“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 story 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.
“Well, Mr. Hunter –”
“Drew, please. I insist.”
I cringed. I normally don't mind calling my clients by their first name, if it made them more comfortable. But this wasn't normal in the slightest and I had to tread carefully. Very, very carefully.
“Fine, Drew then, as you may or may not know, the reason you've been sent to me is because I'm a specialist on post-traumatic stress disorder in combat veterans. But we've run into a bit of a problem, and to be rather blunt with you, I fear it might affect our professional relationship. My colleague – Dr. Frank – doesn't have my level of experience with veterans, but I'm sure he'd be more than happy to –”
“Are you transferring me?” he asked.
He stared at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed – looking almost offended by the suggestion I was going to make.
“I believe it would be in your best interest, Drew. I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I can help you. Not with our – history.”
It pained me to admit that. I'd only been practicing for three years, but never in my life had I admitted I couldn't help someone. I'd never turn a client away who needed my expertise. It was something of an unwritten rule of mine. But I was torn and caught in a no-win situation. I was, as the old cliché went, caught between a rock and hard place.
A delicious and sexy hard place, I thought to myself – and then immediately mentally kicked myself for it.
“What if I refuse?” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “What if I want to stay with the expert and refuse to see your partner?”
“Well, there are other experts in my field I could –”
“No, you're not answering my question, Dr. Emerson,” he said. “What if I want to see you? What if I think you're the best fit for me and I refuse to see anyone else?”