God, maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.
But then that liveliness pushes in behind the thought, zipping up and down my entire body and making it this electrified force field.
Dawson groans. It’s this deep, rough noise that has my abdomen stirring in a way that has me rotating my hips. I damn near cave and give in when he whispers, “You are fucking delectable.”
His hand smooths over my leg, and my stomach drops a thousand feet at record speeds.
I don’t understand how he can make me feel so alive, and yet, Lance…
Dawson pulls away, his lips lined with a subtle redness that reminds me of our tongues tangling. I want him to kiss me again, but very slowly, almost sneakily, that guilt washes over me, the knowledge that what I’m doing is considered cheating as I stare at the beautiful man in front of me.
His grip is soft when he brings his hand up to my jaw, holding my face in place as he stares into my eyes and says, “I don’t understand how anyone wouldn’t want to spend every goddamnwaking moment with someone as beautiful as you. Unless you were golfing with me, there’s no damn way I’d be on the green.”
I swallow down the thickness lingering in my throat as his eyes sparkle with promises, with love, with affection—all the things I’ve been craving.
A memory comes through in the next breath.
A vision of blue waters and the sharpness of a panic attack cresting at the edges of my ribs. But then, just as quickly, it morphs into a hand wrapped around my ankle as I try to crawl away. An anchor attached to my waist as I try to swim toward the crest of water that will ultimately give me air.
I consider, as I look at him, if I’m making one terrible mistake by marrying Lance.
A heavy breath leaves me, and fear implants itself behind my chest bone and eyes.
And then I see it.
I seehim.
Dawson.
And the very real feeling that rushes through my system—love.
For a man I haven’t known for more than, at the most, two months.
For my therapist.
12
DR. DAWSON COLE
The sink water running behind the bathroom door catches my attention, and it’s almost all I can think about until the lock unclicks and the door opens seconds later. I glance over my shoulder at my client—and the woman I’ve been way too fucking obsessed with for the better part of our time working together.
I guess the truth is that I see parts of myself in her trauma and healing, and all that’s done is make me more enamored. It doesn’t help that she’s beautiful, that there’s this glow that surrounds her like a halo, even in the moments she’s feeling down and seconds from breaking.
I glance over my shoulder and catch a quick glimpse of her. Her cheeks are tinged with a near-permanent blush. Pride blooms in my chest becauseIput that color there.
“I wrapped up your leftover pizza,” I tell her as I finish washing the last mixing bowl. I rinse it and prop it on the dish rack before grabbing the hand towel on the counter and drying my hands. I twist around just in time to see her rounding the kitchen counter, her delicate hand tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Are you sure I can take it? It was from your kit. You can keep it, if you’d like.”
I crack half of a smirk and take a slow step in her direction. “I don’t eat black olives, remember?”
A glimmer twinkles in her eyes, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s remembering the exact moment I licked that pizza sauce off her finger.
The act surprised even myself, but I’m really fucking glad I did it.
Normally, I’m not this guy—the one that breaks past carefully curated boundary lines. I know how important it is to recognize and respect them. I’m a man of proper decorum, if nothing else. Except when it comes to Emory, as I’m clearly learning.
Her eyebrow hikes as she looks at me. “I’m not sure that’s necessarily true.”
