Jan Freed - My Fair Gentleman

He stopped, his back muscles bunched with tension.

“We start tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. No shoes, no proper shirt—no service. A shower wouldn’t hurt, either.”

His free hand clenched and unclenched once. Without acknowledging her in any other way, he continued on toward the apartment stairs.

Catherine closed the kitchen door and slowly walked to the table. Lifting the pitcher of orange juice from a puddle of condensation, she poured herself a glass, pinched off a piece of brittle white icing from a cinnamon roll and popped it into her mouth. The sugary confection melted on contact.

She’d more than likely just robbed herself of a private counseling practice, Catherine realized, staring into a whorl of rose petals. Yet concern for Allie had left her no choice. Her goading remarks had been catalysts for change, necessary risks. Well, most of them, anyway. She probably should’ve resisted that last dig about the shower.

If Joe accepted the concept that his “self” and his feelings were two separate entities—and Catherine thought she’d seen a breakthrough—they could move on to exploring deeper issues. Like what motivated his fear. And why his daughter expected him to disappoint her. And of course, how a blue-collar jock could transform into a member of the beau monde in twenty-eight days.

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