blocks away from The Wormhole, so she’d dropped by to tell her friend that the man they’d been ogling last weekend just happened to be her new neighbor.
And to vent.
“You should’ve seen him with his little press-and-crane routine. As if I am the person who overstepped boundaries here, when he’s the one sawing through walls and has women coming and going at all hours of the night, waking me up and knocking on my door.” She caught Rachel’s look. “What?”
Standing behind the counter while folding jeans, Rachel appeared amused. “I think the whole thing’s hysterical.”
“Yes, well, you don’t have to live next to the guy.”
“We are talking about the same man from the bar, right? Gorgeous, dark hair, a smoldering gaze that promises hours of dirty, mind-blowing sex? Yeah, it’s a real hardship having to sleep ten feet from him.”
Victoria shot her a wry look as she passed by a dress rack. “You forgot annoying, smug, and— Ooh, I love that dress.” Her attention temporarily diverted, she checked out a red, polka-dotted, vintage-inspired shirtdress.
“We’re flying through that one,” Rachel said. “I don’t have your size in the store, but we should be getting in more next week. Want me to put one aside for you?”
“Have I ever mentioned how much I love having a best friend who owns a clothing store?” Victoria checked her watch. “Shoot. I have to get going. I have this . . . thing this afternoon.” She was deliberately vague, not wanting to get into the whole Dr. Metzel, Girl-You-Have-a-Panic-Disorder saga.
Not that she was embarrassed to tell Rachel and Audrey about the teeny, tiny issues she’d been having ever since the break-in.
Okay, she was a little embarrassed.
Rachel raised an eyebrow, her tone sly. “A go-home-and-pretend-not-to-ogle-your-hot-neighbor thing?”
Ha, ha. “Not happening. Trust me, my press-and-crane days are over as far as that man is concerned.”
Forty minutes later, Victoria sat in Dr. Metzel’s office, in the same leather chair as last week.
“I couldn’t help but notice last time that you seemed hesitant when we talked about including psychotherapy as part of our sessions,” Dr. Metzel led in, after the obligatory chitchat part of the appointment was over.
And so it begins.
Now he would want to know why she didn’t like psychotherapy, and whether she had any experience with it, which would naturally lead into a discussion about her parents’ divorce and the aftermath.
“It’s not a process that comes naturally to me,” she acknowledged. “Putting all my feelings out there to be dissected and analyzed.” Ever since she was ten, she’d been pretty guarded with her emotions. Even when something was wrong, she’d sucked it up and kept her feelings to herself. Frankly, she hadn’t had much choice.
“Well, here’s the thing, Victoria,” Dr. Metzel said. “I want you to be as comfortable as possible during these sessions. So if having your feelings ‘dissected’—as you put it—isn’t something you’re ready for, why don’t we table that for now? Today, let’s focus instead on some breathing techniques and relaxation exercises that can help the next time you feel a potential panic attack coming on.” He smiled. “Sound okay?”
She hadn’t expected him to say that. The last time she’d done therapy, at her mother’s insistence, she’d felt pressured to talk even though the whole time she’d wanted nothing more than to move on.
She smiled slightly, exhaling in relief. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dr. Metzel folded his hands in his lap. “To start, we’re going to entirely change the way you’ve been breathing your whole life.”
All right. Now that she could handle.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, as Victoria sat on her bedroom floor, putting on her shoes to go for a jog, she heard a faint beeping sound.
She cocked her head, trying to place the noise. There it was again—coming from the direction of the wall she shared with Ford. She got up and climbed onto her bed, listening.
Beep.
Had the man left his alarm clock on? The beep didn’t sound quite that loud, although it would nonetheless be annoying if she had to listen to it all day.
The room fell momentarily quiet, so she pressed her ear up against the wall.
Huh. Nothing.
Suddenly, there was the loud whir of an electric drill right at her ear. With a yelp, she leapt off the bed and checked—no holes in her head, always a plus—and then glared at the wall.
Twenty seconds later, she knocked on the door of one Mr. F. Dixon.
After a brief pause, he threw open the door. Wearing a white T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest, jeans,