as he possibly could.
But when Phoebe Moss sat in the chair in front of her desk and turned to face him with a clipboard in her lap, Adam lowered himself into the armchair.
She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up on her nose and settled down to business. “What can I do for you, Mr. DeVries?”
“Y-you’re a s-s-speech th-therapist.” He clenched his fist, hitting it against his leg. Bad enough to be here, without having to explain why.
“Yes.” The word definitely held a question. Waiting for his answer, she wrote briefly on the paper held by the clipboard.
“A-as y-you c-c-can hear, I s-s-stutter.”
Nodding, Phoebe Moss scribbled something else. “Fairly badly.”
“I w-w-want to s-stop.”
Her gaze lifted to his face. “Why?”
This was even worse than he’d expected. “W-why do you think? Talking this w-w-w-way s-s-sucks.”
Another notation. “I understand. Have you tried therapy before?”
He nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Did it work?”
“Obv-v-viously n-n-not.”
“Not even for a brief time?”
Adam shrugged. “If I c-concentrate,” he said, very slowly, “I can g-get th-through short s-sentences. But that’s n-not e-enough.”
“Has something changed in your life to prompt this new attempt?”
He gripped his hands together, studying his thumbs. The answer to her question was straightforward enough. Yet he dreaded her reaction.
When he didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “What’s changed?”
After staring a little longer at his linked fingers, Adam lifted his gaze to her face again. Her eyes, he saw in that instant, were the dark gray of a stormy ocean.
“I’m going into politics,” he said, using the exaggerated drawl he’d been taught. “I have to be able to talk without stuttering.” He finished the sentence and winced. God, he hated the sound of his voice.
His worry over her response had been justified. Phoebe Moss stared at him, her mouth open in astonishment. “Politics? You’re going to run for office?”
He nodded. “M-m-mayor of N-New Sk-Skye.”
“That’s an ambitious goal for anyone.” Looking down at the paper in her lap, she tapped her pen on the edge of the clipboard for a moment. “When were you thinking about running for office?”
“Th-this y-y-year. I-I’ve al-already f-filed.”
Her startled eyes met his. “Aren’t elections in November?”
“Y-yes. B-but the c-campaign w-w-will s-s-start by L-Labor D-Day.”
“You expect to stop stuttering in less than three months?”
“Y-yes.”
“Mr. DeVries—”
“C-call me Adam.”
“Adam, do you realize how much you’re asking of yourself? Curing a stutter can take many months—years—of practice.”
He shrugged. “I’ll j-just h-have to work hard.”
She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together, maintaining eye contact. “I can’t make any kind of guarantee on your progress. Not in three months, or six or twelve.”
“I c-can d-do it.”
“Why are you so sure, when the past hasn’t shown success?”
“Th-that w-w-was for…for o-other p-p-people.” Adam took a deep breath. “This time is for m-me.”
“I…SEE.” STUNNED, impressed—and, to be honest, a little scared—by Adam DeVries’s resolve, Phoebe sat back in her desk chair. A glance out the window to her right showed a white pickup truck, with the red-and-blue DeVries Construction logo on the door, parked next to her lime-green Beetle. Now that she thought about it, his company’s signs were posted on building projects all over town.
“You’re obviously a successful businessman.” She gestured toward the truck. “Why worry about the stutter? Let the voters accept you as you are.”
“G-good p-p-point,” he said, without the rancor she’d expected. “B-but I have to be able to make my ideas plain.” For the first time, he smiled. “At a speed g-greater than the average snail’s p-p-pace.” His words were clear—though very, very slow—and his tone was distorted, due to his prolonged speech pattern.
But that smile… Seeing it, Phoebe couldn’t get her breath. The aristocratic planes of his cheeks softened, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners as his firm lips stretched wide—Adam DeVries’s smile was like the return of the sun after an eclipse, all the more valuable for being rare.
After a shocked moment, she gathered her wits to speak. “As I said, I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I-I und-derstand.”
“We’ll need several sessions every week.”
“N-no p-problem. C-c-can w-we sc-schedule at n-n-night? I-I can’t s-s-spend so m-many m-mornings away f-from w-w-work.”
Phoebe frowned, not so much at him as at the frantic beating of her heart. What was she thinking? “I-I have responsibilities after work. And I live thirty minutes out of town.”
“Oh.” His dark brows lowered as he considered.
That was when she gave in to a truly crazy impulse. “I could see you at my home in the evening—if you wanted to drive that far.”
Adam thought for another moment, then nodded. “Th-that w-w-would w-work for m-me. Wh-wh-when?” As he had during the whole interview, he clenched his right fist and pounded it on his thigh, as if the motion helped him get the words out.
That gesture would be one of their first points of change, when they began their sessions at her house. Phoebe got to her feet, not really believing she’d agreed to this situation, let alone that she’d suggested it to begin with. “Thursday night? Seven-thirty?”
“S-s-sounds g-good.” He came to her at the desk with his arm extended. “Th-thanks, M-Miss M-M-Moss. I-I’ll see you th-then.”
“C-call me Phoebe,” she said faintly as they shook hands.
For that, Adam gave her another one of those heart-stealing smiles. “O-okay.”
She managed to remain standing as Adam DeVries left her office and headed down the hall toward the reception area. As soon as
