6

Donovan woke up with a booming headache and the cloying scent of lavender filling his head. He grimaced and rolled his face into the pillow. The smell only got stronger, confirming it wasn’t his pillow. Or his bed. Fuck.

He turned his head and forced his eyes open, the morning light piercing his brain like tiny knives. Eyelet curtains blew in the breeze of the open window, the sound of the ducks puttering around the pond nearby drifting in. Great. Not only had he fallen asleep in the wrong bed, but he was all the way across campus, late, and hungover. Dr. Suri would shit a brick if she found out. He reached for his phone, which he’d managed to leave on the side table but not set his alarm—brilliance in action—and hit the speed dial.

His assistant, Ysabel, answered on the first ring. “I’ve already rescheduled your eight o’clock and pushed the morning group back a half hour.”

Donovan let his head fall back to the pillow. “I love you, Ysa. Marry me.”

“You’re not my type. I need more boobs and less penis.”

“I could work on the first if you keep bringing in those beignets from the Morning Cup. But the penis has to stay.”

“I’m out, then. What’s your ETA?”

“An hour?”

“Be quicker. Dr. Suri called for you earlier. I told her you were on the phone. She didn’t leave a message because she was walking into a meeting, but you know she’ll call back when she gets out.”

“Shit. All right. Got it. Thanks, Best Assistant Ever.”

“Yeah, yeah. Kiss up. But you can’t keep pulling this shit. Dr. Rhodes is never late. I want that bigger office. And I don’t want him messing around on our wing.”

He grimaced. Both he and Clinton Rhodes were up for the director position for the couples counseling building. The position would mean more money, a better office, extra support staff, and more time to devote to research in addition to the therapy. Donovan had stronger experience, but Clinton knew how to put on a good show and brownnose. And he showed up on time.

Fuck.

With a sigh, he let Ysabel go and braced himself for the conversation he had waiting for him outside of this room. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, his head pounding with a wine hangover and the need for coffee. Might as well face the firing squad and get it done with.

He climbed out of bed, made a quick trip to the bathroom, and then searched around the bedroom for his clothes. After he’d pulled on his boxers and slacks, he found his shirt in a ball on the floor. He shook it out and saw that half the buttons were missing and there were lipstick marks where the buttons used to be. Great. Someone had been aggressive last night. He tugged it on and had to leave it hanging open.

He found his way into the kitchen. Elle was sitting at the table with a big mug of coffee and her laptop open. She was already in her physician wear—gray slacks and a black top, all very conservative and to the point. She glanced over when she saw him walk in. “Good. You’re up. I need you out of here. I have an appointment in fifteen minutes and the cleaning lady will be here any second.”

“Fine. Is there more coffee? And do you have any T-shirts that would fit me? You demolished my buttons.”

“No shirts.” She frowned. “And I’ve already drank the pot I made.”

She didn’t offer to make more. He wasn’t surprised or offended. Elle didn’t make coffee for men on principal.

He went to the cupboard to get a glass and filled it with water from the sink. “Why didn’t you wake me up? You know I didn’t plan on sleeping here.”

She barely glanced over. “I’m not your mother.”

He sipped his water, evaluating her. Her blond hair was neatly tucked into a bun, her lips pursed as she typed away on her laptop. Dr. Elle McCray was a cool fortress of impenetrability ninety-nine percent of the time. Her patients and colleagues called her the Bitch, sometimes behind her back, much of the time to her face. But you had to have an ego of steel to work in the rehab wing, and Elle did. Handling pampered celebrities detoxing from drugs was like working in a daycare half the time and a war zone the other half. Addiction had an insidious way of bringing out the worst in people and smothering the good. And Elle was like the priest in The Exorcist, helping patients tackle the demons for what they were and fighting hard for the soul choking for air beneath. You couldn’t go into that fight without a lot of armor, and Elle was armed to the teeth.

But he was beginning to wonder why Ms. Cool Customer had let him sleep over the last few times. That wasn’t what this relationship was. They both knew it.

He needed to stop drinking when he came over here. Elle had grown up in Napa and had a penchant for a good, strong cabernet, but the stuff was too easy to drink. He couldn’t let these lines get fuzzy. “Me sleeping here isn’t a good idea.”

Her jaw tightened. “You called me. You drank too much. It’s not my fault you fell asleep. I didn’t hold you down and make you stay.”

No, he was usually the one doing the holding down. That’s where they connected, despite barely being able to tolerate each other at work. Elle liked her sex like he did—unsentimental and without strings. Hate-fucking. They were good at it. They served a purpose for each other—two workaholics letting off steam. At least that’s what it was supposed to be.

“Well, I’ve got to get going. Suri is hunting me down this morning.”

Elle smirked. “Oh, poor Donovan.”

“Don’t mock. She loves you.” He dumped his glass out and set it in the sink. “Must be nice.”

She sent him an angelic smile. “I know how to play the game and follow protocol. You should learn it sometime.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, Dr. McCray.” He strolled past her and grabbed his keys off the counter. They didn’t kiss or hug. He’d tried that after their first night together, feeling like it was the right thing to do even if he hadn’t been overly inspired to do it, but she’d shrugged him off. I don’t need empty gestures, Donovan, she’d told him. Just sex.

Fine by him.

They exchanged a nod of good-bye, and he headed outside. He’d walked over to her place because it’d been a nice night, but now he regretted it. His house was on the other side of the expansive compound and making it across campus in his wrinkled clothes without being seen would be a challenge. He just had to hope that most of his co-workers were in sessions by now or at least in their offices.

The last thing he needed was Doc Suri finding out he was sleeping with a colleague. She already considered him the problem child since he liked doing things his way and couldn’t keep staff for long on his floor. He’d probably already be gone if it were solely up to her. But he was good at what he did, well-known from getting a few national TV spots when his female arousal research went viral, and the elite clientele here asked for him because of it. The Orgasm Whisperer. That’s the ridiculous name the media had given him. But it worked. The board of directors wanted him here because it brought in high-paying clients, and it let him get away with a few transgressions more than Dr. Suri would normally tolerate. But she had her limits, and he was close to pushing over them.

Donovan slipped around the north edge of the pond and avoided the tai chi class going on nearby. The ground was spongy from an overnight rain, and his dress shoes sank into the earth, making obscene sucking sounds as he skirted the edges of the surrounding trees. By the time he reached the main parking lot, his favorite shoes were a loss. Fantastic. Between his ruined shirt and muddy shoes, he was starting to resemble a hobo. But at least he was making good time and no one had seen him. The administrative building of the institute loomed in the distance, but this parking lot was quiet since this was the visitors zone and visiting hours didn’t start until ten.

He was almost home free. His house was only a few hundred yards on the other side of the trees. But when he hurried around a large pickup truck to turn onto the walking path, someone ran smack into him.

He let out an oof and automatically put up his hands to block whoever or whatever it was, but when he did so, the person who’d run into him lost her balance and went sailing backward onto her ass. Papers flew in the air. A curse flew from her.

The wet sound of her butt hitting the earth alongside the path made Donovan cringe. Only then did he take in the sight. A woman in a business suit. Short dark hair. Horrified expression. He went to her side. “Shit. Are you okay?”

Ignoring him, she peered around at the scattered papers and the mud that had splashed onto her legs and skirt. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

He reached out his hand. “Here. Let me help you up.”

She glanced up then, annoyance in every corner of her expression, but when her gaze met his, she froze. Her lips parted for one long second and she blinked rapidly.

Donovan stilled, his hand extended, and a little jolt of awareness went through him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about her seemed familiar. He frowned, trying to place her. A former client, maybe? “Are you okay, miss?”

She broke the eye contact and took his offered hand. “I’ll be fine.”

He helped her to her feet, and then they both gathered her things. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and did her best to clean off some of the mud.

“Do you need me to get you anything? Paper towels?”

“It’s okay.” She glanced at him again, her gaze briefly tracking over his state, and only then did he remember how he must look. His shirt was hanging open with lipstick all over it, and he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Of course she didn’t want help from him. She probably knew not to trust strangers wandering the grounds of a psychiatric institution.

“Are you here for an appointment?” he asked.

She tucked the tissue in her purse and gripped her stack of papers tightly. “Yes. And I need to get going or I’m going to be late. The guard already held me up forever at the main entrance.”

He ran a hand over the back of his head, still trying to place her. She had that Demi Moore vibe, Ghost era, with her pixie cut and those big hazel eyes. Maybe that’s what was poking at his brain. Or maybe she was some B-list actress that he’d seen in a movie. Lord knows there were enough of them who came here for treatment. But she didn’t have that emaciated body that so many of the wannabe stars strived for. There were soft curves and gentle lines. His fingers flexed. “I’m really sorry about bumping into you.”

“My fault. I was looking at my phone instead of up. I—” She pressed her lips together and shifted her gaze toward the main building. Nervous. “I’ve got to go.”

“Need me to point you toward any place in particular?”

She had already started walking, her heels click, click, clicking on the pavement. She called back over her shoulder. “Nope. Thanks. I’m good.”

She had a smear of mud on the back of her skirt from the fall, but she held her head high as she walked like it didn’t bother her. Only the stiff set of her shoulders told him she was strung up tight. Huh. Maybe that’s what she was coming in for—anxiety. At least it would mean she wouldn’t be one of his clients. Thank God. Talk about awkward. Hello, doctor. Oh yes, you were the one doing the walk of shame this morning. Nice to meet you. Now I will confess my deepest, darkest secrets and trust you with my mental health.

Talk about breaking any semblance of professional credibility before even getting started.

Donovan jogged the rest of his way to his place and thanked the universe he hadn’t run into anyone he knew. Now he just needed to make sure he was at his desk before Dr. Suri tracked him down again. Small miracles. He’d take what he could get.