hackles up. It doesn’t matter how handsome he is, I’m going to be as stubborn as humanely possible for the next hour. Which, of course, isn’t easy when I have a tendency to blab about everything, especially when the subject is me.
“Tell me, Ms. Denik,” Kincaid says in his smooth voice. “Have you been sleeping well?”
“You would know,” I answer. “You’re the one who keeps standing outside my room at night.”
He splays his hands in innocence. “Merely my evening walk.”
“Right. Bear patrol.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yes. Someone has to keep you safe.”
“How long have you been working here?” I ask, looking around the room. “This place seems very lived-in. I like it.”
“Five years,” he says. “But we aren’t here to talk about me.”
“That’s a shame. You’re far more interesting than I am.”
A flash of something in his eyes, intense and unreadable. “That’s not true. You know it too. You know you’re special, Sydney.”