I’m not naive. I know I’m attracted to the man. And yes, perhaps I’ve fantasized about him a handful of times since we met, but it’s harmless. There is no way in hell I would actually act on it.

  “Yours, girl. And you should know by now that I always root for my friends partaking in some toe-curling, good ol’ nasty fucking. Every woman needs to be fucked within an inch of her life once in a while, and sex with the enemy? That’s the best kind, my dear.”

  I see my cheeks blush right before my eyes as I look up in the mirror, staring back at the woman I barely recognize at this moment.

  I’m usually so cool, calm, and collected. But Ethan makes me irrational, crazy, and impulsive. Never in a million years would I say things to a man as I have to him, even if he crossed me. I have no problem defending myself when the situation warrants it, but Ethan makes my talons come out, and my words have been far sharper than I normally would allow them to be. There’s more to this attraction I feel toward him, and that’s forcing me to show my not-so-nice sides.

  “I have to go.”

  “The truth hurts sometimes, doesn’t it, Amelia Be Delia?”

  “My client is coming. We’ll talk later.”

  “Use protection!” she shouts into the phone before I end the call and slam it on my desk, as if hurting the phone will undo the truth of that conversation.

  But I barely have time to think about the can of worms Penelope opened up and the lasting ramifications of my discussion with Ethan this morning before there’s a polite knock on my door.

  Smoothing down the front of my dress, I greet my first client with a smile on my face and slip into therapist mode, hoping that underneath my put-together shell, she can’t see that I’m just as much of a mess as the next person.

  After my run-in with Ethan on Monday, I thought for sure I would have heard from him the next day in some shape, form, or fashion. But I was greeted with nothing but silence, which is even more unsettling in a way. However, by Wednesday, I now know why he didn’t retaliate yesterday because his next move required some preparation.

  As I pull up to the office, I see a sign spinner standing on the corner of the street, holding up a giant arrow advertising his firm. “Fuller & Grant will get you what you want in your divorce!” the sign says in big, bold lettering as the man head bobs to his music playing in his headphones.

  I roll my eyes as I park my car and hustle up to my office, not at all prepared that there was more to his scheme. A sign spinner is eye-catching, although I don’t know that they really do much from an advertising perspective. However, it’s not just the sign spinner that he’s added to his move.

  A standing chalkboard sign is stationed right at the opening of the courtyard that separates our offices, and the message on the board has me biting my tongue in an instant.

  “20% off lawyers’ fees if Dr. St. Clair didn’t help you. Come in and ask us how we can help you move on with your life.”

  A giant, double-sided green arrow points toward his office and mine, and by this point, all I can see is red, and I’m not even color-blind.

  It’s one thing to innocently leave business cards or fib a small white lie about handing out brochures to clients. But this? This is borderline slander. He could ruin my reputation if people start giving up on therapy before they actually make their breakthroughs or if people assume I don’t know what I’m doing because he’s insinuating that I can’t help them.

  I drop my bags off in my office and march across to his, ready for a fight. My palms are sweaty, my pulse is racing, and my feet are pounding the pavement beneath them.

  But then I stop before I ever open the door.

  This is what he wants. He wants this reaction from me. He wants to see me pissed and angry, fueling the fire and war between us.

  And even though I want to tell him what I think and how his little move makes me feel, I also know that sometimes you have to be the bigger person and say nothing at all. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight back. He’ll just have to get the message through my actions and not my words.

  I take a deep breath, plaster a fake smile on my lips, and retreat to my office to retaliate in private instead, knowing there’s only one person who can help me put an end to this.

  I hit Penelope’s name and wait for her to answer.

  “Hello, my friend. How can I help you this morning?”

  “Do it.”

  She pauses. “Are you asking me to do what I think you are?”

  “Yes.” I nod, even though she can’t see me. “It’s time to drop the atomic bomb.”

  An evil laugh fills the line. “How atomic do you want me to be?”

  “Money is no object. Hit him hard, Pen. I want this man to wish he’d never messed with me.”

  I hear her click a few buttons and then declare, “It’s done. I already had the order in my cart, ready to go. I knew this call was coming.”

  “How many did you order?”

  Her evil laugh rings out again. “Don’t worry. Let it be a surprise.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And you can thank me again once you two screw. This is the most dire game of foreplay I’ve ever been a part of, and I’m not even the one in the running for an orgasm.”

  Thursday starts off the same as Wednesday, the chalkboard sign and sign spinner taunting me as I make my way to my office. But I’m not going to let Ethan and his shenanigans get me down today. Brayden called me last night, and we finalized plans for our date on Friday evening.

  I’m not going to lie—between work and ruminating on how to make Ethan’s life a living hell within legal means—this week made me forget about our date. But after talking to him briefly, I remembered how excited I was when he asked me out. The thought of dating again after a long time is scary, but I also know that it’s necessary. And besides, it has to be a hell of a lot healthier than wanting to hate fuck the divorce attorney across the courtyard.

  My first two sessions of the day are couples, one of which is John and Melissa. It’s been a little over a week since I saw them last, and I know he’s since been to the men’s clinic that Brayden owns.

  “Well, John. How did the appointment at the men’s clinic go?” I ask as I settle into my seat and look across at the two of them sitting on the couch. Daylight fills the room, the bright hue almost like a ray of hope.

  “Um, it was eye-opening,” he replies, throwing his body back into the couch.

  “How so?”

  “He learned he has the testosterone level of a fifty-five-year-old man!” Melissa exclaims with a smile on her face.

  “Jesus, honey. You don’t have to shout it for the entire neighborhood to hear.”

  She turns to her husband and places her hand on his knee. “I’m not. I’m just excited.”

  “Why on earth are you excited?” John asks his wife incredulously.

  “Because this provides us with a very logical explanation for your lack of a sex drive, John,” I answer for Melissa as she nods in agreement. “This means we have something to consider when it comes to helping you and Melissa move forward.”

  John sighs. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Melissa turns to her husband. “They can help us, John. The shots they told you about at the clinic can get your levels back up, and Amelia can help us with what we need to do in the bedroom.” She turns to me. “When can we start?”

  I smile, loving her excitement. The woman clearly wants to get laid, and soon.

  Yeah, I feel you on that one, sister.

  “You can start tonight, Melissa.”

  “Okay. How?”

  “I want you to talk about having sex with each other but not actually complete the physical act,” I answer blatantly. John and Melissa just stare at me. “Look, the reason you’re here is because sex is what you both feel is missing, so you need to start by talking about it. Tell each other what you want to do to one another. Remind each other about the things that you do that you both enjoy, or recall a memory of a particularly hot time that you never forget. You can compare it to phone sex if you want. Lie on your sides, face one another, and voice all of your ideas and thoughts out loud while staring into each other’s eyes.”

  “But don’t touch each other?” Melissa clarifies.

  “No, unless you both decide to go there.”

  “How is that supposed to help?” John challenges me.

  “Because our minds are so much more powerful than we care to admit.” Yeah, just how yours can’t stop thinking about Ethan, huh, Amelia? “By talking about it, remembering a time when you couldn’t keep your hands off each other, and recalling sexual moments between you two, you’re going to reactivate that part of your brain. And it will give you time to think about it.”

  “What if we get so turned on that we want to have sex?” Melissa asks now, hope in her voice.

  “Then give in to that need, like I said, as long as you’re both in that space. Believe me, I want you to have sex, but only if it feels organic. If not, just talk, and experience intimacy without being intimate. Sometimes we forget that all the things that come before sex are just as important as the act itself.”

  Like business wars as an act of foreplay.

  John nods reluctantly. “Talking…about sex?”

  “Yes. And I know it can feel awkward at first, but being able to talk about it makes the act that much more enjoyable. And John? Please get those shots regularly as soon as possible. I promise you will feel a difference in your energy and libido.”

  “I got one dose the other day, but the doctor said it can take a few weeks for things to kick in.”

  “That’s correct, but I’m so glad you’re open to trying this.”

  “Thank you, Dr. St. Clair.” Melissa rushes across the room to hug me.

  “You’re welcome.”

  We spend the rest of the time working on other issues, and by the end of the session, both John and Melissa look more at ease.

  That’s why I do what I do. Being able to help people feel lighter, feel normal—it’s the power of therapy. To know that you’re not crazy, that your thoughts are validated, that the emotions that feel insurmountable at times can be named and have a purpose, and can be used in a healthy way.

  And helping people achieve that with their partners is the icing on the cake.

  After lunch, a client that I’ve been seeing for almost a year now comes in.

  “Georgiana. It’s so good to see you.”

  “You too, Dr. St. Clair.”

  I wait for her to settle into the couch and then read her energy before speaking. Her shoulders aren’t drawn up, her skin looks clear, and I can almost see a smile on her face. “You look happy, Georgiana.”

  That hint of a smile builds. “I am. I…I met someone.”

  Georgiana attends UCLA, my alma mater, and came to see me shortly after she was raped by the boyfriend of one of her close friends. Not only did her friend not believe her after the fact, but the guy and girl proceeded to tell everyone that she came onto him. It has been a rollercoaster helping her work through the betrayal, intimacy issues, and trauma. But today it looks like we’re making progress.

  “I’m glad to hear that, although remember there is no timeline for how fast you need to move forward.”

  “I know, but he’s in one of my upper division writing classes, so we bonded over our love of classic literature and have been spending a lot of time getting to know each other.”

  “Okay,” I reply optimistically. “Continue…”

  Georgiana proceeds to tell me about how much time they’ve been spending together, how he makes her feel safe, and how she feels he may be the guy she could move on with physically.

  “That is a big step to take.”

  “I know. And I know I can change my mind at any time…”

  “Yes, you can. Just because you feel ready one minute doesn’t mean you can’t have a change of heart in the next. And if he doesn’t understand that, then he’s not the right person.”

  “I told him what happened,” she confesses, which is huge for her progress.

  “And how did he react?”

  “He hugged me, held me, and apologized that I ever had to go through something like that.”

  I smile, relieved that there are still good men out in the world. “He sounds like a genuinely good guy.”

  “He is. I know it’s early, but I just wanted to say that I haven’t felt this strong in almost a year, Dr. St. Clair. And that’s all because of you.”

  Tears threaten to build, but I hold them back. It’s not that I don’t think I shouldn’t be allowed to show emotion in front of my clients, but I like to keep the sessions about them. “No, that’s because of you, Georgiana. You’ve put in the work. You’re the one moving forward and working to overcome that experience. You’re not letting the experience control you anymore, and that’s the most powerful part of your strength.”

  When the session ends, I decide to walk with her outside to get some sunshine and fresh air.

  “Thank you again.” She wipes away a few tears from under her eyes. “I’ll see you in two weeks.” She pulls me in for a hug, and I have no problem giving that to her. Hell, I hug any client that needs it. The power of human touch is incredible and a highly underutilized antidepressant.

  “See you then. Good luck, and remember to take things slow and make sure they feel right.”

  I watch her walk away, more than proud of how much she has grown since she walked into my office, scared, alone, and lacking confidence. But then a voice over my shoulder breaks through my moment.

  “I didn’t realize you made your clients pay for hugs.”

  I spin to face him. “Excuse me?”

  “Is a hug part of the package deal? Something included with your fees so your clients can feel love since they aren’t getting it from their partners?”

  I’m floored. I didn’t think Ethan’s cockiness would allow him to stoop that low, but I guess I was wrong.

  “For your information, and without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality, that young woman is not married. She’s actually overcoming severe trauma from the past year. She isn’t coming to me to save her marriage, and not that you deserve the right to know, but that’s not the only thing I do, Ethan.” I take a few steps toward him and poke a finger into his chest.

  His eyes go wide as he realizes his mistake. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Fuck, Amelia, I’m…”

  Holding my hand up in front of his face now, I cut him off, and thankfully he takes the hint. “Not every client I work with is married. Sometimes the point of therapy is about saving your own dignity, too, about trying to revive a healthy sexual relationship with yourself, or knowing that at least you tried everything in your power not to feel like you’re walking around with the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  He swallows. “I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. And hopefully, this will remind you that you never know what someone else is going through. You may never know how hard someone has fought for their relationship with someone else or themselves, so you’re better off saying nothing at all.”

  And then I leave, retreat back into my office, and let disappointment come over me.

  Ethan and I have both acted immaturely and out of character since we met, but that little comment just now was crossing the line. And I don’t want any more part in that.

  Today was a reminder that what I do is far too important to worry about what he’s doing. And so from now on, I’m going to protect my clients and my job from him. Ethan Fuller no longer exists as far as I’m concerned.

  “Amelia St. Clair?” A masculine voice pulls my attention from the file I’m reviewing in front of me. I stand from my desk and greet the delivery man who just entered my office.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “These are for you.” He sets two potted orchids down on the small coffee table in the front of my office, one yellow and one purple. “Can you sign here, please?”

  I set the file on my desk and stride over to him, scribbling my name on his paper. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  As soon as he exits, I turn to study the flowers, caught off guard by this unexpected gift.

  I love orchids. In fact, they’re my favorite flower. Back in college, Charlotte, Noelle, Penelope, and I went to get matching tattoos of our favorite flowers on our shoulders. It was a moment that solidified our friendship and reminded me that the bond we share is rare and delicate, just like orchids are.

  However, I can’t imagine any of the girls sending these to me. It’s not my birthday, and there are two flowers here, not three. Usually, they will each send me something.

  So who could these be from? I don’t see a card anywhere, and the delivery guy didn’t hand me anything.

  But then it hits me—Brayden.

  Tonight is our date, and he must have sent these to me in anticipation. But wouldn’t he have left a message if that were the case?

  I don’t have much time to contemplate his intentions because my next client and her husband walk through the door just a few seconds later.

  “Good morning, Dr. St. Clair.” Kelly and her husband, Drew, waltz in just a few minutes before their appointment.

  “Good morning.”

  Kelly instantly gravitates toward my delivery. “Aw, orchids. Such a beautiful flower.”

  “I agree.” I move to grab their file from my desk, not wanting to waste any more time ruminating. “Are you two ready?”

  Drew juts his thumb over his shoulder. “Are you aware there’s a divorce attorney right across the courtyard from you?” he asks.

  “Oh, I’m well aware, unfortunately.”

  “But you were here first, right?” He continues talking as we make our way back to the room where I hold my sessions.

  “Yes.”

  “Damn, what a dick,” he states bluntly.

  And I can’t help but chuckle. “This may sound unprofessional, but I have to agree.”

  Chapter 6

 

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