“We thought you were ill.” Despite the surprise factor and concern in John’s voice, Dean did nothing more than wave a hand in his direction. The man was an employee and Dean was the boss; the workers had no say when Dean came and went. He managed not to slam the office door behind him, but only just.
Dean dropped into his chair, aware that his thoughts were yet again unfair. He didn’t know what he needed to talk to his therapist about more—his sexuality or his disposition. Why did he react with such aggression? If the men had noticed his mood, maybe they’d give him a few moments of peace before bringing him their problems of the day. Hope ruled. He needed quiet time.
His therapist. Ha! Therapist and bloody counselling contract. A counselling contract! He’d looked to Ms Candice Hemingway
