No One Else (The Ladies Who Brunch 2)

I spin to face him. “Excuse me?”

“Is a hug part of the package deal? Something included with your fees so your clients can feel love since they aren’t getting it from their partners?”

I’m floored. I didn’t think Ethan’s cockiness would allow him to stoop that low, but I guess I was wrong.

“For your information, and without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality, that young woman is not married. She’s actually overcoming severe trauma from the past year. She isn’t coming to me to save her marriage, and not that you deserve the right to know, but that’s not the only thing I do, Ethan.” I take a few steps toward him and poke a finger into his chest.

His eyes go wide as he realizes his mistake. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Fuck, Amelia, I’m…”

Holding my hand up in front of his face now, I cut him off, and thankfully he takes the hint. “Not every client I work with is married. Sometimes the point of therapy is about saving your own dignity, too, about trying to revive a healthy sexual relationship with yourself, or knowing that at least you tried everything in your power not to feel like you’re walking around with the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

He swallows. “I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. And hopefully, this will remind you that you never know what someone else is going through. You may never know how hard someone has fought for their relationship with someone else or themselves, so you’re better off saying nothing at all.”

And then I leave, retreat back into my office, and let disappointment come over me.

Ethan and I have both acted immaturely and out of character since we met, but that little comment just now was crossing the line. And I don’t want any more part in that.

Today was a reminder that what I do is far too important to worry about what he’s doing. And so from now on, I’m going to protect my clients and my job from him. Ethan Fuller no longer exists as far as I’m concerned.

* * *

“Amelia St. Clair?” A masculine voice pulls my attention from the file I’m reviewing in front of me. I stand from my desk and greet the delivery man who just entered my office.

“Yes. That’s me.”

“These are for you.” He sets two potted orchids down on the small coffee table in the front of my office, one yellow and one purple. “Can you sign here, please?”

I set the file on my desk and stride over to him, scribbling my name on his paper. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

As soon as he exits, I turn to study the flowers, caught off guard by this unexpected gift.

I love orchids. In fact, they’re my favorite flower. Back in college, Charlotte, Noelle, Penelope, and I went to get matching tattoos of our favorite flowers on our shoulders. It was a moment that solidified our friendship and reminded me that the bond we share is rare and delicate, just like orchids are.

However, I can’t imagine any of the girls sending these to me. It’s not my birthday, and there are two flowers here, not three. Usually, they will each send me something.

So who could these be from? I don’t see a card anywhere, and the delivery guy didn’t hand me anything.

But then it hits me—Brayden.

Tonight is our date, and he must have sent these to me in anticipation. But wouldn’t he have left a message if that were the case?

I don’t have much time to contemplate his intentions because my next client and her husband walk through the door just a few seconds later.

“Good morning, Dr. St. Clair.” Kelly and her husband, Drew, waltz in just a few minutes before their appointment.

“Good morning.”

Kelly instantly gravitates toward my delivery. “Aw, orchids. Such a beautiful flower.”

“I agree.” I move to grab their file from my desk, not wanting to waste any more time ruminating. “Are you two ready?”

Drew juts his thumb over his shoulder. “Are you aware there’s a divorce attorney right across the courtyard from you?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m well aware, unfortunately.”

“But you were here first, right?” He continues talking as we make our way back to the room where I hold my sessions.

“Yes.”

“Damn, what a dick,” he states bluntly.

And I can’t help but chuckle. “This may sound unprofessional, but I have to agree.”