That controllable.
Rage burned through me, but I forced my hand not to tremble as I slowly, deliberately, shoved the wallet back across the desk. Then I leaned back, arms crossed, gaze locked on his like a loaded gun.
And then?—
Like a lightning strike, he exploded. One savage sweep of his arm and my entire desk shattered into chaos. My phone, files, monitors—everything—went crashing to the floor in a violent clatter.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Frozen in place, I stared at the wreckage, stunned into silence.
Chest heaving, he resumed his grip on the now-bare desk and leaned in, this time, so close I could feel his breath.
“No money?” His voice was low, menacing. “Okay. How about I give you a look under my hood right here, right now, on this desk?”
One hand began undoing his belt, the other slid over my hand.
My mouthdropped.Unhinged.
Rage mixed with adrenaline shot through me like liquid acid. My body trembled as I rose from the chair, facing the bastard nose to nose.
A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
“There’s not enough money in the world for me to take a look at what you’ve got in your pants, Mr. Steele. And if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll personally remove your balls, shove each one down your throat, and ensure no woman ever takes a look under that hood again.”
6
ROSE
The afternoon storm had turned into a full-blown monsoon—sheets of rain so thick you couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead.
It was after eight by the time I finally left the office. To say my meeting with Mr. Phoenix Steele had rattled me was the understatement of the year. I’ve had difficult patients—plenty of them, and not all men—but none who haddestroyedmy office.
Or tried to bribe me. With moneyandsex.
It took me ten minutes to stop shaking after he stormed out, and another forty to piece my desk back together. Zoey had burst in the second he was gone, and I’d lied—said I tripped and knocked everything over. Why I didn’t tell her the truth, I couldn’t say. Maybe I was still in shock. Maybe I was ashamed. Not just that it happened, but that I let it. That I couldn’t control it. That I couldn’t controlhim.
And, if I’m honest, I knew Zoey. The second she learned a billionaire CEO had a meltdown in my office, it’d be halfway around town before I took my next breath. Call itprofessionalism—or self-preservation—but I wasn’t letting that happen.
Ididtell her not to book any more appointments with “said jerk” until I had a chance to review his file. And by review, I meant refer. Because no woman—therapist or not—should tolerate that kind of treatment. I’ve never walked away from a client in my life. But I’ve also never been spoken to like that.
I wouldn’t stand for it.
Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be back. That much I was sure of. A man like Phoenix Steele—angry, arrogant, drowning in pride—wasn’t coming anywhere near a therapist’s office again.
After the blessed disaster that was our session, I stayed late, answering emails, reviewing cases, returning voicemails that had piled up all week. I was restless, wired, running on adrenaline. When Mr. Jenkins delivered a Bloody Mary and a box of cinnamon buns to my office with a note that readGo Home, I finally listened.
When I’d purchased my first home—realhome, not apartment—eight months earlier, I’d underestimated the drive from the office. Not the length of time, but the difficulty of it. My new home was located on the peak of one of the tallest mountains in Berry Springs, with a narrow two-lane road snaking up to it. It was seven minutes from Main Street and my office, but any kind of weather, other than sun, added time to the drive, including the year-round fog. Jagged cliffs hugged one side of the road and steep ravines the other.
That night, it had taken me twenty minutes to get home and when I’d finally made it up my long, curvy driveway, I was beyond exhausted.
Rain blurred the small, log and rockcabin against a black landscape that in sunlight showed miles of mountains in the distance. In good weather, I had a postcard-perfect view from my deck. That night, oak and pine trees that enclosed the house sagged under the weight of the rain sparkling off the branches in my headlights.
Despite the dilapidated wraparound porch and crumbling shingles, the realtor had called it a craftsman home. I’d called it the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and was sold when I saw the sweeping windows that overlooked the mountains. There was just something about it. Something about it that felt likehome.And that feeling was as foreign to me as Sunday dinners and family traditions.
I’d purchased it on the spot and began renovations the next month.
