Kiss Me Now - A Billionaire Boss Romance

By the end of the day, Lark and I stepped aside to talk about the decision in hushed whispers, and I was bright-eyed with enthusiasm. “It’s got to be her,” I insisted.

“You know best,” he told me, with a wink. “But, if you asked my opinion, I’d agree.” Then he called Sheryl for me, to talk her into the idea.

I was grateful for his unyielding support. I’m grateful for Sheryl’s, too, although during my few phone conversations with her, I always come away feeling nauseous with guilt.

She doesn’t know about Lark and me yet. Lark keeps asking me when we can tell her. He doesn’t want to sneak around anymore. He wants to be able to declare his affection for me out in the open.

But I can’t stop thinking about the lunch I had with Sheryl. The promise I made her. There’s nothing between me and him. It was a lie then, and it’s become a worse one now.

So, before we break the news, I wanted to get myself right. See this therapist, talk through my own past issues. Maybe then I’ll be up to facing the truth, to going official with Lark before the whole world.

With one more deep breath, I start up the steps into the office. There are at least half a dozen floors, and the map inside the entrance is confusing as hell. I wind up wandering in circles down the end of one hallway, completely lost. The floor map says I’m looking for room 312, but this is room 305, and the corridor dead-ends here. Behind me are rooms 300-305, and beyond that just the elevator bank.

With a suppressed groan, I get ready to double back, when one of the doors nearby creaks open half an inch. There’s a woman standing in the doorway with her back to me, talking.

“I think we really made some great progress today,” she’s saying, in that voice I’ve come to recognize as the TV therapists’ voice. Calm and soothing.

The door that’s partially open reads Marital Counseling in black block letters, along with the name of a therapist beneath it, a Dr. Ann Latrobe.

“Just work on the exercises I’ve assigned to you, and I’ll see you both back here next week,” she continues, still audible as I cross past the door and continue up the hallway, most of my attention focused on the door numbers, searching for my own entrance.

Someone within the room, a man, murmurs quietly, followed by another woman, and then the door fully opens, the doctor’s bright voice growing louder in the hallway behind me.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson,” she’s saying.

My heart skids in my chest. Leaps into my throat.

But I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. It’s a common name, after all. There are probably dozens of Andersons in this city alone.

Except then I hear the reply. In a low, devastatingly familiar voice. “We’ll see you next week, same time.”

No. My feet have stopped moving. I realize I should keep walking, get out of sight. But I can’t force myself to step forward, can’t force my legs to function. I’ve forgotten all about the room I’m looking for, or in fact why I’m even here myself. All I can think about is that voice.

And the other, soft feminine voice that joins in a moment later. “That went well, I thought. Don’t you?”

I can’t hear the mumbled reply through the rushing sound in my ears. But I do register the footsteps starting up the tile floors in my direction, at the far end of the hallway. Finally, belatedly, I spur myself into motion, moving faster than I could explain, if anyone were to stop me at this point.

I don’t care. The last thing I want to do is be caught here like this. Spying. Overhearing something I’m clearly not meant to overhear.

I make it to the elevator bank without incident, and hurry toward the opposite wing on the far side of the hall. Rooms 306-315, like a total idiot I failed to notice that on my first trip through this hall. Which is why I wound up overhearing something I wasn’t meant to hear, seeing something I shouldn’t have seen.

There’s a reflective mirror opposite the elevator bank. Just before I duck around the far corner, I catch a single glimpse in it.

Behind me, at the far end of the hallway, I glimpse Sheryl and Lark walking side-by-side. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, fresh out of marriage counseling. And, apparently, very much not divorced.

I can still hear him at the windswept beach he took me to, the beach where he claimed he’d never brought anyone else. I don’t want any secrets between us anymore, he said, his voice a low thrum, so real I can almost feel his breath against my neck, warm at the edge of my ear.