Oh no.
She has a thing for him.
I narrow my eyes.
Does she want my therapist? Because I get it. If I worked with Rhys, I’d be professionally useless and probably very pregnant.
But this is a problem. Because he clearly wants me.
Weekly sessions? That’s not therapy. That’s foreplay with paperwork.
Bi-weekly is for people who cry once in a while and own yoga mats.
I’m special.
Her blink slows, like she’s processing my existence at half-speed. Studying me. Assessing. Maybe silently hexing me.
“I suggested breakfast sessions,” I add sweetly. “He seems like an éclair man, don’t you think? Or maybe Boston crème. He’s got that… creamy center energy.”
She physically recoils.
It’s extremely satisfying.
Unquestionably into him.
I’m about to ask for one of those How Did We Do? feedback forms just so I can note that the receptionist gave cock-block vibes and failed to match my enthusiasm for pastry-based flirting when the office door swings open behind me with the kind of violent swagger that should come with a musical sting and a warning label.
And then God personally intervenes.
Because he walks in.
Boots. Tattoos. Tight jeans painted onto thighs that probably make eye contact when he walks. A faded gym tee clings to a chest that looks sculpted by regrets. His arms? Designed for sin. Biceps built to ruin someone’s credit score.
He’s got that kind of effortless strut that says I’m the problem and you’re gonna like it.
“Yes, please,” I whisper.
Sign me up. Swear me in. Sacrifice me to his delts.
“So,” he says to the room, voice all gravel and sex, like he’s chewing on a cigar and your boundaries. “This where the group shit goes down?”
Group shit? Oh no. He’s a fellow criminal. A kindred spirit with felonies and forearms. Our souls have already high-fived.
I stare. No, it’s more. I gape.
Not in horror.
In full ovarian surrender.
Because sweet creamy Christ on a cracker, this man is not Rhys.
This man is absolutely not my therapist.
But this man is one hundred percent talking to my reproductive system.
The receptionist points to the hallway without looking up. Probably because she doesn’t want to risk making eye contact with the sun.
He winks at her (rude) then saunters past me with a flash of white teeth and a scent like spiced chocolate, sweat, and poor impulse control.
