Heart Conditions (The Breakup Doctor Series Book 3) by Phoebe Fox

wasn’t going to make either mistake again.
    “Michael, I don’t have to tell you that working with me is a bad idea. You know better than that. And if this is just a way to try to start something between us, that’s not—”
    “No, no—I don’t want to hire you, Brook. I want to help you.”
    “You…What?”
    Our ennui-filled server showed up with two bottles of Anchor Steam gripped in her left hand. In her right were a pair of cardboard coasters; she flung one down in front of each of us as if she were dealing cards. “Two Anchors, no mugs.” She set the beers in front of each of us. “You want food?”
    “Can we have a few minutes?” Michael said.
    She shrugged. “It’s your stomach.”
    After she shuffled away, Michael put his arms on the table, leaning in and ignoring his beer. “Brook, what you’re doing…it’s so unique. Your column, the radio show, all your clients—you’re obviously good at this, and there’s obviously a market for it, judging by how fast you’ve turned this into a business. But you can reach, what, a handful of people you actually counsel one-on-one? Maybe you can do some group therapy or something, but outside of that and these local media outlets, it doesn’t scale up, am I right?”
    He was startlingly right. My attempts to see more people than my office hours could allow had led to my starting group therapy sessions for the recently bereaved (of love) that I ran every Saturday. And it still bothered me when I was too busy to fit people in who needed acute help—like Nina Edelburg this morning, who’d called back after the show went off the air and asked about scheduling a series of sessions with me. My first available slot wasn’t until more than two weeks away—an eternity in the acute stages of a breakup. Michael’s quick insight into the limitations of my business model was impressive—and disconcerting.
    “Yes,” I said cautiously.
    He nodded once, fingers once again tapping out a complicated Morse code on the table. “And I know you—you’re probably working way too many hours and having trouble making sure you keep a work-life balance. And still feeling guilty that you aren’t able to do enough for people.”
    I felt blood surge to my face. “Maybe,” I said, rather stiffly.
    “I don’t think you have to push yourself so hard to reach all the people you probably want to reach. All you have to do is work smarter.”
    I narrowed my gaze on him and framed my words carefully. “Look, I appreciate that you’ve obviously given a lot of thought to this, but this is my business. It’s not really any of yours.” I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but I was uncomfortable with his avid interest in my career. And, if I were honest, with how thoroughly my ex-fiancé still seemed to know me—and at how little I’d apparently changed.
    He released that grin I knew so well, and I felt walls slam up into place. “Don’t get defensive. You’re right—it’s not my business. But promotion is. And I’m good at it, Brook—seriously good at it. No promoter gets a band signed the first time up at bat—no one. But I did—partly because I am good at this, but a lot of it had to do with them. They were damn talented. And so are you. That column in this morning’s paper? And I’ve read your other ones. It’s good advice—and you get a ton of comments posted every week, which tells me you know how to hit a cultural nerve. You’re a natural on the radio. You’re too good to be lost here in some rinky-dink beach town when you could be reaching a bigger audience. A much bigger audience. I’m talking about newspaper syndication. Magazines. Radio syndication. TV.”
    Something inside me leaped at the picture Michael was painting. I’d long been thinking how to expand my Breakup Doctor practice, but always ran up against the wall that it wasn’t exactly something I could hire help for, or farm out to others. My business could grow only to the point that I could