My Fair Gentleman. Jan Freed

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      A light glimmered and faded in his eyes, returning as a cynical gleam. He executed a mocking bow. “Thank you, Dr. Hamilton, for clearing that up for me. I feel so much more in touch now with my feminine self. Or is it my inner child breaking free?”

      “My money’s on the brat,” she said wryly. “And I’m not a practicing counselor. Yet.”

      He bowed again, this time with grudging respect, and studied her a long moment. “You’re really not going to start my lessons today, are you?”

      She already had, but fortunately he was oblivious. “I told you, I have other things to do. Life doesn’t revolve around your whims or convenience, no matter how much you’d like to think so.”

      Supremely indifferent, he squinted up at the sun. “Beautiful day.” He slanted her a casual look. “Think I’ll drive to Galveston and check out the beach action. I can work on my tan and still make it back to the Y before softball camp is over.”

      She shrugged. “Maybe. If you don’t lose track of time, that is.” Bending over, she plucked his sneakers from the flagstone patio and dangled them out from two fingertips. “The sand gets pretty hot. Wouldn’t want you to burn your feet.”

      He stepped forward and snatched the shoes from her hand, his glittering stare promising retribution. She waited until he’d turned and was halfway across the patio before calling, “Oh, Joe?”

      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.