“Bite?”
I clear my throat. “That’s not appropriate, Miss Darling.”
She pops the candy in her mouth. Sucks loudly. The sound is indecent.
Then she winces. “Ugh. This is bitter and gross. Do you eat dark? Because if not, next time I’ll bring milk chocolate. Maybe something with cream centers. More symbolism.”
I grit my teeth. “We’re going to run out of time.”
She pouts. Pouts. “That’s tragic. Because I’m bringing you gifts. Chocolates. Devotion. Candy that tastes like sucking sin through a paper straw. And you won’t even nibble?”
“Miss Darling,” I say carefully, “did you hit a man named Chad in a gym parking lot this weekend?”
She blinks at me. “Allegedly.”
“You don’t deny it.”
“I said allegedly. I’m not a liar. I’m just creatively honest.”
“You could’ve been arrested.”
“I was busy being fingered at the time,” she says flatly, then leans back and stretches in a way that makes her skirt inch higher. “Priorities, Rhys.”
I take a breath. Try to ground myself in clinical distance. “I’d like to focus on your decision to initiate group therapy. That’s a good step. Let’s explore why you…”
“Do you like dark chocolate?” she interrupts again.
My patience flickers. “I prefer white.”
“Oh, Rhys,” she says, breathless. “I love that for us.”
She closes the candy bag and tosses it aside, then leans forward with conspiratorial glee. “Forget this bag. I wasn’t properly prepared. I’ll bring something better next time. Something that melts.”
I nod slowly, because I have no idea what the hell I’m agreeing to anymore.
But I know one thing.
She’s going to end me.
And I’m going to thank her when she does.
She crosses her legs the opposite way, and the move is so casual it feels choreographed.
I clear my throat, trying to remember how to act like a man with a doctorate and not a hard-on. “What happened at the gym?”
She waves a hand, her tone dismissive. “Oh, Chad called me a tramp. I defended myself. Well, technically I didn’t. Jett restrained me. But then I went outside because Jett can’t be around that man, and he was so mad I stole his hat that he lost it and fingered me on his motorcycle.”
She says it like she’s recounting the weather. As if fingered me on his motorcycle is just a thing that happens betweenerrands and therapy. Like it’s not about to live rent-free in my head for the rest of the goddamn week.
I nod slowly. Pretending my dick isn’t already trying to press against the seam of my trousers for a better look.
She tilts her head, thoughtful. “No, maybe it wasn’t the hat. It’s probably because he told me not to touch his bike, which was rude because I only touched it to leave a gift, so I sat on it. Anyway, I did it again yesterday. He hasn’t called. I think he’s ghosting me. But I solved his Chad issue.”
Her smile is smug. Satisfied. Like solving a “Chad issue” is something you can cross off a to-do list between “drop off dry cleaning” and “commit minor felony.”
Listening to her is like watching a car crash in slow motion, except she’s the one behind the wheel, grinning, while I’m strapped in the passenger seat wondering when the airbags are going to deploy.
My tie feels tight. My jaw’s locked so hard it aches. I’m imagining her on her knees, tongue greedy, saying my name like a fucking prayer I never deserved.
