Most of All You: A Love Story(18)

Kayla stood. “Well, I’ve got a dance in fifteen minutes. I gotta go get ready.” She hugged me. “Thanks for the talk.”

“Anytime,” I murmured. Kayla left, shutting the door behind her. I stood there for a few moments, attempting to find my equilibrium, to form that protective shell around myself. Memories of my mother, along with the confusing feelings Gabriel brought up in me, made me feel raw, as if I’d turned my skin inside out, and I had the brief, intense desire to cry. Cry. The feeling shocked me. When was the last time I’d cried? I really couldn’t remember. I wasn’t a crier. Why cry when it solved nothing? Why be like her? My mother had been a crier. She’d cried all the damn time, and what had it gotten her in the end? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I grabbed my sweatshirt and pulled it on over my costume, took a deep, shaky breath, and walked out of my dressing room, toward the lap-dance room. When I opened the door, Gabriel was standing by the couch. He was wearing a T-shirt this time rather than the button-down shirts he wore the first two times he’d been here. In one sweeping gaze, I took in his tanned arms, the contours of his muscles, his broad shoulders—not the efforts of a gym rat, but the slim, defined body of a man who used his muscles as he worked. It surprised me to notice at all. Somewhere along the line, men’s bodies had all started looking the same to me. Fat, skinny, well built … what did it matter? They all used them the same way: to inflict pain on others, and to take pleasure for themselves.

Gabriel startled slightly at my abrupt entrance and then smiled, that warm, open smile that put me on edge. But his smile faded when he saw me. “Hey, is everything all right?”

I realized I was frowning and forced a smile. “Of course.”

He brought his hand up and presented a small bouquet of white flowers, holding them out to me. “I brought these for you.”

I stared at them for a moment. “You don’t have to bring me flowers, sugar. You just have to bring me cash.” His smile wilted, and he brought one hand to the back of his neck, massaging it as he grimaced slightly. “I told myself it was a stupid idea. I just passed them as I was walking to my truck and I thought of you.”

“You thought of me when you saw flowers?” I scoffed softly. “Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before.”

His cheekbones had taken on a pink tinge. I knew I was embarrassing and hurting him, and something small and mean inside me took satisfaction in it. I tried to hang on to the shallow feeling, but the remorse that rose up instead overwhelmed it, and I turned my face away momentarily so he couldn’t see the regret in my eyes. When I turned back, he was setting the flowers down on the arm of the couch. A rejected gift.

“Ready to get started?” My voice sounded empty and sort of hollow.

He paused, his brow creasing. “Sure. But is it okay if we just talk for a little bit?”

I sighed. I was about all talked out. “All right. What do you want to talk about?” I sat down on the couch and he sat down, too, in the same positions we’d started out in the last time.

He smiled, turning toward me and putting his palms on his knees. I studied his hands for a moment, laid out flat like that. I couldn’t help thinking how beautiful they were for a man, his fingers long and graceful, his skin smooth and tanned. “How has your day been?”

“Just peachy.” I crossed my legs, and his eyes followed the movement. He swallowed, his cheekbones flushing very slightly again. “How about you, sugar? How’s your day been going?”

He stared at me for a moment in that assessing way, like he wanted to know all my deepest secrets. Some sort of desperation pooled in my belly. “Not too bad,” he finally murmured. “Good now. I’m happy to see you.”

I laughed, a shaky sound. “Well, if I’m the best part of your day, it couldn’t have been very good, sugar.”

His brow creased again and he tilted his head. “Why do you say that?”

I shrugged, examining a fingernail. “Do you want to get started, or not? I hate to waste your therapy time.”

“What’s wrong? Please tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, but it came out too high-pitched. It sounded wrong and strangely far away. “Please, Gabe, can we just get started? I want to help you.”

He studied me again, his expression filled with so much compassion it made me feel raw and vulnerable all over again. Needy. Why did he have to look at me that way? I didn’t know how to react to that look. It made me want to run away, hightail it out of this room.

“I want to help you, too,” he said softly.

I laughed then, and it sounded cold and bitter, even to my own ears. “But I haven’t asked for your help, Gabe.”

“No, you haven’t. But I can be a friend. We could go for coffee and talk. Somewhere other than here.”

I shook my head. “You’re not my friend. You’re a client. And you’re paying me.” My hands felt shaky, and I pressed them down on the leather couch to the sides of my thighs.

His gaze traveled from my hands to my eyes, and he gave me a small smile. “Then you can buy my coffee. I might even have a slice of pie, too. Your treat.” He tilted his head and gazed at me imploringly, so sweetly flirtatious. I stared back, a fluttering between my ribs, knowing somehow that he wasn’t even aware of his appeal.