“Good.” He exhales, a smile in his voice. “I’m feeling…really fucking good.”
After a few minutes of him easing us around the car park, I ask him, “Do you think you could go out into traffic and drive?”
He glances at me. There’s no apprehension on his face. “Yes.”
“Why don’t you drive yourself home then? Save me from driving you there.” I smile.
“Only if you will come in for a drink with me, to celebrate me finally getting back behind the wheel.”
His eyes are on the road as he pulls out of the car park and onto the street.
I stare at his side profile. “I probably shouldn’t.”
“That ethical line again, huh? So, it is against the rules for a therapist to toast a big success with her patient?”
“When you put it that way, then no, I guess not. But only one drink, and a small one. I have to drive myself home.”
“One small drink it is.”
I feel him pressing down on the gas, propelling us forward into the thick of traffic.
Leandro drives us into Mayfair. He pulls my car into a parking space in front of an integral garage to a gorgeous-looking house. He turns the engine off and looks at me. There’s a light in his eyes.
“You did it.” I smile at him.
“Yes, I did it.”
I feel the sudden urge to hug him in this momentous moment, and I guess he’s thinking the same thing because he’s suddenly leaning over the console and wrapping his arms around me, pulling me to him.
Shock freezes me in place. That, and his smell. God, he smells good.
“Thank you,” he whispers into my hair.
The feel of his breath brushing through my strands, whispering onto my skin, has my arms sliding around him, hugging him back.
“It was all you.” Is that my voice that sounds all breathy?
He pulls back a touch but doesn’t let go. He’s staring into my eyes, and I feel a tremble deep inside me.
“No.” He softly shakes his head. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I can’t speak. His eyes are moving over my face, settling on my mouth.
Oh God.
I think he’s going to kiss me.
I want him to kiss me.
With gargantuan strength, I pull out of his hold and clear my throat. “So, is this your house?” I gesture to the house through the windshield, my eyes pinned on it.
I can’t look at him. I don’t dare look at him.
“It is.” His voice sounds rougher than normal.
I hear the click of his door opening, pushing me into action. I climb out of my car. He’s waiting for me at his side of the car. I walk to him on unsteady legs. My heart is beating a mile a minute.
Using the remote sensor, he locks my car and hands me the keys. His fingers graze over mine, making me shiver.
What am I thinking? I’m his therapist.
He’s just grateful for me helping him. He’s confusing that with wanting me.
Clenching my keys in my fist, I drop them in my bag.
“Thanks for trusting me to drive your car.” He smiles at me as he walks to his front door.
“You don’t have to thank me. There was never any doubt in my mind that you could do it,” I say from behind him. “So, how did it feel, driving out on the roads?”
He unlocks the door and turns on the hall light.
“Once I got past the initial apprehension, I started to feel okay. I am not saying I wasn’t having thoughts about the accident, but I pushed them aside and got on with it. That was when I remembered that feeling I always got when I drove. It felt good. But I know it’ll be a whole different ball game when I take a car out on the track.”
I step inside his house and close the door behind me. “Baby steps.” I offer him a gentle smile. “And if you need any support out on the track, let me know. I can be there.”
He takes a step closer to me. My heart starts to thrum in my chest.
“You’d do that?”
“Yes.” My voice has gone all breathy again. He’s your patient, India. “I mean, of course, it’s all part of the therapy service.” I straighten up, changing the tone of my voice.
“Of course it is.” A frown crosses his face like a dark shadow. He turns from me and begins walking down the hall. “What would you like to drink?” His tone sounds hard.
Feeling off-balance and confused, I kick my heels off and follow him. As I walk, I ask, “What do you have?”
“I don’t have much alcohol in here anymore since I cut back, but I do have a bottle of champagne.”
“Champagne works for me.”
I walk into his kitchen. It’s modern, all glossy white cabinets and silver countertops.
“Wow. This is a nice kitchen.”