Read Online Broken Heart 08 Must Love Lycans by Michele Bardsley - Free Book Online
Authors: Michele Bardsley
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man that I couldn’t help but feel intimidated by his nearness. He was dressed in a gray suit with a striped tie, no doubt for our dinner date, and I had to admit, his spicy cologne was rather nice. He uttered, “Goddamnit.” Then he stepped back. “I’ll call Dr. Ruthers.”
I shook my head. “I’ll put on some antibiotic ointment and bandage it. I’ll be fine.”
Jarred quirked a brow. He removed his cell phone and pressed one button. “Dr. Ruthers, please come to Kelsey Morningstone’s suite. She’s been bitten by a werewolf.” He ended the call and stuck the phone back into his jacket pocket.
“Yeah. Funny,” I said. “It’s nice that you take Damian’s case so seriously.”
“Believe me, Kelsey, I take Damian’s case very seriously.” He reached into an upper cabinet and pulled down an elaborate bottle with a gold spiral around it. In another cabinet, he pulled down two snifters.
I looked at him, surprised. “I had no idea those were in there.”
“I stocked the kitchen for you. It doesn’t look like you use it much.”
“I don’t cook.”
“I’ll get you a chef,” he said as he handed me the glass. “Then you won’t have to.”
I didn’t particularly want alcohol to soothe my jangled nerves. I thought the whole gesture was rather cliché, but with Jarred staring at me expectantly, I took a small sip.
I grimaced. “Ew. That’s yucky!”
His eyes went wide, and he nearly choked on the drink he’d just taken.
I put the glass on the counter. “I don’t think I’m a brandy kind of girl.”
“If you can’t enjoy a one-hundred-twenty-year-old brandy with a seven-thousand-dollar price tag,” he managed hoarsely, “then no, you are not a brandy kind of girl.”
I studied the bottle, wondering why on earth he would spend so much money on such a silly thing. “Maybe you can get your money back.”
He shook his head. “On my soul, I will never tell the Frapin family that you called their Cuveé 1888 ‘yucky.’ ”
I shrugged. “It’s your liver.”
He put his glass next to the one I’d abandoned. Once again, he moved very close to me, leaning a hip against the counter. He reached out and curled a strand of my hair around his forefinger. “You are not impressed by the trappings of wealth.”
“I used to measure my success by the amount and quality of possessions I acquired.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m beholden to a man trapped in his wealth.”
He actually chuckled. His eyes crinkled in a way that made me think he had once been a man who laughed easily. I wondered what had happened to him to make him so closed off. He let my hair drop. Then he crossed his arms, his enigmatic gaze on mine. “I won’t allow you to quit.”
My mouth dropped open. He’d discerned my intent before the idea had fully formed. Hadn’t that really been what my mind had been circling around? My heart just hadn’t caught up. Once he said the words, however, I knew quitting this job, hell, quitting as a psychotherapist altogether, was exactly what I needed to do. I had never felt in charge of my own life. Part of it was because my mother was controlling—always pushing me toward the goals she thought I should accomplish. Still. I was twenty-eight years old. I could hardly keep blaming my mommy issues. Okay, I could, but I wouldn’t. The other part, of course, was my fear. What would I do if I wasn’t a therapist?
I couldn’t think of a thing.
It was scary to look at a road stretching out in front of me, endless and spiraling with no familiar landmarks.
After all I’d been through, I was still a coward.
“It’s not your choice,” I finally said. “You would think after I let a serial killer loose, I would’ve gotten the universal hint that I shouldn’t be a therapist.”
“What Robert Mallard did was not your fault.”
“It was, actually.”
He considered me for a long moment. I was feeling too tired to defend my position on anything else, and the pain of my injury
I shook my head. “I’ll put on some antibiotic ointment and bandage it. I’ll be fine.”
Jarred quirked a brow. He removed his cell phone and pressed one button. “Dr. Ruthers, please come to Kelsey Morningstone’s suite. She’s been bitten by a werewolf.” He ended the call and stuck the phone back into his jacket pocket.
“Yeah. Funny,” I said. “It’s nice that you take Damian’s case so seriously.”
“Believe me, Kelsey, I take Damian’s case very seriously.” He reached into an upper cabinet and pulled down an elaborate bottle with a gold spiral around it. In another cabinet, he pulled down two snifters.
I looked at him, surprised. “I had no idea those were in there.”
“I stocked the kitchen for you. It doesn’t look like you use it much.”
“I don’t cook.”
“I’ll get you a chef,” he said as he handed me the glass. “Then you won’t have to.”
I didn’t particularly want alcohol to soothe my jangled nerves. I thought the whole gesture was rather cliché, but with Jarred staring at me expectantly, I took a small sip.
I grimaced. “Ew. That’s yucky!”
His eyes went wide, and he nearly choked on the drink he’d just taken.
I put the glass on the counter. “I don’t think I’m a brandy kind of girl.”
“If you can’t enjoy a one-hundred-twenty-year-old brandy with a seven-thousand-dollar price tag,” he managed hoarsely, “then no, you are not a brandy kind of girl.”
I studied the bottle, wondering why on earth he would spend so much money on such a silly thing. “Maybe you can get your money back.”
He shook his head. “On my soul, I will never tell the Frapin family that you called their Cuveé 1888 ‘yucky.’ ”
I shrugged. “It’s your liver.”
He put his glass next to the one I’d abandoned. Once again, he moved very close to me, leaning a hip against the counter. He reached out and curled a strand of my hair around his forefinger. “You are not impressed by the trappings of wealth.”
“I used to measure my success by the amount and quality of possessions I acquired.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m beholden to a man trapped in his wealth.”
He actually chuckled. His eyes crinkled in a way that made me think he had once been a man who laughed easily. I wondered what had happened to him to make him so closed off. He let my hair drop. Then he crossed his arms, his enigmatic gaze on mine. “I won’t allow you to quit.”
My mouth dropped open. He’d discerned my intent before the idea had fully formed. Hadn’t that really been what my mind had been circling around? My heart just hadn’t caught up. Once he said the words, however, I knew quitting this job, hell, quitting as a psychotherapist altogether, was exactly what I needed to do. I had never felt in charge of my own life. Part of it was because my mother was controlling—always pushing me toward the goals she thought I should accomplish. Still. I was twenty-eight years old. I could hardly keep blaming my mommy issues. Okay, I could, but I wouldn’t. The other part, of course, was my fear. What would I do if I wasn’t a therapist?
I couldn’t think of a thing.
It was scary to look at a road stretching out in front of me, endless and spiraling with no familiar landmarks.
After all I’d been through, I was still a coward.
“It’s not your choice,” I finally said. “You would think after I let a serial killer loose, I would’ve gotten the universal hint that I shouldn’t be a therapist.”
“What Robert Mallard did was not your fault.”
“It was, actually.”
He considered me for a long moment. I was feeling too tired to defend my position on anything else, and the pain of my injury
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