The Boyfriend Collector Page 6

  Frank is an old, old friend of the family and senior partner at one of the most prestigious litigation firms in the US. Rose’s grandparents are done for.

  I look at Rose’s face. Any woman would be in tears at this point, having all her dirty laundry aired out in public. But not Rose. She looks…happy, like she knows the sun has come out to shine just for her.

  Rose turns her head and smiles at me.

  It’s not the sort of smile I want, because it’s filled with affection. And now I’m sure I’ve crossed a dozen ethical lines, including one I still agree with, even if it came from my father: Our job is to teach our patients how to be their own heroes. We give them the tools, but they do the work. When we cross that line between teaching and rescuing, we only perpetuate their perception of themselves as the victim.

  Even if, for reasons unbeknownst to me, he didn’t follow his philosophy, he was right. And I know I’ve broken my own code. But sometimes you just have to be the example. Rose has never seen a knight, so who will she learn from?

  I give her a nod, but I don’t smile back. She can’t get the wrong impression. I’m here for her. I see her not only for who she is but who she’s meant to be. Strong. Smart. Beautiful. And now she’s got her whole life in front of her.

  My chest warms with pride. My only job now is to help her heal. Without her growing an attachment I can’t ever reciprocate.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Six days later.

  I sit in my leather armchair at seven thirty in the morning. I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited to see a patient, but it’s been almost a week since I’ve seen Rose, and we’ve had no communication since the night of the infamous party, which ended up splashed across every tabloid in the country. “Peachtree Cinderella” is the nickname she’s been given by the media. “Wealthy Georgia heiress left to the cruel devices of her evil grandparents.” Overnight, Rose has become a symbol for everyone, especially women, who have been exploited.

  There’s a light knock at my door, and I feel a sense of relief wash over me. She’s here. Now I can help her. Because God only knows what she’s endured out there. The pain she’s gone through. I brace myself for the worst—a woman falling to pieces.

  The door opens, and she’s literally glowing from the inside out. “Rose?”

  She smiles down at me. “Dr. Hughes.”

  Rose

  Words cannot describe how happy I am to see Dr. Hughes or how grateful I feel for what he’s done for me. If there was ever a knight in shining armor, it’s this man. Because that moment at the party, when I realized how stupid I’d been for believing I had any chance of winning against my grandparents on my own, was my breaking point.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but it’s been crazy,” I say, noting the early morning sun coming through the window, hitting the shelf and a plant he’s wedged between some books. It’s new. And the only personal item in here. I wonder if it means something.

  “Please take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures toward the lumpy white sofa.

  Comfortable? Thinking he’s joking, I almost laugh, but his handsome face lacks any warmth—no smile, no friendliness in the eyes. Just a cool calm look. I suppose I can’t blame him for not being thrilled by my visit. Because of me and his little intervention at the party, he’s been all over the tabloids, too. They implied he was my lover. Some even said he was obsessed with me.

  His poor wife. She can’t be happy. On the other hand, maybe she’s proud of her husband. What he did took balls.

  I sit, and he takes his place, facing me.

  “So, Rose, tell me how things are going with the legal case.”

  “Well…” I inhale a deep breath. “The outlook seems promising.” I go on to tell him that what’s been reported in the news isn’t entirely accurate. “We’ve told my grandparents to hand over all the assets they purchased with my money immediately or I’ll press criminal charges and come after them for damages, too. The lawyer says the two are putting up a big fight, but he thinks it’s just posturing and we have a good shot at reaching a deal quickly. The best part is the trust handed over what’s left of the annual disbursement to me. My grandparents spent most of it, but it’s enough for me to live off of for a while.” Eighty thousand dollars is more money than I know what to do with. First, I went out and bought myself some clothes. Of course, I couldn’t bring myself to go crazy—I only shopped at TJ Maxx and spent four hundred dollars. Still, I didn’t have a lot of clothes growing up, so compared to what I’m used to, it was a dream come true. Nothing makes you feel like a new woman like new tennis shoes.

  “So where are you staying now?” he asks. “In the mansion?”

  “God no. So far my grandparents are refusing to leave, but I would never live there anyway. Too many bad memories. I’m thinking of turning it into a home for girls as soon as things are settled.”

  “I see.” He grabs the notepad sitting on the little table to his side and jots something down.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Just a note—things we’ll want to work through, beginning with your feelings about what went on in that house.”

  “I have a feeling you’re not going to like this, but I’ve decided I don’t want to talk about any of it.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  I shift on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable spot for my ass. “I’ve been living the wrong life since the day I was born. I have zero interest in spending one more second there.” I’m finally free. That’s all that matters.

  “But you need to deal with what they did to you.”

  “I am. I’m doing it by focusing on my new life. The future is the only place that hasn’t been tainted or touched by my grandparents.” This moment and every moment moving forward belongs to me and only me. “I’m going to finish my degree, travel, and live the happiest life possible. But first, there’s one thing I have to do: find someone to share it all with.”

  He raises his two dark brows, and his angular jaw ticks. I see now that his scruff is a bit longer, like he hasn’t been keeping it trimmed, creating a masculine inky shadow along his cheeks and jaw.

  As I’m studying him, I suddenly find the two of us locking eyes. It’s the briefest of moments—more than a glance, shorter than a stare—but the tension in the air makes my heart palpitate. The look in his eyes is raw and exposed and suspiciously similar to—

  No. I must be misreading him. But then why do I feel like this? Hot. Flushed. Excited.

  He abruptly pulls his gaze away and rubs the short bristles of his jaw, making a scratchy sound. “So that part of the story in the tabloids is true.”

  I don’t know if I just imagined the wordless exchange between us, so I pretend it didn’t happen. Besides, he’s taken. “If you mean that I still have to get married in order to inherit everything, then yes.”

  “How is that legal?” he questions.

  “I’m not sure it is,” I say. “But the lawyer believes my grandparents are going to dig in and fight to nullify the will, which will take years of legal battles. He says in the meantime, I can’t let the trust release the money to them, so the safest thing to do is press forward with marrying.”

  “And if you don’t marry?” he questions.

  “Then they get the money while I contest the will—on the grounds my mother was insane when she wrote it or something.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I refuse to tell the millions of people who loved my mother that she was crazy.” Not only would they hate me, but I’d hate myself. It would destroy her legacy, everything she worked for. Also, it just feels wrong, like talking shit about a person who isn’t there to defend herself. “It’s one thing for me to have my private thoughts about her or have questions that’ll never get answered, but those are between her and me. What kind of person would I be if I dragged her name through the mud just for money?” I’d be like Melvin and Gertie.

  “So you’re moving ahead,”
he concludes correctly, “even if it means you might marry someone who turns out to be a bad choice.”

  He really hates this marriage idea, and I can’t blame him. The chances of it working out are low, not to mention risky. But this is not about the money. My family lied to me, used me, and stole twenty years of my life. I could have been out in the world—going to a real school, making friends, finding myself. I won’t ever get those years back or erase the bitter memories, but I’ll be damned if Bertie and Melvin get to spend the rest of their lives living high on the hog, stuffing their wrinkly faces with caviar when they deserve a cold cell in hell.

  Still, that’s not the only reason. The thing I’m not telling Dr. Hughes is that after the party and the ensuing chaos, I began the painful task of trying to piece together the puzzle. My grandparents’ very public betrayal left me with an even greater need to understand why it all happened. Mostly, why my mother placed me in the care of two vultures. I have spent the last three days rereading her final books with adult eyes, searching for new insights into who she really was at the end. Sadly, I found nothing new: Her characters start out being almost villainous and unredeemable. Then, through the transformative power of love, they become good and spend their lives making up for their misdeeds.

  Clearly, a ridiculous fantasy in the case of my grandparents. Some people are just bad. They can’t change even if you wish it with all your heart.

  Regardless, this doesn’t explain my mom’s actions, and rereading her stories has only made me realize how her absence has left a gaping hole in my heart. I think that’s the biggest reason I’ve decided to fulfill her wishes. I feel like it would make her happy. Or maybe, in some weird way, it makes her more a part of my life.

  “My mother wanted me to find love,” I say. “She wanted me to have a partner in life. I want it too.”

  “So you’re still getting married before your birthday,” Dr. Hughes repeats, sounding confused, maybe even a little annoyed by my choice. If he were single, I might even say he sounds jealous, but I know that’s in my head.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “You know you could just walk away and let the money go. You don’t have to put yourself through all this. You’re smart, you’re young—you can make your own way. You’d be surprised how many people do, and they’re happy.”

  I actually thought about running away. In fact, the first thing I did after the humiliating party was get a certified copy of my birth certificate so I could apply for a passport. I figured I would flee to Mexico or somewhere warm and cheap because I didn’t know if I had it in me to keep fighting these horrible people. But when that clerk at the county recorder’s office handed me my birth certificate, everything changed. I had more stolen from me than just a happy childhood and money.

  “Did you know,” I say, “that I never saw a real copy of my birth certificate until five days ago and that the one I’ve been using all these years had been altered?”

  He shakes his head disapprovingly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “My father’s name was on the real one, and I’m guessing my grandparents didn’t want him being a part of my life and muscling in on their scam.”

  “You have a father. And they kept it from you?” He sounds pissed.

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you’re planning to file criminal charges because your grandparents absolutely deserve to be in prison.”

  “A criminal trial will drag everything out for years and force me to keep reliving my past and thinking about them. If I do that, I’ll end up vengeful and bitter. They win.”

  “But you deserve justice and—”

  I hold out my hand to stop him. “It’s my choice. They did this to me and no one else.”

  “They did this to your father, too. He lost the opportunity to raise you.” He pauses, a concerned look in his eyes. “Who was he?”

  “Don’t worry. He wasn’t your father or anything,” I say, meaning it as a joke.

  Dr. Hughes glances away. Just for a moment.

  Whoa. “You didn’t really think that my mother and your father…”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Are you sure? Not even for a second?”

  He toggles his head. “All right, maybe for a split second. My father got around.”

  My mother did attend a lot of fundraisers and social events in the years before I came along, so it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility that Murdoc Hughes met my mom at some point. But thankfully, Bexley Hughes and I are not related. I’d feel really horrible if we were. He’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen and…

  No. I put a full stop to any romantic fantasies about him. He’s married. I’m not about to become like my grandparents, who have no scruples.

  “My father was a businessman from Chicago,” I explain. “And he’s dead unfortunately. Motorcycle accident about ten years ago.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “I am too. I would’ve liked to meet him. The silver lining is that he was married with two children. A boy and a girl.”

  “You have a brother and sister?”

  “I know. I can’t believe it.” I never dreamed I had another family out there in the world.

  “Have you spoken to them?”

  “I want to. I really do.” But what if they’re like the rest of my family, out to use and exploit me? “I’m not ready yet. Maybe I’ll write to them or something after the whole media thing settles down, and I’m married.”

  Dr. Hughes’s expression turns stone cold.

  “Why do you keep doing that?” I ask.

  “What are you referring to?”

  “You turn into a slab of concrete when something agitates you and you don’t want me to know.”

  “I’m here to help you, Rose. So let’s focus on that instead of trying to get inside my head.”

  “But was I wrong?” I ask.

  “Tell me about what comes next. What can I help you with?”

  His tone makes it clear that he’s not going to answer, which gets under my skin. I thought we were supposed to be honest. Part of me wants to push him just to see what he’ll do, which is why I jump into the next topic. “I met someone. A few someones, actually.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “These last few days, I’ve been getting flowers and cards, mostly from the guests who wanted to apologize for how they treated me and for the ordeal I’ve lived through.”

  “That’s very kind,” he says, sounding unimpressed.

  I nod. “It is. Invitations also started showing up. All from men who were at the party.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “No, you don’t. Because I have no idea what I’m getting into. I don’t know the first thing about dating or how to sift through these men.”

  Dr. Hughes’s expression turns even icier, and now I’m starting to catch on. The colder his look, the harder his eyes, the more emotion he’s trying to mask. That’s my guess, anyway. And if I’m right, it means he’s not at all pleased that I plan to go on these dates.

  But why?

  A small, selfish part of me fantasizes that he’s jealous, but I slap that part right across the cheek and tell it to sit the hell down. He’s not a philander like his father—thank God for that. Because I need a good, honest, loyal person in my corner. He’s probably just worried that these guys are all gold diggers. And he should be worried. Because I am.

  “Here’s the thing, Dr. Hughes—”

  “Please, call me Bex.”

  I blink. “Why?”

  “I think it will foster more meaningful conversations.”

  “Do all of your patients call you Bex?” I ask.

  “Some.”

  “So, like, you want us to be friends?”

  He shifts a little in his chair. “I want you to feel you can trust me with anything, including topics you might not even tell a friend.”

  I have no friends, because I wasn’t allowed to. Don’t think about
it. Don’t think about how Gertie and Melvin screwed you in the head and now you have absolutely no clue how to trust anyone.

  “All right. Then, Bex, what I need—”

  “Just one other thing, Rose, my rules still apply. Just like before.”

  Honesty, commitment to his process, and all that. “Okay.”

  “Good. Then continue.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. I have all these dates to go on, and I don’t know how any of this stuff works. How will I know if any of them are the one? I mean, I know it’s not like in the movies where the woman just locks eyes with the man she’s destined to be with and knows—although, that would be nice, since I have no clue what I’m doing.”

  Bex leans back and writes in his notebook, his lips curling up on one side.

  “Hey, this isn’t funny.”

  “I wasn’t laughing.”

  “You were smirking.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And my lack of knowledge is not a joke. I don’t want these men thinking I’m a moron.” I don’t know what to say on a date, what to ask them, or how to make a good impression. Is it even possible after that party?

  “Rose, you’re anything but a moron,” he scolds. “Lots of people struggle with dating—also known as the fine art of getting to know a person without making yourself completely vulnerable. And who’s to say these men won’t feel just as nervous being with you? You are a very…” He pauses. “You have a lot to offer.”

  I wonder what he was going to say. Smart? Beautiful? I care what he thinks, more than I should.

  “But if it’s the right person,” I say, “shouldn’t there be sparks? Shouldn’t I just feel it in my gut?”

  “I suppose it happens, but most people get to know each other little by little. First, they establish if there’s a physical attraction, and then they test the waters to see if they enjoy each other’s company—a first date. If that goes well, they test again and again, revealing just a little more about themselves each time. Until one day, they both decide to go for it and commit to the next step. And…I’m giving you dating advice.” He shakes his head at himself.