I still harbor no intention of doing exactly as my new physical therapist says. In fact, I’ve made it my top priority to make sure she knows I decide the pace at which we’re going.

Erin’s a hot little thing as it is…particularly during therapy. No woman I’ve ever met has been as stubborn and angry as she is.

It’s been ten days of therapy; ten days of an angry mix between determination and perseverance. Ten days during which I’ve wanted nothing more than to carry her into my bed and fuck her until she’s coming with my name on her lips. That’s all I’ve been able to think about, day in, day out. And it’s not helping that she seems hell-bent on headbutting me at every corner. I never realized just how hot a smart mouth is in a woman.

Why can’t she just be the help?

Then I would be able to skip therapy and just work my magic to get her into bed. Instead of having my wicked ways with her the way I see fit, she’s the one to call the shots by only rewarding me with a kiss whenever she feels I’ve earned it.

What are we?

Five-year-olds?

That’s the thought that keeps my mind busy and my mood at a new low as I call my club in Chicago.

“This isn’t gonna work, Cash. You can’t give us a new slogan and expect us to create an entire campaign in days when there seems to be a problem with everything, starting with getting a liquor license to getting the interior design done on time,” Jack says.

He’s my on-site manager and as such, one of the best money can buy. But right now he’s not worth the brain space he’s renting in my head. I fight the urge to slam my fist onto my desk out of sheer frustration. If I were in Chicago, face to face with the guy, ‘no’ wouldn’t even feature in his vocabulary. I’m slowly losing my tight grip on my employees; I can see it in the way everyone seems to start to slack off, take the evenings and weekends off, cut corners to get where I want them to get.

“Jack—” I take a menacing breath and release it slowly “—get it done.”

“We need you here, not just for the opening,” Jack says. “People are getting nervous. We’re losing—”

He stops in mid-sentence. I know what he’s about to say.

Money.

Without the media coverage, without the celebrities who used to run through the doors, we’re just another club of which there’s a dime a dozen.

In business, four months equal four years. Right after the accident, the media was in a frenzy, speculating, predicting the worst. Everyone began to feel sorry for me, and my reputation as the super stud—Forbes 100 Most Eligible Bachelors of the Year—was in tatters. It didn’t help that the accident happened at the same time I noticed inconsistencies in my financial reports.

In fact, my accident couldn’t have happened at a worse time. The clubs’ profits began to tank together with my reputation. Worst of all, the competition stole plans, concepts, ideas, and opened a club that resembles mine a little too much.

An irony, too, that they named their little organization Club 99.

I don’t need Jack or my assistant or anyone out there to tell me where I need to be this instant.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I mutter, even though we both know it’s not true. This accident has turned me into a prisoner in my own house; a shell of my old self. And no doctor or therapist or friend can do anything about it.

The only person who makes me feel half alive is Erin. She’s trying hard to make me feel better. She’s trying even harder to pretend nothing happened last week at the party.

But I know myself. I’m an asshole inside and out, which is why I’m not going to let her forget that she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.

A part of me feels bad for using her. Another part of me is pissed off that she’s only agreed to sleep with me if I complete her therapy plan, and only if she sees progress.

It’s all about her reputation.

The thought angers me.

I’ve reached the point where only work will be able to relieve some of the tension I’m feeling. After an online conference with the entire team, Jack and I go through last month’s figures one more time, and then I end the call, my mood grimmer than ever before.

“Cash?” Erin’s voice carries over from somewhere outside.

I peer at my watch. The physical therapy session was supposed to start an hour ago. I kept her waiting again. Usually, I wouldn’t care less, but she’s stuck around for longer than anyone before her.

She’s put up with my foul mood that she deserves credit for her perseverance. She also deserves a clearer message that whatever happens in my life, happens on my terms.

Groaning from the effort, I lift my body off the chair and head out into the backyard. Granted, right after therapy I noticed an improvement in mobility. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I’m sure the pain’s a little less intense than before. By the time I’ve reached the porch, my back is drenched in sweat and Erin is long gone.

I head back inside, ready to wait.

The thought of doing another therapy session with her causes me discomfort.

I can barely get through an hour with her without touching her, let alone days or weeks.

What did she think would happen? That I would happily oblige while keeping my hands off of her?