The intercom on my desk crackles. Shirley's voice, perennially gentle, filters through. "Dr. Mercer? Your four o'clock is here."
My stomach knots. "Thank you. Give me two minutes."
"Of course, dear. And don't forget I'm leaving early," she replies, then the speaker clicks off.
I refrain from reminding her again that this spot is for emergencies only. Not Blue's games.
Earlier today, Shirley had come in with remorse in her eyes and a hand over her chest. "She showed me her arm. She cried and said you wanted to see her sooner. I'm sorry. I should have double-checked."
She was right. I do want to see her sooner. I just wish the reason had nothing to do with the way my body reacts whenever Blue enters my thoughts.
I save the note, close the chart, and pull up Blue's file. Her legal name fills the screen along with the diagnostic impressions I typed after our first session: obsessional focus on Brax O'Malley, possible attachment trauma, questionable reliability of reportedevents. Under risk assessment, I added a line I rarely write: Intentional provocation of clinician likely. Monitor boundaries closely.
The irony would be amusing if my pulse weren't climbing.
I stand, smooth my tie, and cross the office. Soft light strips through the half-tilted blinds. I open them so more light pours in.
I take a deep breath and open the door, and my head jerks backward.
Blue's halfway out of her chair in the waiting room, one hand on the strap of her purse, the other smoothing the skirt she undoubtedly chose just for this. My brain catalogs details in a single sweep, the way years of training wired it to do.
Her blue hair now has red highlights weaving through the brilliant color. It's vibrant against her skin, and falls in controlled waves around her shoulders. Her skirt flashes the inner column of her leg when she shifts. The seams along the edges are as sharp as her highlights, making my eyes wander exactly where they shouldn't go. Red heels shine, dangerously high, matching the scarlet on her mouth.
The air shifts around us, her faintly sweet perfume with something new in it. It's warm and expensive, with floral notes and amber underneath.
My throat tightens. "Ms. Ivanov. Good to see you."
Her mouth curves, slow and knowing. "You can call me Blue. You did last time."
I knew she would push for familiarity, and I shouldn't have tried to control it. I step aside, holding the door. "Come in."
She glances at Shirley and offers a grateful smile that looks soft enough to disarm a priest. "Thank you again."
Shirley beams. "You take care now."
Blue walks past me into the office, the skirt swaying with every step, slit opening and closing in a calculated rhythm.
Focus.
She takes the chair facing mine, angles it slightly, and sits. She crosses one leg over the other, the black fabric sliding up to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh. The red seams fall like a work of art.
I fight my impulses and drag my gaze higher toward her face. Anything else would be malpractice.
She chirps, "Thank you for seeing me sooner. I know you keep this time for emergencies."
"I do," I confirm, sinking into my chair. "Shirley told me you spoke with her. You showed her your arm."
Her expression flickers, a flash of confusion, then understanding. She lifts one shoulder. "I wanted to be honest about my history. She seemed like the kind of woman who needs to see proof instead of just words."
"That was manipulative," I reply, evenly.
Her eyes brighten in a way that should concern me more than it does. She teases, "You start our second session by calling me manipulative, Dr. Mercer? Aren't you bold?"
I lean back, keeping my posture relaxed, my tone grounded. "I start our second session by naming what you did. You bypassed my schedule by displaying scars to my receptionist, knowing shewould worry. That may not be your definition of manipulation, but clinically, it qualifies."
She uncrosses her legs slowly, a subtle shift that sends the hem of the skirt higher before she recrosses the other way. The slit gapes open for a heartbeat, a much deeper flash of inner thigh than any therapist should see.
My lungs misfire. I drag my gaze back to her face.
