“Fuck my life,” I mutter as I finish the walk to my office and step inside, shoving my phone in my pocket. “Good morning, Yvonne.”
My secretary is sitting at her desk acting as our receptionist, and her head lifts with a bright smile on her lips when she hears me. “How was kindergarten drop-off?”
“Great. Oliver was a little scared, but once we got inside, he was eager for us to leave.”
“That’s great. My son held onto my leg and screamed for five minutes until the teacher finally bribed him with candy, and I snuck out the door.”
“Yikes. Sounds like fun.”
“Parenting always is.” She winks.
“All right, are we all ready for the new clients in the conference room?”
“Yup. Paperwork is on the table, ready to go.”
“Excellent.” I head to my office, grab my things, and then proceed to the conference room just a few minutes later. But when I go to take a seat in my chair, the brochure sitting on top of our welcome package for clients freezes me in my tracks.
“Before you go through with the big D, please consider therapy.”
A picture of Amelia’s office, as well as her contact information, stares back at me as I pick up the tri-fold of paper and read through her welcome pamphlet.
My blood pressure spikes, my jaw tightens, and suddenly the apology that I had planned for later today flies right out of my head.
“Yvonne!” I rush from the conference room and watch my secretary jump in her seat.
“Yes, Mr. Fuller?”
“What the hell are these?” I hold up the brochure in question.
With wide eyes, she slinks back in her chair. “Those are the brochures that Dr. St. Clair dropped by earlier this morning.”
“What?”
“She said you two spoke and decided to cross-promote. I figured that’s why she was waiting for you in your office last week. I really thought the slogan was quite catchy,” she continues, feeding my skyrocketing blood pressure even more. “And what a great idea to offer counseling to our clients. Sometimes divorce can be avoided if you just talk out your issues.”
Is there steam coming out of my ears? I feel like there’s steam.
“Fuck!” Spinning around with the brochure in hand, I slam the door of my office open and beeline right for Amelia’s door. I don’t care if she has a client right now. This conversation can’t wait.
Knocking way more than politely on the glass on her door, I rock on my heels as I wait for her to answer. And when she does and sees what I assume can only be described as pure rage on my face, her beaming white smile holds me hostage for a moment until her extreme pleasure from the state I’m in becomes apparent.
“Yes, Mr. Fuller? Can I help you?”
“Care to explain these?” I hold the pamphlet up for the third time in less than five minutes.
“Oh, those. I figured if you were adamant about leaving your business cards in my office, it’s the least I could do to give your clients some reading material as well.”
“Before you go through with the big D, please consider therapy?” I mockingly read out loud in a feminine voice. “Really catchy.”
“I thought so.” Her grin is controlled, but I can tell that she’s fucking loving this.
“You know, I had every intention of coming over here today to apologize to you, to admit that I’ve been an ass since we met and that my reaction to you has been unwarranted, that you haven’t truly done anything to me that justifies my behavior. But now…”
She opens the door wider and crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts together, and I fight like hell not to look down and appreciate them. “Yes?”
“Now this is war.”
Narrowing her eyes at me, we stand there in silence until she finally speaks. “Are you sure you want that?”
“You’re the one who entered into this battle.”
“But you started it.”
“I don’t think this complex is big enough for the both of us, Dr. St. Clair.”
“Are we in an old western film now, Mr. Fuller?”
Fuck, the woman is making me lose my concentration. The flecks of gold in her eyes are distracting, the purse of her lips has me wanting to smash my mouth to hers, and the crinkle between her brows is so damn sexy that I wonder if she wears that same expression when she comes.
What the hell, Ethan? You’re fucking losing it, man.
Before I do something I can’t take back and give in to the physical draw I feel toward her, I step back a few feet and continue moving backward while keeping our eyes locked. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m not scared of you, Ethan. On the contrary, I think you’re scared of me.” I freeze in my movements but then she drops her arms and moves forward, closing the distance I just put between us. “I think my job and my presence here derails you, makes you think about all of the demons you’re keeping locked inside. Perhaps you yourself could benefit from a little therapy.” She grabs the brochure from my hands, whips out a pen from God knows where, and presses the pamphlet to my chest as she scribbles something on the paper.
“Here,” she says, leaving the paper pressed to me until I reach up and grab it before she starts to walk away but still watches me from over her shoulder. “First session is on me. I don’t normally help men in their thirties process their problems unless it’s with their partners. But for you,” she continues as she drops her eyes up and down my body, “I guess I can make an exception. Have a good day, Mr. Fuller.”
I look down at her writing, her signature with a ‘20 percent off your first session’ voucher written in the ink. And then she enters her office once more, the click of her lock echoing as she leaves me standing in place, hard as stone, and knowing now more than ever—I am thoroughly fucked when it comes to this woman.