29

“She’s a whore,” Lawrence declared. “All women are in the end. Fucking selfish whores.”

Donovan glanced up from his notes, lips parted and poised to interject, but Marin sent him a quick look that was as effective as holding up her hand. He hid his smirk. Rush was getting confident. He’d be sure to let her know how happy he was to see her progress when she came over later tonight.

For the past few weeks, they’d made it an almost nightly occurrence. They’d work together all day, pretend that there was nothing between them, be professional, and then after her brother left for his nightly shift, she’d sneak over to Donovan’s place for a little nightcap.

Of course, a little nightcap often turned into the all-night kind. They were both sleep-deprived as hell. And Marin had twice gotten home after her brother because they’d gotten carried away and lost track of time. But goddamn, he’d never been happier to be an experienced insomniac. And on the nights she couldn’t make it over, he found himself missing not just her presence in his bed, but her company.

Last night, he’d given in to the urge and had called her. They’d ended up talking on the phone for over an hour and co-watching some silly thriller movie from the eighties. They’d put it on mute and inserted their own dialogue. It’d been ridiculous.

She made him ridiculous.

And she was about to tell him good-bye.

Three days. They had three days left, and he had no doubt that she was going to stick to her word and end things. He needed to let her.

But just the thought of letting her go had sent those old demons snapping at his ankles again. He could feel them there in the shadows, breathing, waiting, reminding him that he could run but never hide. Letting her go would be best for them both. But even knowing that, he found himself considering things he shouldn’t. Scary things. Selfish things. Like getting rid of the time limit. Like asking to meet her brother. Like telling her that he thought she was the most amazing woman and that maybe he’d changed his mind about that whole concept of The One.

But she still had no idea that he was a version of her worst nightmare, the thing she’d feared most all her life. There was so much he hadn’t told her about his past. About his present. Things that would frighten her. Things she shouldn’t have to deal with. But he was getting more and more tempted every day to come clean anyway, to lay it all out there and brace for the consequences. But even if she could get past those things, what were they supposed to do? Continue to hide and sneak around? Keep risking their jobs?

Plus, she might not even feel the same way. What if this really was all about sex and experience for her? What if she was ready to walk away?

The thought punched him in the gut. Fuck. He was in so much goddamned trouble with this woman. So much trouble.

He couldn’t let his mind go there right now. No time for panic attacks while trying to help clients. He forced his focus back to the session, waiting to see how Marin was going to handle Lawrence.

She stayed tall in her chair and didn’t flinch away from Lawrence’s tirade or harsh language. “Why don’t you tell us what happened to change your mind about Rebecca?”

Lawrence’s leg bounced up and down like he was barely able to keep himself sitting down. “I wrote her again and she sent me the same email about the sex toy. It’s a fucking form email.”

To her credit, Marin didn’t visibly react or do what Donovan really wanted to do—say, No shit, genius. Instead she nodded. “I see. So you’re angry because you feel like she tricked you?”

“She just wants to make money and make people buy her shit. I mean, I don’t care that she probably gets a pile of fan mail. Don’t make it sound personalized when it’s just a damn sales pitch. I feel like . . . I dunno. Like a fucking chump. Like she’s laughing at all of us dudes who watch her movies.”

Marin managed a sympathetic expression. “No one likes to feel like that. But maybe it would help to think about it from her perspective. Just like any other person who performs a role, she’s playing at something she’s not. She’s an actress. On screen, she’s the girl who wants every guy and who can orgasm a thousand times and is sex personified. She’s the fantasy girl. But no one is that in real life. She’s doing that job because she has bills to pay and her own goals to meet. It’s a means to an end. I doubt she’s laughing at her fans, but I think she probably sees you as customers. That’s what you are.”

Lawrence looked ready to fight back, to disagree for the sake of disagreeing because he didn’t like what Marin represented—the truth. But finally he let out a breath. “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

Ah, the unintentional trap so many people were good at setting in therapy. Come here, doctor. Just step right here. Confirm what I think about myself. Tell me these horrible things I think are true so I can redirect this anger at you.

Marin adeptly sidestepped the quagmire. “I think you’re good at keeping yourself safe.”

Donovan smiled behind the fingers he’d steepled in front of his mouth. Three points, Dr. Rush. Nailed it.

Lawrence’s hackles went up. “What the fuck is that supposed to be mean?”

Marin set her notepad aside and took off her glasses. Donovan had learned she’d do that when she wanted to have a let’s-just-talk-you-and-me vibe with the clients. He found it unbearably sexy.

Better yet, it was effective. Lawrence sagged a bit in his chair, his fighter’s pose softening.

“Hear me out,” Marin said. “It’s smart to want to be safe. It’s a natural instinct. If we protect ourselves—our bodies, our minds, our hearts—we can avoid all these messy things. Being embarrassed. Making mistakes. Looking dumb. Getting our hearts broken. But there’s a huge price to pay for that safety. And usually that price is being alone or being stuck. Whether that’s stuck in a job or a relationship or in a place you don’t want to be. Everything has a price. For whatever reason, something in you wants to be safe. Girls in movies are safe.”

Lawrence’s expression didn’t change, but he was obviously listening.

“We’ve met for a number of weeks now, Lawrence. I know you’re smart. I know you know that Rebecca Bling was not a real possibility, that it was a fantasy. That email may have brought that home, but it didn’t tell you something you didn’t already know on some level. So what we really need to focus on is figuring out why you have this need to feel that safe, what price you’re paying for it, and if that price is worth it.”

Donovan leaned back in his chair, impressed with Marin’s approach. She’d managed to call out Lawrence’s flaws and get past his hair-trigger defenses by framing it in a compliment and focusing on the positives—you’re smart, you’re good at staying safe.

Lawrence chewed on a thumbnail, considering her. “It sucks being alone all the time. I mean, who wants that? But women don’t . . . get me.”

Triumph flared in Marin’s eyes, and Donovan wanted to stand up and cheer for all three of them. They were finally getting somewhere with Lawrence.

But Marin kept her expression as smooth as water on a windless day. “Okay, let’s talk about that. What do you think women don’t get about you?”

The rest of the session went quickly, and both of them were able to get some things out of Lawrence—one being that the guy had been humiliated during an early sexual experience and had anxiety about that. It was a victory all around. The guy was talking, actually getting to the heart of things, and Marin had been the one to do it. Not a blushing cheek in sight.

When they finally wrapped up the session and walked Lawrence out, it took everything Donovan had not to sweep Marin up in his arms and twirl her around. Tell her everything, let it all spill out. Instead, he shut the door and leaned against it, smiling wide. “Is it bad that you rocking the hell out of that session kind of turned me on?”

She laughed and let out a little squeal, which was uncharacteristically girly for her. “Oh my God, that was such a rush. I feel like I actually got somewhere. Like I may be able to help him after all.”

He stepped closer to her, a moth to flame, and put his hands on her shoulders. “Of course you’ll be able to help him. You’re a brilliant therapist. I never doubted you for a second.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Bullshit, West. After that first session with him, you were expecting I was going to be the next victim of the X-wing gauntlet. You were probably already chiseling my proverbial headstone.”

“Never. I’m too good of a trainer to let that happen.”

She smirked. “So this is all you, then? You’re taking credit.”

“Totally.”

She shoved him playfully. “Egomaniac.”

He grabbed her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Seriously. I’m so damn proud of you. This is all you. You’re a natural.”

He gathered her closer, and she let her head fall to his shoulder with a sigh. “God. It feels really, really good.”

He could smell her hair, the sweet scent that lingered on his pillows, in his head. “What does?”

She took a second to respond but when she did, her voice had gone soft. “Figuring out where you’re meant to be.”

He ran his hand along the back of her head, a spike of something potent going through him. He knew her words were about finding her place at work, but they weaved through him, too, holding a whole other kind of meaning. He held her tighter.

Let her go.

The command whispered through his head, but he couldn’t heed it. The words were surging up in his throat. He wasn’t strong enough to let her walk without at least saying it. He needed to tell her how he felt. Tell her about his past. He couldn’t keep pretending.

He lifted her face to him. “Marin . . . there’s something I need to talk—”

But before he could get out the rest, the door swung open behind him, and voices hit him like a two-by-four to the back. He and Marin both leapt back from each other, unable to play it off, and spun toward the intruders. So much of him was hoping it was just Ysa or even a client, but no. Of course the universe couldn’t be so kind. Elle McCray had walked in . . . with Dr. Suri.

Elle’s face lit with feigned surprise. “Oh my, I am so sorry.”

Donovan hated Elle in that moment. Hated himself for ever getting involved with her. Yes, he deserved her wrath, but bringing Marin into it was taking it too far. People’s fucking careers were on the line, and she was putting on some stupid performance.

Dr. Suri looked honestly stunned, her dark eyes darting from him to Marin then back. “Dr. West, what exactly is going on here? Didn’t I just see a client leave this office?”

Marin stepped forward. “Dr. Suri, I’m so sorry. It was—”

“My fault,” Donovan supplied. Marin’s head whipped around to gawk at him. “Dr. Rush was excited about a breakthrough with a client, and I . . . I hugged her and got carried away.”

Dr. Suri went ramrod straight, her demure height seeming to grow two feet. “Dr. Rush, has Dr. West been putting you in an uncomfortable situation? This institute does not tolerate any form of sexual harassment and—”

Marin put her hands up. “No. God, no. It’s nothing like that,” she said in a rush. “I—Donovan—well, we used to have a relationship. In college. And—”

“Weren’t you a freshman when he was a graduate student?” Elle asked, all innocence and faux shock.

Dr. Suri’s expression switched to full-out appalled.

“Wait, no, that’s not what it was like. And—”

Dr. Suri cut her off with a lifted palm. “Dr. Rush, we’ll talk about this separately. You shouldn’t have to feel pressured by your trainer to do . . . anything.”

“I don’t! I’m a grown woman, we’re—”

“Dr. West,” Suri said, her tone like a hacksaw. “In my office. Now. I’m not going to discuss this here.”

He didn’t react, didn’t show the devastation crashing through him. He knew where this would go. This job—it once meant everything. It was his life. But losing his job would be the least of it now. He’d never forgive himself if Marin lost her spot, too. “Of course.”

Elle’s eyes burned into him from behind Suri’s back. Checkmate. That’s what this was. But she didn’t seem triumphant about it anymore. Her expression had shifted into what almost looked like regret. Like maybe she’d just realized how far she’d taken this.

It didn’t fucking matter. Elle had fired the shot, but this was his fault. He’d promised Marin he wouldn’t risk her. She’d trusted him and he’d let her down. He’d ruined everything because he had no goddamned self-control.

Marin stared at him like she was going to protest more, throw herself on a sword or something, but he gave a little headshake. This was not her fight.

He’d broken his word. This is what happened to the things he touched. His shrapnel had flown her way, drawn blood, damaged things. But he wouldn’t let this hurt her any further. The best way to keep safe from shrapnel was to remove the bomb.

He walked past her without saying another word.