PROLOGUE
My computer dinged with a reminder for my next appointment. A new client I've never seen before.
1PM: John Doe
I lowered my hand—and the half of the meatball sub sandwich I was about to bite into—back onto the desk and set it on the greasy wrapper. It wasn't unusual for people who came to see me to use a fake name. Many of them were well-known in the public eye and didn't want the paparazzi to get wind of the fact they needed therapy.
I pulled up the calendar where Lydia, my assistant, scheduled my patients and jotted down the few details she’d given me into my notebook: His use of a fake name. The fact that he was a new patient. I looked for the reason he'd requested the appointment, but the space was blank.
Guess I'd have to wait and see. Honestly, I preferred it that way sometimes. Figuring out what made people tick made me hard. And I was damn good at it. That's why the A-listers came from all over to see me, and I rarely had time for new clients. So this guy must have some major pull somewhere to have worked his way onto my schedule. Or, he was paying cash up front for the appointment. And the only people who had enough money lying around to pay cash for my time were either celebrities or politicians.
I finished my sandwich and washed my hands in my private bathroom, checked my teeth and ran a brush through my hair, then looked at my watch. One o'clock on the dot. Time to meet my new mystery client.
Back at my desk, I buzzed Lydia out in the lobby. "Is the next appointment here?"
"Yes," she told me. "He's been waiting for a few minutes now." Her voice had that weird tremor that told me this particular client made her uncomfortable. I rolled my eyes for the fourth time this week. I was going to have to find a new assistant. Besides being horrifically unattractive, this one got way too star-struck for this line of work.
I opened my office door. "John?" I always liked to start on a first-name basis, even if that name was fake. It made people feel like we were already friends, making it easier for them to open up to me and spill all of their deepest, darkest secrets.
The man sitting in my waiting room stood, buttoning his suit jacket and checking his sleeves and cufflinks. I didn't recognize him, but he practically oozed power and money. One look told me his suit was made from luxurious high-end wool and was custom-tailored to fit his broad shoulders and lean frame. The close-cropped sides of his dark hair revealed a two-inch scar above his left ear. Another ran along his jawline, barely visible beneath an impeccably neat beard. I wondered how many more were hidden under his clothes.
Despite his scars, his nose was straight and there wasn't a hair out of place, which told me he valued his appearance and kept tight control over the way he looked, and probably everything else in his life. Moving with the grace of a fighter, he prowled toward me, completely owning the space he occupied. Reminding myself that I was the professional here, and he had come to see me, I smiled and extended my hand. Everything about this man made me want to put him at ease.
As he clasped my hand with a firm shake, eyes so dark they were nearly black met mine. I searched their depths for a hint of why he was here. Curiosity. Nervousness. Anger. Things I would typically see in new clients.
But his eyes were alarmingly emotionless.
A tingle of warning ran down my back as I invited him into my office. He walked past me and stopped, looking between the chairs to the right and the couch to the left near my desk. "Make yourself at home, John. Wherever you feel comfortable is fine." I shared a look with Lydia as I closed the door behind him, shutting us into my office together.
He chose the chairs. Particularly the one that would put his back to the wall. Interesting. Was he former military? Security? Or did he just have trust issues? I retrieved my notebook and pen from my desk, along with my tape recorder, and settled into the opposite chair. "How are you today?" I asked him.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
His speech was very proper, every word enunciated clearly, and I detected the hint of an accent. Italian, maybe? "Do you mind if I record our session?" When he stilled, I hurried to reassure him. "It's only for my own use inside of this office. Have you been made aware of the doctor-patient confidentiality clause?" I set the recorder on the table.
"Yes." He eyed the recorder for a moment and then shifted his eyes back to my face, but he didn't oppose having it there. Leaning back, he crossed one ankle over his knee and laced his fingers together on his lap. His shoes were just as impressive as his suit.
I pressed the button to start recording, sat back and uncapped my pen. "So, what brings you in to see me today?"
"I met a woman," he told me without hesitation.
"You met...a woman?" I couldn't keep the incredulousness from my voice. The last thing I'd expected from this man was to hear him say he'd come here so I could help him with his love life. I was a heavily sought-after psychiatrist with many accolades for assisting clients with severe mental health issues. No one had ever come to me for help with their schoolyard crush before.
"Yes," was all he said.
I cleared my throat and pretended to jot down some notes. "And where did you meet this girl?"
"She's a woman, not a girl. And actually, I've known her for a while now."
"And thiswomanis the only reason you came to see me?"
He thought about that for a second. "Yes."
"Why is that?"
"Because ever since I met her, it's fucked me up in the head. And I want you to tell me how to make it stop so I can go back to the way I was before."
Well, at least that gave me a place to start. Leaning forward, I gave him my full attention. Perhaps if I could put his mind at ease, this would be our one and only session. Though the money was appealing, for once Lydia was right, something about this client made me extremely uncomfortable. "What do you mean, 'the way you were before?' Why would you want to do that? People change a little when they fall in love, John. It's completely normal."
