Show Time (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies #1) - Tawna Fenske Page 0,99
interested in her, even if the subject itself isn’t something that interests you. Something like, ‘how do you decide what you want your hair to look like on any given day?’ Or maybe you could focus on how she feels about her beauty routine.”
“How she feels about her beauty routine?” He shakes his head and grimaces down at the table. “Christ, I’m not cut out for this.”
His voice is rough, but when he meets my eyes again, his are filled with an unexpected softness. He’s trying, he really is. He wants to get this right, and I want that for him very much.
I flip open the packet, careful to maintain eye contact. We’re making progress, and I don’t want to derail that.
“You could try taking the pressure off a little,” I tell him. “Maybe suggesting a game that lets conversation flow more naturally. Or what about a book of questions that you take turns asking one another?”
He shrugs. “I tried that once. The book thing, I mean. I asked stuff like, ‘if you could take a one-month vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go?’ or ‘tell me what you like best and least about your life.’”
“Those are terrific.” I’m seriously impressed he took the initiative. “How did it go?”
Griffin frowns down at the table again. “She rolled her eyes and shut the bedroom door in my face.”
Ouch.
This is worse than I thought. I’m debating how best to broach the subject of emotionally abusive relationships, but Griffin’s on a roll now. He looks up, blue eyes earnest and a little melancholy.
“The thing is, I’ve tried reaching out. Like, buying her gifts and stuff?”
“Oh?” I swallow back my judgements, knowing he needs to be heard. “How did that go?”
“Not great.” He snorts. “Probably my fault. How the fuck was I supposed to know stuffed animals aren’t cool?”
“Um, well.” Yikes, what do I do with that? “When a gift is given with good intentions and love—”
“And seriously, I’ve tried talking with her about her period because I know that’s a thing, and God knows I don’t want her getting bad information from friends, but she shuts me out completely. It’s like I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t, you know?”
I stare at him. This is the first time in seven years of private practice that I’ve honestly been at a loss for words.
“Griffin.” I say his name slowly, stretching it out, stalling for time as a faint buzz begins in the back of my brain. Something’s off here.
“Yeah?”
“Are we—” Lord, where do I start? “Um, well. That is, do you think it’s possible we’re having two different conversations?”
He frowns. “What the hell conversation do you think we’re having?”
The buzz in my brain grows louder; hornets, maybe. It’s dawning on me that I may have just stepped in the world’s largest pile of excrement. “I thought,” I begin carefully, “that we were having a conversation about improving your skills talking to women.”
Griffin stares at me. “Women? Like—to date?”
My brain rewinds with a squeal as I scramble to figure out where I got off track. I glance down at the first page of his packet, scanning for anything to help me dig out of this hole.
It hits me like a tire iron to the forehead.
“Sophie!” I shout, slapping my palm on the table so hard he jumps. “Your twelve-year-old daughter, Sophie.”
He stares at me, unblinking, unflinching. I’m braced for him to stand up and walk out of this room. He has every right to.
Hell, he’d be entitled to his feelings if he threw in the towel right now and quit the show. God knows I’ve given him zero reason to think his emotional well-being is in good hands.
But instead, a slow, warm smile spreads over his face. Then a sound bubbles up, so deep, so unexpectedly musical, that it takes me a moment to identify it as laughter.
He’s laughing. Griffin Walsh is laughing.
“Huh,” he says, scratching his chin again. He’s still smiling, and ohmylord the man has dimples. “That’s pretty damn funny.”
I try to smile back, but I’m mortified. Never, in all my years as a psychologist, has anything like this happened.
“I’m so sorry.”
For misinterpreting his question about girls. For making assumptions. For a million other things including the way my heart is flinging itself against my ribcage like a rabid bird.
“Truly, I apologize,” I continue. “If you’d like, we could discontinue this session and—”
“Hey, Doc?”
I swallow hard, tasting shame on the back of my tongue. Shame and the unmistakable, irrefutable