years she’d waited to talk to this man again. Ten years waiting to ask him what the hell had happened back in Paris and why he’d never contacted her.
Alex—her Alex. Her prince was finally standing right in front of her.
He was every bit as handsome as she remembered. Better, even.
Tanned skin, dark hair and bright blue eyes. She’d sometimes wondered if she’d imagined how blue they were. But she hadn’t. If anything she’d underestimated their effects. But, then again, she’d never seen Alex in daylight.
She wasn’t imagining any of this. All six foot four of him was standing right in front of her.
Her eyes lowered to where his hand was touching her. Tiny electric pulses were shooting up her arm. She didn’t know whether to cry or be sick.
Every part of her imagination had just turned into reality.
In a way, it was a relief. She had met Alex. He did remember her. So why was that making her so darn angry right now?
He pulled his hand back from her arm and she lifted her head, pulling her shoulders back. He’d taken his hand away. And it had left her feeling bereft. Now she was feeling angry with herself. She didn’t have a sensible thought in her head right now.
She swallowed and looked him in the eye. ‘How can I help you, Alex?’ The words were automatic. It was all she could manage right now.
He looked around. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
She nodded and gestured with her arm for him to walk down the corridor, stopped at a door, pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door.
Her office. It even had her name on the door: ‘Ruby Wetherspoon, Head of Speech and Language’. She’d done well. Most days she was proud. Today she had no idea how she felt.
The office was small, but neat and tidy. She pointed to a chair and invited him to sit. It was almost a relief to sit at the other side of the desk and have the heavy wooden structure between them.
‘How exactly do you think I can be of assistance to you, Alex?’
Her words were formal, her professional façade slipping back into place. The juggling of the cards on the table-top was the only sign of her nerves. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.
‘It’s not me. It’s my daughter Annabelle. She’s three years old now and she isn’t speaking.’
Ruby nodded automatically. His daughter. Of course. Why else would be come to her?
She had this sort of conversation every day. This one wouldn’t be much different.
‘Three years old is still an acceptable age for speech development. All children develop at a different rate. Some children have a delay in their speech and language development. Have you had her hearing checked?’
He sighed. She was going back to basics—which was the correct thing for a health professional. But she could tell from his expression he’d heard it all before.
‘I’ve had ten different professional opinions on Annabelle. The latest of which is selective mutism. Her hearing is fine. Her comprehension is fine. She doesn’t seem to want to speak.’
She could feel herself bristle. Ten assessments on a child? Talk about overkill. Why not just let her develop at her own pace? She tried to be pragmatic.
‘How does she communicate with those around her?’
‘She signs.’
Ruby was surprised. ‘Proper signing?’
He nodded. ‘We have a member of staff who’s deaf. She’s been able to sign since she was young.’
It wasn’t particularly unusual in children who were deaf, or in children who had deaf siblings. But it was unusual in a child who could apparently hear and speak.
She lifted her hands. ‘Then maybe she thinks that’s normal?’
He shook his head.
It was time to ask some more questions.
‘Has Annabelle ever spoken? Ever said a few words?’
‘Only on a few select occasions.’
Strange... Ruby couldn’t help but be a little curious. Selective mutism was certainly unusual but she’d dealt with a few cases before. She’d even published some professional papers on it.
Ruby lowered her voice. ‘Does she speak to you, Alex?’
The question was straight to the heart of the matter. It was a natural question for any health professional, but she saw him recoil. She’d seen this before. He felt this was his fault. She’d dealt with lots of parents who felt guilty about whatever issue their child had. Most of the time it was just hard luck. Genetics. A developmental delay. A head injury or similar accident.
She asked the most practical question. ‘Does Annabelle have anything significant in her medical history?’
‘No. Nothing.’
They sat in silence for a few seconds. She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t take it a second longer. Her professional façade was slipping. After all this time—just to turn up like this and expect her to help him—just because he asked? Did she have mug stamped across her forehead?
She couldn’t even acknowledge the flutters in her stomach. She couldn’t even explain her feeling when she’d heard his voice and turned to see him again after all this time. It had been like a sucker punch.
It was time to stop being so polite.
Ruby leaned back in her chair. ‘I don’t get it, Alex. After all this time, why come to me? Why come here? You must have plenty of people in Euronia willing to help with your daughter.’
His brow was lined with deep furrows that marred his handsome face. It made her feel self-conscious. She only had the lightest dusting of make-up on, to emphasise her brown eyes and pink lips. How much had she changed in the last ten years? Would he be disappointed by what he saw?
Why was he here? Why, after all this time, had he been convinced that this was the right thing to do?
‘I want to feel as if I’ve tried everything possible for Annabelle. I haven’t had faith in any of the people who have seen her and assessed her. And, whilst the latest diagnosis seems reasonable, I’m not happy at the treatment plan for Annabelle.’
Maybe that’s because you should have left her alone to be a normal toddler. Ruby was still imagining what ten assessments had done to that poor child. But she couldn’t say those words out loud.
It was difficult. This was Alex, her mysterious Frenchman—who wasn’t a Frenchman after all. She’d never thought she’d come into contact with him for work. She never thought she’d come into contact with him again.
‘What is the treatment plan for Annabelle?’
He pushed a folder he’d been carrying across the desk towards her. She opened it and scanned it quickly. Whilst the assessment might have been thorough, she didn’t agree at all with what was in the plan, or with the conclusions it had already surmised.
Ever the professional, she raised her head and selected her words carefully. ‘Every professional will have a different idea of the correct plan for your daughter. It’s not really my place to disagree.’
He pointed to the file. ‘What would you do?’
She opened her mouth automatically to speak, then closed it again. ‘What does it matter?’
‘Because I’d like you to come to Euronia and assess Annabelle for yourself. I’d like you to be the one to plan her care and treat her.’
He might as well have dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over her head. She was stunned.