Page 28 of When Hearts Unravel (The Orchid #6)

A crisp knock sounds at the door just as I finish typing up session notes from my last patient appointment. I look at the clock.

He’s on time today.

Rolling my shoulders, I give myself a last-minute pep talk.

I can do this. I just need to be professional.

“Professional my ass, Olive. He marked your skin. You sucked his finger,” Mia taunts in my head.

“Shut up,” I mutter.

My palms sweat and I rake in a deep breath to calm my rising panic.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Sure, we’ve crossed some lines, but not the line. I can do this. I can be professional. He needs help. I can help him. I can finish this cruise with my heart intact. I can fulfill my promise to Mia and secure the donation from the Andersons for ADAS.

I can walk away.

My chest spasms. I won’t analyze it. It’s stress. That’s it.

“Come in.”

Rex strides in, even worser for wear than his usual self. The circles under his eyes are darker. His light blue shirt is wrinkled on one side, and not the purposeful dishevelment of his usual outfits. The scruff covering his jaw is thicker now, a day away from becoming a beard.

“Olive, you look beautiful today.” The same signature smirk, but flat eyes.

I don’t respond, because I know he does this when he’s vulnerable.

And that makes me sad.

It must be isolating to hide his emotions all the time. To believe the world isn’t a safe place for him to express them.

The ache deepens in my chest.

“Mr. Anderson, let’s have our session here.”

I stand from my desk and walk to the open seating area, wanting no furniture between us.

This way, I can see his body language.

Motioning to the cream recliner large enough to fit two people, I say, “Have a seat.”

He sprawls into the chair. “Is this where you hypnotize me and steal my secrets?”

“I’m not a hypnotist or a hypnotherapist. And no one is stealing anything. You can rest easy.”

Rex snickers and grabs the cup of water I have waiting for him on a side table. He takes out the pill bottle he showed me before and dumps two tablets out before tossing them into his mouth.

His corded throat ripples as he chugs the water. My face heats when I remember how this masculine throat is attached to a muscular body I saw up close and personal in Dubrovnik.

A slow smile twists his lips as he sets the cup down. “What are you thinking of, little Olive?”

I clear my throat. “Doctor Lin, and nothing. Just noting how many caffeine pills you took.”

His jaw works, but the smirk remains on his face. “Bullshit.”

I shrug. “You don’t need to believe me since we aren’t here to talk about me.” Reaching over, I grab my notebook and pen. “Tell me, how many pills do you take each day?”

“You guys and your obsession with my pills.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I look up, finding him chewing his lip, his attention on me. I can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“Come on. Do the work. Try. A truth for a truth, right?” I murmur.

I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.

His eyes flare and I know he’s thinking about what I told him in the ocean, the guilt and sadness I carry that I also see in him.

“You sure this is what you want to use it for?”

“I’m hoping I don’t have to use it at all.” That you’ll tell me more about yourself without my resorting to bribery.

Because we understand each other.

Because he’s in pain and deserves to feel better.

He deserves to be happy.

He heaves out a sigh and slouches in his chair. “Four on a normal day, sometimes six or seven on the bad ones.”

“And how much caffeine is in one of these pills?”

“Two shots of espresso’s worth? Something like that.” He stares at the ceiling and stifles a yawn. “Doesn’t seem to work anymore. Nothing seems to work.”

“And how much sleep do you get at night?”

His eyes flutter closed. “I don’t know. Three hours, four if I’m lucky.”

I stiffen, taking in his weary frame, the way even now, reclining on a comfortable chair in a quiet office, I can still see his eyeballs moving behind his eyelids, like he can’t stay still.

It must be exhausting to be on all the time.

“Do you know what chronic sleep deprivation does to someone?” I press a button next to my chair.

The office windows and glass walls turn opaque, then darken. Rex shifts in the recliner, clearly uncomfortable with my question.

Since he’s evading me, I answer, “Tremors, headaches, mood changes, poor judgment, psychosis and hallucinations, not to mention increased risk of heart disease, diabetes, high blood pressure, impaired memory—”

He barks out a harsh laugh, his eyes snapping open. “If only.”

I flinch. The seething anger in his voice shocks me.

Rex shakes his head, then wipes his eyes with his fingers. “You sound like one of those pharmaceutical commercials.” Clearing his throat, he sits up and takes on a professional newscaster tone. “Velowake’s side effects may include…”

Velowake? I scribble that in my notebook. Those must be the pills he’s taking.

“What crossed your mind just now?”

Snorting, he stifles his laughter and turns to me, bleary-eyed. “What do you mean?”

“You laughed when I mentioned the symptoms of sleep deprivation. Something must have triggered that.”

His smile vanishes and in its place is a new mask—flattened lips, clenched jaw, flared nostrils. His knees bounce a restless rhythm.

I used to think his whiplash moods were disorienting, but now they make sense, given how little he sleeps.

His body and brain don’t have time to recover.

Glancing away, he murmurs, “I’m feeling generous today. I’ll give you another truth. I have HSAM.”

I frown, and he adds, “Highly superior autobiographical memory. I don’t forget things, even when I want to. That’s why I was laughing.”

His revelation is a light bulb flickering on in a dark room. HSAM. It’s something I’ve read about in passing in medical school. We don’t spend much time studying rare conditions.

But it makes sense.

While he hasn’t confided what troubles him, I’ve always sensed his guilt and self-hatred. It must’ve been something in the past he thought he did—someone he wronged, a tragedy he caused.

And he can’t forget because his mind doesn’t let him.

“That’s terrible.” Without thinking, I place my hand on his knee, stilling it.

He releases a ragged exhale and looks at me. This time, there’s no mask—no faked humor, no crude jokes, no shameless flirting.

There’s only pain in those storm cloud irises.

“Is that why you can’t sleep?” I ask, keeping my voice soft, not wanting to disrupt this rare moment of vulnerability from a man whose entire identity is a lie.

“Because something happened in the past and you can’t forget it?

And you replay it in your mind repeatedly, but it doesn’t really matter because the outcome will never change? ”

He draws a stiff inhale, and wetness gathers in his eyes. An answering ache twists behind my rib cage.

Yes. That’s what his eyes are telling me. Free me, Olivia. Free me from the past.

Gripping his knee tighter, I want to transfer his pain to me. “That’ll drive anyone crazy…to relive the worst moments of their lives, never escaping them.”

His throat works, then wretched gasps saw out of his lips. Tears gather, but they don’t fall because he’s holding them in.

A new tension ripples through his frame, the muscles in his thighs trembling.

Let it out, Rex. Let it out.

I squeeze his knee, letting him know I’m here.

Perhaps the world doesn’t understand his pain, but I do. And it’s okay. He’ll be okay.

He snatches my hand, crushing my fingers in a vise. I wince, and he lets go. The viciousness of his grip, the stress pulsing inside him—is he even aware of it?

I put my free hand on top of his, gently brushing it over his tense knuckles. Do you want me to stop asking?

Rex hisses, then moans, like he’s never felt a comforting touch before.

His eyes close, then flutter open, those pupils slowly expanding.

“You aren’t alone anymore,” I whisper.

A strangled breath snakes past his lips, like I ripped it from him. He blinks, and finally, one lone tear slides down his face.

The sight of it carves my heart in half.

“Will you tell me about a memory that stayed with you?” I slowly wipe his tear away.

He shuts his eyes again and leans back in the recliner. I pull back to give him more space, but he stops me with his hand.

This time, his touch is gentle, and I imagine this is how he’d be in the bedroom—a tempest wreaking havoc on your body, followed by careful worship and soulful kisses.

If you were lucky to see that side of him.

“I found my calling when I was six,” he begins, his voice raw.

His thumb traces sensuous circles on the back of my hand and the tingles spark on my skin like fireflies on a warm summer night.

“It was at Mom’s funeral…”