Let it Show (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies Book 2)

by Tawna Fenske

  But weeks turned into months. Months turned into years. “Eventually, the visits stopped,” I continue. “Then the calls trickled to a minimum. Soph’s birthday and Christmas, that sort of thing. Gabby hardly asked any questions at all when I sent the legal paperwork for our move to Oregon.”

  “Wow.” Mari shakes her head. “I’m sorry you went through that. You and Soph both.”

  “We’re doing okay.” I think about our arrival at Juniper Ridge, how good it felt to leave my old life behind. “The fresh start has been good for us. A change of scenery where Soph’s not finding Gabby’s old things in closets or getting upset when her mother doesn’t show up on birthdays.”

  Mari holds eye contact for a long time. She re-crosses her legs, one knee brushing mine as she moves. It’s like a million little lightning bolts shooting up my thigh, and I have to breathe deep to keep from lunging for her.

  She licks her lips and something melts inside me. “Can I ask you something?” Her eyes hold mine, and I catch myself nodding before I think to put my guard up. “Why don’t you like wine?”

  I laugh, relieved that’s all she wants to know. “Just not a fan, I guess.”

  “I see.” She takes a sip from her glass, watching me like she expects me to spill all my secrets. To open up and share everything.

  For some strange reason, I do. “Gabby signed us up for this wine tasting class,” I explain. “I would have been okay with it. I mean, I like learning new things, and I already like plenty of cask-aged beers. It wouldn’t have been a stretch, but it was the way she went about it.”

  “How do you mean?” She sips from her wineglass, seemingly cool and relaxed, but there’s an odd bit of tension in her shoulders.

  “She didn’t ask first.” It sounds dumb when I put it that way, but there’s more to it. “She just informed me I needed to be more ‘refined,’ more ‘sophisticated,’ more like the people she’d met in Hollywood.” I realize I’m making air quotes with my fingers, which probably hammers home the fact that I was an asshole about it.

  “Anyway, I went to the classes,” I continue. “I learned about terroir and grape harvest and stuff. But I couldn’t shake the feeling she was just trying to fix me. To turn me into someone else, you know?”

  Mari nods, her gold and silver eyes suggesting she sees more than she’s letting on. “So you came to associate wine with being told you needed to change something about yourself.”

  “Exactly.” I never thought of it in those exact terms, but she nailed it. “Eventually, I sort of dug in my heels. Like—what, beer’s not good enough, so I’m not good enough? Which is dumb.”

  “It’s not dumb at all.” She sips the last of her wine and sets the glass down on the tray. “It’s a common response to have a period of rebellion following a breakup or life change. There’s this urge to do the opposite of what your previous partner or lifestyle required.”

  “That makes sense.” I glance at the tray of beverages. With a silly little hand flourish, I make a show of setting down my pint glass and picking up the remaining glass of wine. The first sip goes down easy, coating my tongue with lush notes of blackberry and cassis and a hint of citrus.

  No, that’s Mari’s shampoo again, the soft, citra hop scent filling my senses. God, she smells good.

  “Delicious.” I hold up the wineglass and pretend that’s what I’m talking about. “The wine. It’s really good.”

  She smiles and sets down her wine, then gestures to my abandoned pint glass. “May I try the pink beer?”

  “Raspberry Kolsch. You can have your own, if you like.”

  “I just want to try a sip.” She picks up the glass, and some primal part of me gets off on seeing her lips touch the same spot mine did. It’s so close to kissing, which is stupid.

  “Oh, wow.” She smiles and I feel it deep in my chest. “I really taste the raspberries.”

  “I just started playing with the formula. There’s thirty pounds of fresh berries in every batch.”

  “I like it.” She takes another sip. “I’m not just humoring you. I really like it.”

  “Good.” I try my wine again, surprised to discover I feel the same. It’s lush and warm, and I’m not sure why I’ve been depriving myself this long. “So is that why you stopped wearing all the fancy clothes you wore on TV?”

  Mari stares at me. “What?”

  Crap.

  “Sorry. That was a dumb leap. I meant—well, I mean I watched a little of your old television stuff. Shrink to the Stars and some appearances on daytime talk shows.”

  I shut my mouth because I sound like a stalker, but Mari’s eyeing me with interest. “You watched my show?”

  I shrug, not wanting to admit I downloaded all the episodes the first day we met. “I wanted to know what I’d be getting into with this TV thing. Thought that might help.”

  There’s an edge to Mari’s laugh. “God, Shrink to the Stars is hardly a model for good television.” She shakes her head and sets her empty glass on the table. “Don’t get me wrong—I helped a lot of people on that show. I like to think I did, anyway.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  She looks down into her glass like the right words might be floating on the surface of the beer. “I guess it’s like you said. I had to become someone else. This polished, glamorous lady in designer shoes who wasn’t me at all. It’s who my sisters are. Our mother, too, but—”

  “Not you?”

  She shakes her head. “I could play the role because I was raised in that world. But it’s not who I was. Who I am.” She laughs and takes her glasses off, polishing them on the hem of her shirt. “To be honest, I may have gone too far the other direction. Rebelling against nice clothes and makeup and anything that felt like part of my old life.”

  “So you get it.” The urge to kiss her nearly bowls me over, and I forget for a moment what I’m saying. “The stuff I said about not liking wine—it’s how you’ve handled your post-show experience.”

  She looks at me with surprise, her eyes clear and bright without the glasses. “Yes. I suppose it is.” Color floods her cheeks. “This feels weird.”

  “What feels weird?”

  “Talking about myself.” She licks her lips, and half the blood leaves my brain. “I’m not used to that.”

  “No?” Christ, I could spend all night listening to Mari talk about herself. “That’s a shame.”

  “Why?” Her voice comes out breathy, and I wonder if she’s feeling this same rush of intimacy. The same urge to move closer on the couch, to sink into our shared heat.

  “You’re the most fascinating person I’ve met in a long time,” I say. “This right here—getting to know you. It’s been my favorite thing since I got to Oregon.”

  It sounds like a line, but it’s the truth. I look into her eyes, willing her to believe me. Wanting her to know how amazing she is.

  We stare at each other for a long, breathless moment. Or maybe I’m the only one not breathing, because I see her chest rising and falling beneath the shimmery fabric of her top. Her lips part, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t move at all as I sit here wondering if I should make a move.

  “Griffin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Please kiss me. Just once, so I know—”

  I pull her close, the press of my lips cutting off her words. It’s rude, but I couldn’t wait one second longer to know what she tastes like. How she feels threading her fingers through my hair as she presses her body against mine.

  That’s the cue I need to deepen the kiss. As my tongue touches hers, bright bursts of fireworks go off in my chest. Mari melts into me, and a quiet moan escapes her lips. She tastes like cocoa and vanilla and hunger that has nothing to do with those things. I want her so much my whole body aches, and it’s all I can do not to drag her onto my lap.

  Be cool. She’s the smartest, sexiest woman you’ve ever met. Don’t blow this.

  It’s not much of a mantra, and I forget it the instant her ha
nd slides from my hair to my chest. She grips my shirtfront like she’s afraid I’ll get away. Like what’s happening here can last just a few seconds before we shake hands and say goodbye.

  That’s not how I see it going.

  I slip my fingers through her curls, reveling in silky strands that are even softer than I imagined. I’m losing myself in her sweetness, in her lush heat. My heart hammers in my eardrums as Mari moans again and grazes my tongue with hers.

  I’m going under, losing myself in her soft, sweet, delicious—

  “Dad!”

  The door bursts open, and we jerk apart like we’ve been shot with cattle prods. I blink at my daughter panting in the doorway, her ponytail askew.

  “Dad! It’s an emergency!”

  Chapter 5

  CONFESSIONAL 677.5

  Judson, Marilyn, PsyD (Psychologist: Juniper Ridge)

  I do love helping people. Listening to their problems, working with them to articulate challenges so they can find solutions that work for them. There’s this misconception that psychologists have all the answers. We know where the landmines are, so of course we never step on them, right?

  [prolonged laughter]

  Yeah. We’re just as screwed up as anyone else.

  We scramble to our feet in a breathless blur, Griffin lurching up a second before I do. He offers a hand, but I jerk back and put a few feet of distance between us. With Soph staring, the last thing we need is more physical contact.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  The girl asks a different question as she cocks her head and looks from me to her father. “Were you guys kissing?”

  Griffin drags a hand down his face. “What is the emergency, Soph?”

  I silently applaud his redirect while inspecting the girl for damage. “Did something happen?” She doesn’t look injured, but if anyone laid a hand on her, I swear to God I’ll—

  “Can we have a bird?” Soph makes pleading hands and flashes a sweet-little-girl smile I’m positive could melt any male heart. “A parrot, Daddy—please?”

  Griffin looks like he might ground her until she’s eighteen. “What are you talking about?”

  That’s when I remember the Cox family has a menagerie of pets. Dogs, cats, lizards, and yes—I’m pretty sure a parrot.

  Soph drops her hands and lifts her chin. “They already had another parrot, but they adopted a new one, and he doesn’t like their other bird, and they’re worried about fighting, and Daddy could I please have him? Please?”

  Griffin shakes his head slowly, looking dazed as he drops back down on the couch. “Why am I only ‘Daddy’ when you want something?”

  “Please?” She settles on the sofa beside him, leaning against his shoulder. “He’s an African Gray named Leonard, and I’ll feed him and clean up after him and—”

  “Soph, African Gray parrots live to be sixty.” Griffin shakes his head. “That’s a huge commitment.”

  “I know, and I’m very committed.”

  She’s so sweet I’d have trouble saying no, but this isn’t Griff’s first rodeo.

  “You’re heading to college in six years, baby,” he says. “They’re not going to let you have a parrot in the dorms.”

  “He can be my emotional support bird.”

  I hate to be the one to rain on a girl’s parade, but—

  “Protections through the Americans with Disabilities Act don’t cover emotional support animals,” I interject. “Especially if they’re not trained to perform a specific task like a service animal would.” I offer an apologetic shrug as Soph frowns. “Sorry. I’ve seen this a few times in my practice. It doesn’t end well for the animal.”

  Soph’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t lash out. A good sign, even if I’ve overstepped. I inch back another step, needing more distance between me and the man who has my brain whirling like a pinwheel.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I’m starting to wonder if I should tattoo the phrase on my wrist as I grab my keys and sweater and try not to make eye contact with anyone. “I’ll leave you two to hash this out.” I stuff my arm into the wrong sleeve of my cardigan and have to start over again. “Griffin, Soph—thank you for the lovely dinner. I’ll be in touch.”

  Of course I will because we live on the same damn compound, and what on earth was I thinking making out with one of the cast members of a show I helped develop?

  That’s the least of my concerns, though. On a scale of missteps I’ve made today, that one hardly registers.

  What the hell was I thinking making out with an ex-patient’s ex-husband?

  Not that the double ex status justifies it. The professional implications are—are—I don’t even know what they are. That’s why I need to talk with Susan. She’ll know how to guide me, how to extricate myself from this ethical disaster.

  Griffin rounds the sofa and stops between me and the door, concern etched on his brow. “Is everything okay? If you hang on just a second—”

  “I really do need to go.” I glance at my watch in the universal sign for “our time is almost up” every psychologist perfects the first year in practice.

  “Thank you for the kiss.” Hell, that’s not what I meant to say. “Kolsch!” I practically shout the word as I yank open the door. “Your Kolsch was great and so was your radler and your porter and—”

  And I need to shut up instead of yelling words that sound alarmingly like body parts. “Good night.”

  I pull the door closed before he can reply and take off running down the path.

  Holy hell, what the hell was I thinking?

  I don’t stop running until I reach my cabin. By the time I get there, I’m breathing hard and shaking and wondering if I need Xanax.

  But no, I need to be clearheaded for this. I shove the key in my front door, recalling the exact reason I insisted on an upgraded lock system for my cabin. Three locks, always. A deadbolt and standard key on the front door. Another one on my office, which I sprint toward with my heart pounding. A third on the cabinet where my laptop lives, and technically, my password protection provides a fourth lock. I store clinical and process notes separately, just like Susan taught me.

  Powering up the laptop, I drop into my office chair, navigate to the patient records platform, and start scrolling through files.

  Gabrielle Julia.

  She never gave her married name, which wasn’t uncommon. When you specialize in working with celebrities, you learn quickly to use the name they give. Forget what you’ve seen in headlines or movie credits and call them whatever the hell they call themselves.

  Not that Gabrielle had many credits to her name. Not then, not when she was my patient. Christ, I never even knew she had a daughter. And she used a different name for her husband—Greg or Gary or something?

  I should have put the pieces together. Even with the different names, I should have—

  Stop.

  Breathe.

  Think.

  I take a few calming breaths as Gabrielle’s file flickers to life on my screen. I start with the clinical notes. These are the basics—the ones lawyers and insurance companies can request. Just the rough overview of symptoms, treatments, and outcomes.

  I skim those quickly, refreshing my memory.

  Thirty-four year old female, referred by a friend of a friend who’d produced several hit shows.

  “I’ve got this up-and-comer who could use a shrink,” he said when we met backstage after I taped a segment for the Ellen DeGeneres Show. “I don’t suppose you’re taking new patients?”

  I wasn’t, and I didn’t have time for her in my schedule.

  But I was hungry to see Shrink to the Stars picked up by a major network. I was lonely and desperate, and I’d been on the fringes of the family business long enough to know how the game worked.

  “Of course,” I told him, crossing my legs beneath a too-short skirt that made my hips itch. “Give her my number.”

  So he did, and a week later, I sat perched on the vintage v
elvet chaise in my office listening to Gabrielle Julia share her deepest hopes and dreams.

  “I feel like I’m being ripped in half.” She’d swiped at her eyes with her shirt sleeve, waving off the tissue box I offered. “I’ll be fine. It’s just—is there any way out once you realize you’ve taken a completely wrong turn in your life?”

  “Of course there is.” We spent the next hour talking about being true to your dreams, finding power within yourself.

  I knew nothing about a daughter. Hell, she didn’t mention a husband until the third session. She spoke tearfully of a spouse who couldn’t support her ambition, who thought acting was just a hobby.

  But a child…she never mentioned that. And there’s no record in my notes of a husband named Griffin. Just Gary—always Gary—the stoic, humorless, stick-in-the-mud who Gabrielle claimed held her back.

  Her side of the story was all I had to go on.

  I take another deep breath and switch to my process notes. There’s more detail here, more intimate observations.

  She was depressed, absolutely.

  And anxious and scared and married to a man she sensed was not her soulmate.

  No mention of a child. Would it have made a difference in how I counseled her?

  I keep skimming, dread curdling my gut.

  Because what’s troubling me isn’t Gabrielle’s record. It’s what this means for Griffin and me.

  I can’t breathe a word of this to him. Legally, I can’t admit I’ve ever met his wife. Privacy laws protect the doctor/patient relationship. A husband could call his wife’s therapist because she asked him to take care of her bill or make a new appointment, and legally, a psychologist can’t confirm or deny she’s a patient. Not even if she’s standing by as he makes the call, her voice shouting credit card numbers across the room.

  This is the reality of my world.

  Without a signed consent form, I can’t even acknowledge I know her.

  As I scan Gabrielle Julia’s file with my palms sweating and my heart knocking my ribs, I see no sign of a consent form.

  And no sign that there’s any way out of this mess.