"You set me straight," he said. "You listened; you helped me; you didn't just fawn over me. I need that."

Great. I'm a good therapist. Danica pushed her shoulders back, and his hands dropped to his sides. "That's what I'm here for," she said. Her hands felt heavy, like they didn't belong hanging by her sides. She longed to lift them, touch his hips, place her fingertips on his lower back and pull him in close.

"I can't talk to anyone the way I talk to you," he admitted.

"It's part of the charm of being a therapist," she said. It was common for clients to be attracted to their therapists, she told herself, but not common, or acceptable, for it to be the other way around. d.a.m.n it. Had she jumped the gun? Was it foolish to think about giving up her career? Maybe he didn't want her in that way after all.

"I used to be able to ignore all the bad stuff around me, but now, now I process it in a way I never thought I would, or even could. The strange thing is that everything I'm processing, I realize they're things that I never want to do. I'm done hurting people. And what's even stranger is that when it happens, when I'm in the midst of these...revelations...all I want to do is pick up the phone and call you."

Oh G.o.d. Was it possible for her legs to stop working? She resumed walking down a paved path through the trees just to be sure she wouldn't melt right there and then. Moonlight sparkled above them, illuminating the Christmas lights that the restaurant kept in the trees year-round. If she weren't so conflicted, Danica might think she was having the most romantic night of her life. Instead, she had to be careful how she responded to his admission. She stopped walking and faced him head on. She'd always believed in honesty, and it had served her well. Under the light of the moon, speaking to the only man to make her stomach flutter in months, if not years, she took the path of honesty once again.

"I don't think we should do this anymore," she said. There. She said it. Her stomach hurt, her heart ached, and she held her breath, waiting for his response.

"Walk?" he joked.

Despite her nerves, she laughed.

"I need you, Danica," he said.

But not in the same way I'm needing you lately.

"I don't think I can sort through all of this without you." He lifted his hand to touch her cheek, and she watched his face change as he caught himself and dropped it to his side instead. "I'm sorry if I screwed this up," he said honestly.

How long could she play this game? Did she seriously misread him? Did he want her to just be his therapist? The words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. "d.a.m.n it, Blake. Is it just me, or is there something more here? I feel like a high school girl crushing on the football player, and yet there you are, telling me that you need me as your therapist, but your body language-"

He touched her cheek, giving away nothing with his serious eyes.

s.h.i.t. "Well, okay," she said. d.a.m.n it. Tears welled in her eyes. She was such a fool. Why didn't she leave well enough alone? She turned to leave, and Blake caught her by the arm.

"You mean, you like me, like me?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

"You like me. You like me?" A grin spread across his beautiful lips.

"Okay, enough. I'll refer you to a new therapist." And find a new career. "I'm sorry for my unprofessionalism."

In the next breath, he drew her body against his own and wrapped her in the warmth of his arms. His lips pressed against hers, the sensual, intoxicating smell of him penetrating her senses, and she relaxed into his embrace. His tongue explored her mouth with sensuality, not rushing or taking her, but savoring her, tasting her. His hands spread across her back, and she was lost in his kiss, and the smell of his cologne, and the night air across her warm cheeks. She felt lighter than air, as if she were floating away on a cloud. His lips softened, and he placed gentle kisses on her pulsating lips.

"I thought it was just me," he admitted.

Danica's trembling hands were rooted to his back, her eyes glued to his. She ached to kiss him again, but the therapist in her knew better. Even if she was going to throw away her career, she still knew right from wrong. "We can't do this. It's wrong. You're my client-or were my client-or whatever." Oh G.o.d. Help me.

"I am your client."

"I can't have a relationship with my client. It's unethical." She was powerless to pull herself from his arms.

"I need you as my therapist." He kissed her again. "I want you as my girlfriend."

Danica pulled away. "I could lose my license. I can't do this." I want to do this. She'd been so careful about who she dated and how she handled herself in her professional and personal life. She should know better than to throw that away for a man who was in only the beginning stages of his therapy. But she could not deny the desire that stretched from her fingertips to her toes and burrowed into every nook and cranny in between. c.r.a.p. Her legs carried her in the direction of the parking lot.

"Danica, wait." He came after her, falling in step beside her. "I do need your help with my personal life, getting on track, understanding things."

"I can't help you with that now." She stopped walking and turned toward him, her voice angrier than she'd thought it would be. "We kissed, Blake. We can't kiss. I can't be your therapist now that we've kissed. It's not right."

The silence between them was broken only by the night breeze through the trees. For the first time in her life, Danica didn't have an answer. She stormed away, a mountainous lump pushing against her throat. By the time she reached her car, tears streaked her cheeks like rain.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Sunday morning found Danica puffy-eyed and listless. She'd spent the night angry at herself, s.e.xually frustrated, and worst of all, she knew she'd let down a client-a very hot client who also needed her help.

She went through her morning routine like an automaton, showering, dressing in her pre-finding-herself boring attire of black slacks and a gray, cashmere sweater. She gave up on her wild hair and left the house with what her mother might have called her sixties' Afro look. She didn't give a d.a.m.n. She'd lived her life carefully, always putting work and professionalism before her own needs, and she'd been proud of who she was. She'd thrown that all away in one night-over one G.o.dd.a.m.ned kiss. Any way she looked at it, she was an idiot. Now her client was left to fend for himself-no, she'd find him another therapist. More importantly, she couldn't help but wonder if she had walked away from the one man whom she might actually have been falling for. Thoughts of the way he'd jumped into changing his behavior, mostly on his own accord, flitted through her mind. His serious and sad eyes when he spoke of how he didn't want to hurt anyone anymore bored into her. If she were truthful with herself and remembered the way he'd eyed the blonde, she'd tell herself what she might tell Kaylie about a guy like him: Get over him. Once a player, always a player. Despite knowing what was best, and what was dangerous, Danica still couldn't stop thinking about him. Thank G.o.d she had Mich.e.l.le to distract her today.

Danica was glad to see Nola back on her feet, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, when she picked up Mich.e.l.le. Mich.e.l.le was dressed in her typical black attire, but when they stepped from the car and headed toward the bakery, Mich.e.l.le pulled the multicolored scarf from her purse and wrapped it around her neck.

"I love that look on you," Danica said.

"I feel funny wearing it around the kids at school, but I do love it. Thank you," Mich.e.l.le said.

They sat at their usual table by the window. Mich.e.l.le ate her croissant and watched Danica pick at hers.

"Are you okay today?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

Danica tried to smile, but felt her cheeks fall flat. "Yeah, just a little tired." She was the Big Sister. Danica knew she'd better pull her act together, for Mich.e.l.le's sake.

A group of four teens burst through the door. Mich.e.l.le cast a quick look at them, then cowered into her chair, expertly shaking her head so her hair fell over her cheek-a ready-made veil.

Danica took note of the effervescent teens, laughing and joking in the way kids did at that age-too loud and ignorant to notice or care about the stares of others. She watched Mich.e.l.le take another quick glance at them. When they'd first begun going out for breakfast, Mich.e.l.le had picked that particular bakery because she said no one from her school would go there. Now she sat with her shoulders hunched, tugging at one end of her scarf, slowly unwrapping it from around her neck. It was clasped between her hands when the tallest boy came and stood beside the table. His hair flopped trendily over his eyes, the rest at a s.h.a.ggy-chic, ear level.

"I know you," he said, not in an unkind way.

Danica watched silently, feeling the pain of Mich.e.l.le's embarra.s.sment.

"Hey," Mich.e.l.le said without looking up.

"What's up?" he said to Mich.e.l.le, then turned toward Danica. "Hey, I'm Brad." He waved, then put his hands in his sweatshirt pockets.

"Hi, Brad. I'm Danica, Mich.e.l.le's...friend."

The boy stood there, a friendly smile plastered on his face. He looked from Mich.e.l.le to his friends, then back at Mich.e.l.le again.

Danica wanted to say something to break the awkward silence, but she knew teens too well. The wrong thing could set them off.

"Great scarf," he said.

Mich.e.l.le smiled beneath her hair.

"Come on, B-man," another boy hollered.

"Hey, we're heading to the Village. Wanna go?" He looked at Mich.e.l.le with the same friendly smile that had been there since he'd arrived at the table.

Look up, Mich.e.l.le. Look up.

"Thanks, but we're kinda busy," she said, still looking at the scarf in her lap.

"Mich.e.l.le, I don't-"

A harsh stare stopped Danica in her tracks. "Um, yeah, we kind of have plans, sorry," Danica said to Brad, whose smile quickly faded. He shot a look from Mich.e.l.le to his friends and back again.

"Okay, well, maybe another time then." He walked backward toward the door, where his friends were waiting.

"Who was that?" one girl asked.

"Girl from school. She's cool," he said on their way out the door.

Danica's heart slammed against her chest with excitement. Brad liked Mich.e.l.le. He'd called her cool. Surely Mich.e.l.le would be happy.

Mich.e.l.le didn't move from her coc.o.o.n.

"He seemed nice," Danica said.

Mich.e.l.le shrugged.

"Is there something about him that I'm not seeing?"

Mich.e.l.le shook her head. "Can we get out of here? Please?"

Boy, did Danica know that feeling. She gathered their breakfasts and headed for the door with Mich.e.l.le in tow, eyes locked on the floor, scarf clenched within her hands.

They walked in silence toward the art gallery, where Mich.e.l.le had said she wanted to go after breakfast. Brad was nowhere in sight.

"Wanna talk?" Danica asked.

"There's nothing to say."

"Well, is there something I don't see? I mean, Brad seemed nice enough."

"He is."

Would she ever understand teenagers completely? Danica doubted it.

"So? What's the problem, then? Why not go with them and have some fun? You love the Village."

Mich.e.l.le shoved her scarf in her pocket and finally lifted her eyes to meet Danica's. "Because, how long would it take before one of the others made fun of me? When they asked if they could come over, and then it'd be all mothb.a.l.l.s and Grandma?"

"Hey, Nola is a pretty great grandma, as far as grandmothers go."

Mich.e.l.le smiled. "Yeah, she is. I don't mean that. But their houses probably smell like cookies in the oven, and their moms are probably all, Hey, honey, what would you guys like as snacks?"

"Is that what you think?"

"Even when my mom was home, she wasn't home. She was working, or too tired to move from working too much, or out with some random guy. I have no idea what normal is, but one thing I know is that no one is living like I do." Mich.e.l.le slumped down on a bench in front of the museum.

"Mich.e.l.le, these days more than half of marriages end in divorce. Chances are, several of those kids are being raised by one parent, or worse, traipsing from house to house every week, trying to figure out where they belong. This isn't the 1950s. I don't think many moms bake cookies and offer snacks anymore. More likely, moms are working, and when they're home, the kids are on the computer and so are they." She sat down beside Mich.e.l.le and let out a long breath. "My mom was one of those subservient women. You know, always there, supporting my dad, making cookies, and I have to tell you something that I haven't told anyone else, but I think you need to hear it."

Mich.e.l.le looked up with interest.

"My father cheated and left her. My own sister can't be happy in a relationship, and we had the perfect mother. She sees my mother as having been weak, staying all those years so her kids would be okay."

"At least she was there."

"Yes, she was there, but there are all sorts of ways to be there and end up hurting your children in the long run."

"Like drinking yourself into oblivion," Mich.e.l.le said with spite.

"Yes, or like pretending everything is fine when your children know it's not. Or like not working enough to support your kids when the marriage ends." Wow, she hadn't even said those words to Kaylie. What on earth was she doing? Today was not a normal day in any way. "Or having a spouse leave you and your kids end up not trusting anyone-or themselves enough-to have a real, committed relationship." Belinda. Blake. "Or worse, sabotaging every chance they have at happiness." Kaylie. Me? Am I using work as an excuse, even now, while I'm thinking about giving up my license?

"I guess," Mich.e.l.le said, but Danica knew she wasn't buying into any of it, even if it was the truth.

"Mich.e.l.le, you can live your life afraid to move forward, or you can live your life accepting people for who they are and believing in those people, giving second chances with the hopes that the changes they've worked hard to achieve remain. And what they change into might not be your ideal, but it might be close enough that you'll be happy." Danica didn't wait for Mich.e.l.le's response. "And you don't have to be who others want you to be or who they think you are." Jesus, am I talking about myself? "We talked about that, remember? You can be a secure, confident teenager whose mother just happened to fall into the bottle for a bit." And I can be a therapist who happened to fall for a client. "And the world will not come to an end. In fact, it just might be better."

Danica reached over and pulled on the scarf that was sticking out of Mich.e.l.le's pocket, then shook it out, and wrapped it around Mich.e.l.le's neck. She lifted her soft, thick hair, like the woman in the shop had, and she smiled. "There you are again. The happy Mich.e.l.le."

Mich.e.l.le grabbed the ends of the scarf. "I do love it." She reached into the neckline of her T-shirt and withdrew the Imperfect necklace. Mich.e.l.le smiled, rubbing the tin between her fingers and looking into the distance like she was deep in thought.

Danica jumped to her feet, feeling revived. "Where to?"

Mich.e.l.le reached for the museum door. "Come with me," she said, and Danica followed her into the museum, through the lobby, and toward one of the back rooms.

"Ah, the chaos picture," Danica said, watching Mich.e.l.le smile at the tangled images.

"Yeah, you know what? I think I figured out why I love it so much." She stepped closer, her neck craning up at the painting. "It reminds me of my life. Remember you asked me that?" She flashed happier eyes at Danica.

Danica nodded.

"Well, I think you were right. All the pieces are there, but they're not in order. That's like my life, isn't it?"

"I suppose you're right." Danica remembered the letter from Nancy. She reached into her purse and pulled it out. "Mich.e.l.le, please don't be mad, but I went to visit your mom. I wanted to see for myself if she was really making progress before I suggested that you see her."

Mich.e.l.le's eyes went cold. "And?"