Gabe and Lauren’s hope for a storyline about a divorced man seeking a second chance at love. A rough-around-the-edges beer guy with a heart of gold, seeks sweet, sunshiney shop owner or hairdresser or—
“Is it conversation in general you struggle with, or just the small talk?” I ask.
He frowns, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. It’s just—” The frown deepens, and he drums his long fingers on the table. “I feel like I’ve lost this ability to communicate, you know?”
“Ah,” I say. “So, this is a more recent struggle?”
Brow furrowed, he nods once. “Yeah, I guess. Like she’ll act a certain way and sometimes I just want to put her over my knee and paddle her backside until—”
“Oh.” I drop my pen, struggling not to show surprise. It’s something I’ve prided myself on as a therapist, my ability to keep a straight face no matter what a patient says.
But Griffin Walsh is throwing me off my game.
“Well, certainly that’s understandable.” I pick up my pen again, then set it back on the table. The last thing he needs is a fear that I’m writing this down. “We all have things we want to do. Basic urges. Needs.”
Kill me now.
Griffin’s staring at me like I just licked the table, so I straighten in my chair. “My point is that there’s no shame in having those kinds of thoughts.”
He frowns. “I wouldn’t really do it. I mean, spanking—that was never my thing. It’s a figure of speech.”
The room feels blazingly hot, or maybe that’s my face. Should I reassure him these desires are totally normal, or talk about consent? He’s looking at me like I have answers, and I’m not sure I remember my own name.
Some therapist you are.
I clear my throat. “Let’s start with the basics,” I say. “Strategies for initiating more productive conversations.”
“How do you mean?”
I tap my pen on the table, then realize I’ve picked it up again. When did that happen?
“How about dinner?” I say. “Or coffee. Something simple to set the stage and give you both something to talk about. Or beer, how about beer?”
Besides being a master brewer, he’s a cicerone, which I had to google after reading his application. It’s like a wine sommelier, only for beer snobs. Surely that gives him plenty of fodder for conversation.
“Beer,” he repeats, frowning. “You mean talking about it or drinking it?”
“Either, really.” Anything to get him to open up. “Maybe both.”
Griffin shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Fair enough.” Also, interesting. Maybe his love interest is in recovery, or not a beer fan. It isn’t my place to judge. “I agree that alcohol consumption comes with its own set of challenges in social settings.”
Lord knows I’ve done my share of dumb things. I start out sipping chardonnay, desperate to have something to do with my hands at girls’ nights or family gatherings. But instead of lowering my inhibitions, it just makes me awkward.
More awkward.
It’s really hot in here.
“Have you tried asking questions?” I’m still fishing in my bag, and I resist the urge to cheer as my fingers close around the info packet. “Maybe even starting with a list. Easy topics for conversation that you can prepare ahead of time so you have them handy when you need them.”
There’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. He nods slowly, a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead. I set his packet on the table, then sit on my hands to keep from reaching across to brush back his hair.
“Yeah, that’s good,” he says. “What kinds of questions?”
“Ask about her interests.” We’re back on safe ground, so I’m warming to the subject. “What sort of things is she into?”
Griffin looks down at the table, chiseled jaw clenching. “Makeup,” he mutters. “And hair. She’s always messing around with it. Curling it and then flattening it out with this weird clampy thing.”
“Careful with the judgment words,” I caution, even though I’m with him on that one. What is it with this societal pressure for women to make their hair do the opposite of whatever it’s naturally inclined to do?
Like you didn’t glam it up for the cameras.
I take a deep breath and order myself to focus. “I totally understand that makeup and hair care may not be in your wheelhouse.”
“You think?” The faintest hint of a smile tugs those full lips, and my stomach rolls over like a very good dog.
“Right.” I clear my throat. “But the point is to ask questions that show you’re