Dr. Metzel jotted something down and then flipped through his notes. “I want to circle back to something we started talking about during our last session, before we ran out of time. You mentioned that you haven’t had a relationship that lasted more than three months since high school.”
Oh, brother. “The summer after high school. And really, I still don’t see how that’s relevant to . . . well, anything.”
“I think if you dig a little deeper, you might find it’s relevant to a lot of the things we’ve been talking about.”
“Ah, you have a theory.” She cocked her head. “Okay, I’ll bite. Let’s hear it.”
Dr. Metzel’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “Your father left you, started a new family, and hasn’t been in contact with you since. Then your mother, the only parent you had around, tried to kill herself—leaving you fearful, as a child, that she might try to do it again. My theory, Victoria, is that because of all this, you have significant trust, abandonment, and control issues that are continuing to impact your ability to have healthy, intimate adult relationships. Issues that you are reluctant to acknowledge, given your near-compulsive need to always seem ‘okay.’”
Victoria swallowed, and said nothing for a long moment. Blinking back the sting in her eyes, she gave the good doctor a half smile. “Well. I asked.”
* * *
DURING THE CAB ride home, Dr. Metzel’s words rang again and again in her head, like a depressing emo song that was overplayed on the radio because it had angst and meaning and because some people, apparently, liked to focus on the crappy things in life.
The good doctor was only trying to help. She knew that. He just . . . wanted to talk about things she didn’t like thinking about.
She’d been doing just fine her entire adult life. She was a successful woman; she’d worked hard to get where she was today. Back when she was twelve years old, and still Victoria Delgado, she’d started working after school and on weekends to help her mom pay the bills. Then, she’d been a cafeteria server at a retirement home, the only place that would hire her that young. Now she had people who worked for her, at the law firm that bore her name and her name alone.
She had two great best friends. She had sex with men when she wanted. Good sex. So what if she didn’t have serious relationships? Was that required? What, because she was a woman of marriageable age, she was just expected to follow that path?
Inside her bedroom, she realized she was pacing.
See? This, too, was why she disliked therapy. In a nutshell, because it made her feel like shit.
She needed a distraction.
She couldn’t call her mother; heck, with all the raw emotions she felt right then, God only knew what would come out of her mouth. Audrey and Rachel were probably available, but they would know something was wrong and, frankly, she didn’t know where to start the conversation of all the things supposedly “wrong” with her right then.
She looked over at the wall she shared with Ford.
Two minutes later, she smiled when he opened his front door. “I’m early, I know. I just thought if you weren’t busy, maybe we could get a jump on things.”
He pushed the door open. “Sure. Come on in.”
“Great. Thanks.” She took a calming breath and stepped inside.
Taking her gently by the elbow as she passed by, he cocked his head. “You okay?”
It was the oddest thing, but as she stood there, feeling the warmth of his hand on her elbow and peering up into his eyes, she suddenly just felt . . . better, somehow. “I’m okay.”
She touched his cheek—that was cute, this “worrying about her” thing—and then she headed in the direction of his kitchen.
Time to get back to their mission.
Twenty
THEIR FIRST STOP that afternoon was Peter Sutter Number Eight’s home. Car window open, Ford watched through his camera lens as Victoria waited at the top of the front steps of the massive Lincoln Park greystone.
She rang the bell again and shifted the envelope from her right hand to her left. Watching her through the camera lens, his gaze traveled over her blue sundress, which fell just above her knees. The deep color of the dress highlighted her golden skin, and with her rich brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail, she somehow managed to look both sweet and sexy.
Then he spotted the delicate gold chain she wore around her right ankle.
Oh, man.
An erotic image suddenly came to mind, of her lying on his bed and naked except for that tiny gold chain, while he trailed his mouth up those long legs and made her moan his name in that breathless, sexy way of hers.
And . . . now he had a hard-on.
Christ. Shifting in the driver’s seat, he dragged his mind out of the gutter and refocused.
After a few moments, Victoria gave up. She headed down the steps, walked back to the car, and climbed into the passenger seat. “Is this guy ever home?” Sighing in frustration, she turned and tossed the envelope into the backseat.
Hoping for better luck, they drove next to Peter Sutter Number Two’s place. Ford double-parked on the one-way street, in the gap between two cars, and confirmed that his camera shot wasn’t obstructed.
The front window of the garden unit was open, the blinds up, and he could see a television on inside.
He handed Victoria the envelope. “Remember, stand off to the right, so you’re not in my shot.”
“Got it.”
As she approached the door to the garden unit, he got ready with his camera. She paused, as if looking for something, presumably a doorbell, and then knocked on the door.
As soon as it opened, Ford began snapping away.
A spike of adrenaline coursed through him when he saw that the guy had brown hair and appeared to be in his mid-to-late twenties. Wearing athletic shorts and a tank top, he was in good shape and looked “normal” enough.
Victoria smiled as she spoke, and Peter Sutter nodded in the affirmative. Ford was close enough that he could hear the murmurs of their voices, although he couldn’t catch their exact words. He watched as she presumably went into her speech about living on the next block, how the package got delivered to her place by mistake, et cetera, et cetera. Then she handed over the envelope.
Sutter grinned as he took the package from her. With a friendly nod, she turned to go, and Ford spied through his zoom lens as the guy—who very well may have been the dickhead who’d bailed on his sister—leered at Victoria’s ass.