Red needs to hear about it until all he sees is green.
I snap my compact closed and rise from the bench, brushing invisible lint from my skirt. My heels strike the pavement with a crisp pattern as I head toward the street, threading through the crowd with a momentum that refuses to wane.
Friday at four.
Only three days.
Three days is an eternity when a man starts obsessing in the silence between sessions. I should help him along by giving him something to compare himself to.
I walk toward the boutique-lined side street and turn the corner, where Valentina's yoga studio sits. For the last few weeks, Brax has shown up to escort Valentina home.
Disgust fills me.
He watches her like she's porcelain that will break if he doesn't protect her.
But she's not. I know she is just as ruthless as any Abruzzo. So I cross the street and position myself against a lamppost, angled perfectly toward the storefront. My hair drapes like a curtain down one shoulder, bright and conspicuous enough to draw stares but not recognition from anyone who matters. I lean my hip against the metal pole, scroll idly through my phone, and keep my gaze lifted just enough to catch movement inside.
Valentina stands behind the register, holding her yoga mat, her practiced smile in play. Her dark ponytail shines under the overhead lighting. She's beautiful in a clean, classic way that Red will probably respect.
Men like him prefer understated women.
Correction. Men like him think they prefer understated women until someone like me walks into their life and rearranges their pulse with a glance.
A familiar black SUV pulls to the curb. My breath catches, but this time, it's not out of emotion. It's out of strategy.
Brax gets out, tall, broad, arms covered in ink, and wearing that perpetual scowl I've memorized.
I straighten subtly, shifting my weight so he won't catch the outline of my face too easily.
He checks the sidewalk, then steps inside the studio.
A few minutes pass. Then Valentina appears in the doorway with him. He places his hand on her back, guiding her in that overprotective way he has. She looks up at him like he hung the moon or some equally nauseating romantic symbolism.
My chest tightens. I push past it and snap a photo of them. It's hip-level, angled discreetly.
Brax helps Valentina into the SUV, then gets inside next to her. It takes off.
I swallow the anger and make my way to my apartment, determined to make both Red and Brax beg for my attention.
I'm going to need to know Red's schedule.
I pull up LinkedIn and send Red the photo of Brax and Valentina.
I plan out what I'll tell him on Friday when he asks me about it.
I saw them together. It reminded me of what wanting someone does to a person. I don't want that pain again, Dr. Mercer. Not with you.
He'll swallow hard. His throat will tighten. He'll shift in his chair, fighting the instinct to close the distance between us. And I'll watch every second of that unraveling.
I stop walking long enough to open my notes app and add a line underSession Two Tactics.
Make him jealous. Subtly.
Then another:
Ask him why jealousy happens if a connection is not personal.
He'll know what I'm doing. I'll pretend he doesn't. But men like him cling to their professionalism until it bursts at the seams.
