“Have you ever considered therapy?”

It was a fair question, but it still made me want to punch self-help guru extraordinaire Marcus Blake in the throat.

“I live in Manhattan and I’m rich. Of course I’ve considered therapy. But who has time?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes at me over the chef’s table at the back of Settlement. “You have time for this,” he pointed out.

It was Billionaire Book Club night, but we were down a few billionaires. Silas was in Vegas, Viktor was… Viktor, and who knew where the new guy Luke was. I made time for “this,” because it was the only time I spent with other successful men who weren’t total douchebags. When you had money, everybody wanted something. However, when you were on a level playing field with people who were leaders in totally different businesses, it all evened out.

“Can we still call this a club if there are only two of us here?” I asked, sliding the giant bottle of hot sauce from hand to hand across the stainless steel table.

“Would you rather call it a date?”

“I don’t think my girlfriend would like that.”

A smile crept over my face at the thought of Zoe. She was already suspicious of a “book club” that promoted the summary takeaway of a novel as “bitches be crazy.” So we’re not Oprah. Sue us.

“Girlfriend, huh?” A small plate of antipasti showed up at the pass to the kitchen, and Marcus reached for it.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I was surprisingly comfortable with the idea.

“Well, I could do better than your sorry ass anyhow. What’s she doing tonight?”

“Having dinner with her mother.” Who happened to be staying in a different hotel than my father. Zuzu had been disappointed in her husband’s lack of “enlightenment” and was rethinking their spiritual connection—according to Zoe. There was something else in there about Tantric sex voodoo, which I was trying to wipe out of my memory. At least his little temper tantrum had made him accountable in one way, to one person—even if it wasn’t me.

Marcus popped a piece of octopus in his mouth and made a whipping sound and gesture.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Am I supposed to be offended by that? You think I’m pussy-whipped?” I wasn’t about to tell him it was partly true—on both counts.

He blinked his gray eyes innocently, swallowing before speaking. “No, I was wondering how she likes your toy chest.”

“She likes it fine. But we—I got rid of some stuff.”

“Not into it anymore?”

I shrugged, spearing a piece of unidentifiable cheese. Vanilla could taste just as good as chocolate. Actually, it was more versatile; you could combine a lot of different flavors with vanilla.

It was telling that the most intimate moments of my life spent with my father usually involved a lot of alcohol. In vino veritas. One Christmas when I was home from school—and he also deigned to be there—he caught me sneaking into the liquor cabinet. Instead of being pissed off, he just got me pissed. In that first bender with Ben I heard his sodden, bitter confession that my mother left us because she met someone in the BDSM scene.

When I was younger, my dad told me Mom ran away to join the circus. After that night, I realized he was only half-joking.

At the age of fifteen, I had some idea of what he was talking about, but not entirely. It took a month, a couple of questionable specialty stores, and some screeching modems before I had a clue of what BDSM was. Of course, I was curious. I was also a hormone bomb with good looks, money, and a complete misunderstanding of women. It was a recipe for disaster.

In retrospect, I was a little shocked I’d managed to have any relationship at all. I’d figured out that my desire to spank women had to do with Mommy issues, without having to pay for a psychoanalyst’s renovations to their place in the Hamptons. It also served the purpose of supremely annoying my father.

But it was also seriously hot. I got off on it. On the control. On making them feel something while I detached myself from it all. Recently I’d been more disconnected than ever, not having much of a life outside of work until my new stepsister flashed me from the elevator.

That’s why falling for Zoe was so… unnerving.

Marcus whistled, pulling out of my navel-gazing. “Man, you’re in love with this chick? I thought she just had a magic pussy or something.”

In a flash I loomed over my friend, shoving the long neck of the hot sauce bottle into his throat like it was a sword. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Put that away before someone gets hurt. Nathan, people pay me thousands and thousands of dollars to help them reach their potential in life. I’ll give you a freebie here—you think this girl is your potential? Is she your lobster?” His smirk was accompanied by air quotes.

“My lobster? People pay you for this shit?” Slowly, I withdrew the threat of the hot sauce and placed it back on the table with a clunk. “She’s… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say it out loud? If you can’t say it out loud, it’s not truth. You need to own it. Is this Toulouse sausage? Nice!”

Marcus Blake may be very good at what he did, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. I was silently fuming when my phone buzzed. I looked down, my stomach twisting like the soft pretzels that came with the meat and cheese plate.

-Staying with mom tonight. Need some space.

What did that mean? My fingers flew over the phone. I could almost hear her heavy sigh across town.

-I don’t want you to change for me. You shouldn’t have to. I just need some breathing room to figure out what I want.

“Okay, maybe she’s not your lobster,” Marcus mused to himself while examining an olive.

I stared at my phone, my heart tripping. Had I pushed her away?

“Is she a fling?” Marcus continued. “Is she a revenge fuck or something? Or do you think she’s pushing you into something you’re not ready for?” For all his perception and insight, he was totally unaware that my lobster was trying to climb out of the pot. “You can tell me,” he assured me. “I won’t even charge you.”

“How fucking magnanimous of you.” I shook my head.

Marcus bowed from his seat. I refrained from clonking him upside the head with the giant bottle of hot sauce.

“I’m not telling you shit.” I grabbed my discarded blazer and hooked it over my shoulder with my thumb. “Meeting adjourned.”