Playboy Billionaire

“No, I mean your first name,” I said. “I hate that I didn't ask last night –”

“You don't need to know that, Drew,” she said, smiling in a friendly way that came off as insincere, but polite. “Let's keep things professional, okay? And we need to set up a ground rule here right at the outset – last night never happened. It's not to be brought up in this office again. You got me?”

I smirked, but could tell that she was serious. “Aye aye, Captain.”

“I'm serious, Drew,” she said.

“I got you. But you already know my name,” I said, biting my lip. “It's not fair –”

“Who said anything about being fair,” she said. “This is about helping you, not conforming to what your definition of fair is, Drew.”

Damn. She was whip smart and on it with the replies today. Not like the woman last night who seemed taken in by my every word. Today she was shooting me down left and right. She didn't seem impressed with me or anything I had to say. And I had to admit, it stung a bit.

She was a beautiful woman – and if possible, even more beautiful today than she had been in the club last night.

“You know, I have a thing for smart women,” I said. “Maybe we should –”

“Maybe we should talk about your panic attacks, since that's what your insurance is paying for,” she said, shutting me down again. “When was the last time you had one?”

“When I woke up this morning and saw that you'd left me without even saying goodbye,” I said.

That was a lie, but it was smooth. I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that one. Not that I ever imagined I'd be hitting on my therapist, but given that I was already traveling down that road, it seemed like the perfect line.

Except, of course, Dr. Emerson didn't look at all amused by my antics. In fact, she was rubbing her temples and looking downright annoyed at me.

“Drew, if we can't keep things professional, I'm not doing you any good,” she said. “And if I'm not going to be able to help you, I will have no choice but to –”

This time, I cut her off. “Fine,” I said, looking down at my hands. I picked at the skin around my thumb as I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be taken as a flirt or a joke. “I'm sorry. I'm just not comfortable talking about my feelings and shit, you know? It's a hell of a lot simpler – not to mention more fun – to flirt with you.”

“Is it worse because of our history together?” she asked.

“History?” I laughed. There wasn't much history, but I let it slide and answered her question truthfully. “Not really. I just don't like talking about myself.”

“I figured that much,” she said, her eyes softening as she looked at me. “Most of the men who come in to see me don't like talking about their feelings, it feels foreign or wrong to them. Because they weren't raised that way. Most of them have been taught to stuff all of your emotions down into a box. It's not manly to talk about your feelings. It makes you feel weak. Inferior. Perhaps even like a sissy. And of course, the military doesn't do you any favors with the macho –”

“Hey now,” I said, stopping her right there. “The military has done me a lot of favors. The military has been really good to me.”

“Yes, of course. I didn't mean it like that and I sincerely apologize,” she said. “I just meant that you're not really encouraged to talk about your feelings, even when you witness so much death and destruction. Keeping all of that in and never finding a way to express it does you more harm than good, Drew. It eats away at your mind and your soul. It's just not healthy.”

I shrugged.

“I'm right about that, aren't I?” she asked.

“I guess so.”

There was a silence in the room – a heavy silence as if she expected me to say more. But I knew what she was trying to do, and it didn't work. The silence didn't scare me; I was used to it. I came to expect it now that I was home. And I wasn't the type who talked just to fill empty spaces in the conversation. I wasn't one of those who got scared by a gap in the conversation and needed to fill it with whatever inane bullshit popped into my head.

“You guess so?” she asked, trying to nudge me into speaking. “I'm guessing this started at a young age. Why don't you tell me about your parents, Drew?”

My parents. As soon as she mentioned them, my entire body tensed up. My fists were balled up in my lap and I had to look away. Had to look at anything but her.

“I see that struck a nerve, and I'm sorry. There's just no notes in your file about your parents –”

“Because they're dead,” I said, letting out a deep breath. “They died a few years back. It was a car accident.”

Dr. Emerson's eyes grew wide. “I'm sorry, Drew. I had no idea.”

And I could tell by the expression on her face that she meant it. She was sorry. She was sincere, didn't try to patronize or placate me. She came across as genuine, sincere, and compassionate – and I liked her a little more because of it.