“Dr. Emerson is ready to see you now,” she said. “Come on back.”
She opened the door for me and ushered me into a room with soft lighting and an even softer couch. There were throw pillows, so I situated myself between those awkwardly, not wanting to mess anything up. A box of tissues sat on a table beside the couch.
“She'll be right in,” the receptionist said. “Just make yourself at home and get comfortable while you wait.”
Get comfortable. At a shrink's office. Hardly possible. Even at one set up as cozy and comfortable as this was. Yeah, sure, I was supposed to come in and open up and explore my feelings and shit, but that was hard to do when you'd been taught and conditioned to push your feelings away for your entire life.
There was a soft knock at the door, and a moment later, it opened. I stood up to greet my therapist, and when I did, our eyes met and my jaw hit the floor.
“It's you,” I said, feeling ashamed that I never got her first name. “It's – it's you.”
She seemed as shocked as I did, as she held onto the door for dear life. Almost like she wanted to leave again. I couldn't blame her. The instinct to bolt straight out the door and never looking back was running through me.
“Y - you're a doctor?” was all I could think to say. “My doctor?”
In my head, I was trying to recall everything we'd talked about the night before. I ran through as much as I could remember, trying to figure out if I'd said anything too revealing or personal. Never once had it ever entered my mind that this hot piece of ass from last night was doctor material so I wasn't overly careful with my words. But then again, it wasn't like we did much talking anyway.
“Yes, I am actually,” she said. “And you must be Drew – Drew Hunter, I see.”
She looked down at my file, reading it to herself. But her eyes lingered on the pages a little longer than necessary and I got the impression she was just trying to avoid looking into my eyes. Flashes of what we'd done last night scrolled through my mind and I had to admit, I felt myself growing a little warmer and getting a little stiff in the pants.
“It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand, her eyes still not quite meeting my own. I watched her hand trembling, even as she tried to smile and play it off. “I'm Dr. Emerson.”
“Please, call me Drew,” I said. “I mean, after what we did last night and –”
“Drew it is then!” she said with a little too much enthusiasm before taking a seat across from me.
She crossed her legs, and yes, I noticed her sexy legs in her pencil skirt – legs that I'd had my face buried between not all that long ago. She was dressed professionally today, her hair pulled back and even had some glasses on her face. But it was her. It was the girl from last night. Neither her clothes, her hair, or her glasses could hide that fact from me.
And she was my fucking therapist. I didn't know if I was lucky or cursed.
AMELIA
Drew. His name was Drew. I had to admit, he looked very much like a Drew too. As I met his gaze, my eyes fell on his lips – lips that were so thick, so luscious, so soft, and oh so delicious. I licked my lips as I remembered kissing those lips last night – only hours ago, actually.
No, stop it, Amelia, I told myself. You can't do this. Pretend like nothing happened. That's the best course of action. Act like it never happened. Just carry on and do your job.
“So this is your first time in therapy, Drew?”
“Yeah,” he said with a sly smile. “I guess there's a first time for everything, huh, Dr. Emerson?”
If he expected me to tell him to call me Amelia, he was going to be waiting a long time. As awkward as it was for the man I'd just fucked to call me doctor, it would be even more awkward – and much too casual for my liking – if he called me by my first name.
“I've looked over your file. The Navy was kind enough to send it over, and it seems that you've been suffering from what appears to be PTSD. I understand that you're looking for a formal diagnosis, as well as to get treatment for your condition. Is that, about right?”
“I'm fine,” he said, brushing it off. “I'm not dealing with anything anybody else isn't. I don't think what I'm going through is different than anybody else goes through when they've seen combat.”
“Uh huh,” I said, pushing my glasses up higher on my nose as I tried to look at Drew through my professional, medical lens opposed to the one of a warm-blooded female. “If you're fine, why are you here?”
He shrugged. “My Captain insisted upon it. I told him I could go back to work anytime now, but they seem to think I need to talk to a shrink – err, I mean a therapist. No offense.”
“None taken.”
The notes from Drew's Captain told an entirely different stor
y altogether. Dissociation, depression, panic attacks – all symptoms that had manifested during combat. I knew men like Drew – I worked with them every single day. He wasn't going to talk to me about anything he'd gone through over there.
Even if we hadn't hooked up, I could tell it would be hard for him to truly open up. But since we had a sexual relationship, there was no way this Navy SEAL was going to allow himself appear weak or vulnerable in front of me. Especially after his bravado when we'd first met in the bar last night. It was hard enough to break through that tough exterior as it was, but now, given our history – limited thought it was – I felt like it very well could be impossible.