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  Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on my knees. “Please, call me Russ. I insist.”

  Her eyes bore into mine. “Very well, Russ.”

  Just hearing my name on her lips did crazy things to my body. “Thank you . . . Dr. McKnight,” I teased.

  “Evie,” she replied softly, smiling. “I think you’ve earned the right to call me Evie.”

  “Is that what your patients call you?” I asked, mesmerized with watching the way her lips moved.

  “No.” She was studying me just as much as I was studying her, and I was positive she felt the same attraction brewing between us. “Evie is the name I reserve for my friends and family.”

  “So we are friends, then?” I liked the sound of that.

  “I’d like that, I think. If you’re okay with it.”

  I nodded. “I’m more than okay with it, but it does leave me with one tiny little problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was kind of hoping you’d be my doctor, too.”

  Reaching for a pencil on the end table beside her, she picked it up, tapping the eraser end lightly against her lips.

  I was envious of that pencil.

  I needed to get out of there and think with a clear head. My intention was to find a different doctor, once I found out who she was. Now, here I was asking her to take me on—knowing I was attracted to her. If that wasn’t a conflict of interest, I didn’t know what was.

  “What if I make an exception?” she asked.

  “What kind of exception?”

  “What if I was your friend who happened to be a doctor?”

  I couldn’t help my widening smile. I’d been grinning like a damn idiot almost since the moment I’d walked in here. “That might work.”

  “Only I have a little problem with that, too.”

  That didn’t sound good. My smile faltered a little. “What?”

  “I’m willing to do sessions with you, but only on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “I won’t accept payment from you.”

  “Not acceptable,” I said, leaning back into my chair and staring at her. “This is your job, and you’re using your training and skill to help me. You need to be paid for it.”

  “But we just established we are friends; and as your friend, and as a thank you for saving my life, I’d like to do your sessions for free.”

  “And as your friend, and as your rescuer, who was on the clock getting paid when he saved you, by the way, I’d like to pay you for your work.” We were totally in a negotiating war and I intended to win.

  “Then how about this? I’ll give you the ‘hero special price break’?”

  “And what’s the ‘hero special price break?’”

  “Half off every session.” She quickly leaned forward before I could protest, placing her slim hand on my knee and sparks raced straight to my groin. “Please, let me do this. Please? It means so much to me. You have no idea.”

  How could I refuse a request like that? “Agreed,” I replied, slipping my hand on top of hers. “I really am happy you’re all right.”

  “I’m really grateful you were there. It was terrifying.”

  “I’m still here for you—anytime you need me—day or night. You have my number.”

  “Which of us is the therapist and which is the patient again?” she asked with a slight laugh, still not removing her hand.

  “Maybe we’re neither—just two friends helping each other out.” My eyes never left hers.

  “I like the sound of that,” she replied sincerely.

  “I do, too.”

  “Shall I have Misty schedule you an appointment for tomorrow?” Evie pulled her hand away and I missed its warmth immediately.

  “Sounds great. Anything before five is good for me.”

  “Perfect,” she replied and stood up. So did I.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” I extended my hand but she surprised me, stepping into my arms, instead.

  “Tomorrow I will be more formal, I promise. I just had to hug you today, and tell you thank you, first, while we’re still just friends.”

  My arms went easily around her and I closed my eyes and tried to commit everything about her to memory. I wouldn’t be able to touch her like this again. It would be unethical—for both of us.

  Damn. That really sucked.

  Chapter Five

  Evie

  Slipping the key into the lock of my second floor condo, I turned the knob, grateful to be home with the next few hours of quiet and solitude to myself.

  Dropping my briefcase near the door, I kicked off my shoes and continued to peel my clothing off as I moved through the house—until I was wearing nothing but my bra and underwear. Making my way into the bathroom, I quickly turned on the water in the tub before digging under the sink for the bottle of aromatherapy bubble bath I kept in there.

  This was my favorite part of the day, soaking in my Jacuzzi tub and letting go of all the stress and conversations that filled my mind up during the day. I made a conscious effort to keep my home life separated from my work, otherwise the burdens that my patients shared with me were sure to hang with me, plaguing me well after hours.

  It wasn’t that I was trying to forget them, or be inconsiderate, I simply felt the need for my own space, as well. This was my perfected ritual, a nice relaxing bath, a glass of wine, and my latest novel or autobiography. It allowed me to escape out of my own head and break away from thinking about the office. It was the only way I could casually enjoy my evenings.

  Leaving the water running, I went to the kitchen to get my wine. Pausing beside the cupboard, my eyes fell on the newspaper laying there, a giant picture of a smiling firefighter, Mr. Weston . . . Russ . . . staring back at me.

  Lightly, I traced my fingers over his face, thinking that even though this was an amazing picture of him, he was even more incredibly good looking in real life. Even if he hadn’t been my rescuer, I had a feeling that just meeting him would’ve made my heart race. He was tall, and muscular, with short, thick wavy hair and bright, clear eyes. But it was his smile that captured me. It transformed his face—brightening it, shining white against the dark unshaved scruff on his jaw.

  His personality had been charming, too. Yes, he was definitely the kind of firefighter a girl would consider burning her house down for—or, in my case, drowning in a lake for.

  Sighing, I poured myself a glass of wine, leaving the paper where it had been on the counter. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

  Carrying my glass, I moved through the bedroom, glancing into the walk-in closet as I passed—seeing all of Kory’s fatigues hanging there. Immediately I felt guilty for being attracted to Russ. It made me feel like I was cheating on Kory—something I’d vowed to never do.

  My eyes drifted to the bed, instantly conjuring up images of all the times we’d made love, over and over again, never able to get enough of one another. Sighing, I continued into the bathroom, my gaze drifting down to the engagement ring I’d left soaking in cleaner today on my counter. Carefully, I rinsed it and slid it back on.

  Moving my glass to sit on the side of the massive tub, I slipped out of my bra and panties and sank into the warm, refreshing water.

  Lifting my hand, the light caught the diamond as I observed the symbol of love attached to my left hand. It winked at me, bringing back images of Kory on his knee, proposing to me.

  A soft smile slid across my face as the memory washed over me, bringing all the feelings of that moment with them.

  “I love you, Kory,” I whispered, stroking the diamond. “You’ll always be the only one for me.”

  Tears clouded in the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over the edges. Kory’s face had been the last thing I’d seen as the darkness of the lake consumed me. In that moment, I was ready to give up, to let go. Relaxing, I’d sunk into the vision of his face, his arms reaching for me.

  The next moment I was above the water, coughing, as Russ Weston
held me in his arms. For a split second I thought he was Kory, his dark features shifting into the image of the face I loved so much. Then my vision cleared and I realized I was with a stranger, and not with Kory at all. For the briefest of moments, I was so terribly sad I’d been rescued.

  Glancing out the bathroom door, directly in my line of sight, was the picture of Kory and I on my nightstand. He was in his BDUs embracing me as I snapped a selfie of us in the hanger after one of his returns from Afghanistan.

  A sob escaped me as the grief threatened to overwhelm me, once more. Climbing from the tub, I wrapped a towel around myself and walked into the bedroom.

  “Six years,” I thought. “Six years since you left, and I still feel like I can’t breathe without you.” Tears streamed heavily down my face. Automatically, I leaned forward, lifting an image of Kory and my brother, Paul, my heart aching even more.

  Paul. He was the one who introduced me to Kory. They were roommates in college, until Paul convinced Kory to enlist with him and let the military pay for their schooling. Paul never forgave himself for that. I never realized how hard he‘d taken Kory’s death—not until it was too late. I didn’t know if I would ever recover from finding Paul in my parents’ bathroom, lying in a puddle of blood next to a gun and suicide note, only two months after Kory had been killed.

  I’d lost them both.

  “But look at all the good you’ve done because of his death.” I could practically hear my mom’s words in the air—she spoke them so often. “So many soldiers have made it through their PTSD because of you and your work. Look how many lives have benefited because of our sacrifice.”

  It was true. Paul’s death was the reason I’d delved head first into the psychiatric world of PTSD. I didn’t want anyone else to experience the grief I’d known because of it. Yet I knew, in my greedy little heart, if I could rewind time and find a way to save both Kory and Paul, I would. I wanted them with me. I missed them.

  My thoughts drifted once more to Russ Weston. He’d called for an appointment prior to realizing who I was. He said he was suffering from PTSD. He’d already saved my life—I owed him now. Whatever he needed, I wanted to be the one to help him find his peace.

  ***

  I made it through the next day just fine, keeping myself busy as usual. An overworked mind didn’t have time to wallow in misery and self-pity, like I’d found myself doing the previous night.

  My unscheduled tears had led to too many glasses of wine and falling asleep wrapped in nothing but a towel on top of my bed, clutching the photo of Kory and Paul.

  I missed them so much; and the ache in my heart continued to grow deeper, not smaller, it seemed. Staring at the same picture on my desk, I couldn’t help smiling sadly back at them. Paul was my biggest regret. I’d never, in a million years, expected him to do something like that. He was always the happy, upbeat one.

  And that kind of thinking was what got me in trouble. I should’ve realized that a combat warrior was the exact opposite of a happy, upbeat guy. All the death and killing had turned out to be more than he could handle. The nightmares had plagued him and he’d never breathed a word of it to me—determined to keep the ugly out of my life and handle it on his own.

  What was the saying? Hindsight is 20/20? I definitely had 20/20 hindsight. It seemed that every picture I saw of Paul, now, I recognized the hint of sadness in his eyes.

  “Dr. McKnight?” Misty’s voice interrupted my musings. She sounded positively radiant—well, if it were possible for someone to sound radiant through an intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Your last appointment is here. Mr. Weston?” And now I knew why she sounded that way. I was pretty sure every woman in the building had to stop and fan herself when he walked by.

  Against my will, my heart rate increased and I chided myself. It’s simply because he rescued you, I said internally. “Send him in please, Misty. Thank you.”

  Rising from my desk, I moved toward the door to greet him as it swung open and his larger than life presence slipped inside. It was funny, but suddenly my office seemed so much smaller with him in it.

  “Mr. Weston. How lovely to see you, again,” I said extending my hand and he shook it.

  That incredible grin of his spread across his face, lighting the rest of his features. “Russ. I insist. I’ll have to leave if you refuse.”

  “Fine, but I want you to call me Evie, too.” I gestured to the chairs we’d sat in the day before.

  Releasing my hand, he moved toward them. “But you’re acting as my doctor now.”

  “I’m making an exception with you.” He waited for me to sit down before he did, ever the gentleman. “Saving my life overrides formalities. To you, I’m simply Evie.”

  Still grinning, he nodded. “Okay. Evie it is.” Settling back into the chair, he seemed completely relaxed with me. Slouching a little, he lifted a leg and crossed a booted heel on his other leg before propping his elbow up on the armrest and leaning his head gently against his knuckles. “So, tell me Doc, how do we start this thing?”

  I was just about to correct him on calling me Doc when I recognized the pain that flashed in his eyes—the very same look that was present in all of Paul’s last photos. Carefully, I studied him—taking in his comfortable pose—looking more like he was getting ready to watch a game of football than sit down at a therapy session. He seemed completely normal and at ease—but the eyes, they never lied. It was a lesson I’d learned way too late.

  Behind the amazing smile, the self-confidence, and the heroics, something was eating Russ Weston in a bad way. I was determined to help him through it.

  “I usually suggest that we start with whatever the current problem is and then return to the past and take the time to get to know each other a bit better. It gives me a better foundation if I know a little bit about how you dealt with things then and compare them to how you relate to them now.”

  “Okay, that works for me. What would you like to know? I’m pretty much an open book.”

  “Let’s start with your initial reason for calling.” I lightly tapped my pencil against my notepad. “You said you felt like you might be suffering from PTSD. Being a firefighter, I’m sure you’ve been trained to recognize those symptoms; so I don’t doubt your diagnosis, but what is the thing that’s standing out to you the most at this time?”

  “Nightmares,” he answered quickly. “Almost two years ago, I was involved in a hostage situation where my life, and those of my two best friends, was threatened.”

  Hostage situation. I wrote the words down on my paper. “That’s definitely no laughing matter.” I glanced at him. “How long have the nightmares been going on?”

  Sighing heavily, he ran a hand through his thick hair. “Oh, I’m guessing about a year now.”

  “Have you ever sought any treatment for this before?”

  “No.” Russ gave a slight shake of his head. “I was briefly involved in therapy as part of the hiring process here, in South Carolina. The department required it of my best friend and me, to make sure we were dealing with what we’d been through. I wasn’t really having any problems at that time, except for the very occasional nightmare about it. My therapist gave me a clean bill of health and I returned to work.”

  “And why are you seeking out a new therapist, now, if someone else is already familiar with your case?”

  He didn’t even blink. “I don’t want the department, or my best friends, to know that I’m seeking treatment.”

  “I see. May I ask why?”

  “My friends have already been through hell with this whole situation. Dylan, my buddy who helped with your rescue, is beside himself with grief and constantly trying to apologize to me for his part in my trauma. He’s suffered with it enough. I don’t want to drag things up for him, again.”

  “And what was his part in your trauma?” I asked, trying to follow.

  “Our captor made him choose who he was going to kill—Cami, his wife, or me.” His eyes bore into min
e as I absorbed this news. “There was only ever one choice.”

  “So, basically, your best friend sentenced you to execution.” I didn’t miss the pained expression on his face as he shifted in his chair.

  “He didn’t have a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “He had to save his wife!” Now he sounded irritated with me.

  “I’m not saying he made the wrong choice. I’m simply stating that the issue here is his choice. Whether or not you think he made the right choice, the fact of the matter is he could’ve chosen to save you.”

  White knuckled, he was gripping onto the arms of the chair. It was time to change tactics; this line of questioning was too tough for him.

  “Let’s step back a bit. Tell me a little about your childhood.”

  “What do you want to know?” he asked, visibly relaxing, which spoke volumes, telling me he was more comfortable with his home life.

  “Were both of your parents present when you were growing up?”

  He nodded.

  “What was your relationship with them?”

  Shrugging, he stared off as if he were recollecting things. “Both my parents worked to make ends meet. My dad was an accountant and my mom worked as a bank teller. We weren’t wealthy by any means, but we lived comfortably enough.”

  “Did they interact with you a lot?”

  “Not really. They were both tired when they got home in the evenings. Sometimes we had dinner together, sometimes we just fended for ourselves.”

  “Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. I’m their only child.”

  “So what did you do to amuse yourself?”

  Flashing a half grin, he continued to watch me closely. “I used the majority of my allowance getting high or drunk.”

  “So, you liked to party?”

  “I guess. That’s what I spent most of my teenage years doing.”