Page 36 of Penalty to the Heart

“And here I thought therapists were supposed to be the epitome of patience and understanding.”

“I’m a doctor, Mr. Donovan. Not a saint. So tell me, are you staying or leaving? I have other patients to attend to who truly want my help, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t waste my time.”

I don’t want her fucking help, but I also don’t want her to think she can get rid of me so easily.

But wasn’t that what I wanted anyway?

For her to give up?

I mean, wasn’t that why I was making the moves on the receptionist?

To piss her off in a way that she would be forced to send me packing?

I shake the thought away and flash my pearly-white smile at her instead.

“Lead the way, Doc. I’m all yours.”

She spins on her heel and walks into her office, leaving me to trail behind her like some puppy.

If I weren’t so annoyed, I’d allow myself to admire her hourglass figure. However, as I keep reminding myself of how I’m here against my will, I purge out all thoughts of how fucking gorgeous she is.

So she’s hot. So fucking what?

I’ve had my fair share of beautiful women.

Not like her, you haven’t.

She’s nothing special.

Yep, keep telling yourself that.

I swear, of all of the times to get a hard-on, this is the most inconvenient of them all.

And don’t even get me started on who.

I swear, my cock is out to get me.

First, it goes radio silent for ages and now decides it wants a piece of the one woman who I should despise on principle alone.

“Have a seat, Mr. Donovan, so we can get started,” she states evenly, making sure to close the door behind me.

I show her a fake smile as I take in her office decor.

It’s exactly as I had imagined it. With its soft lighting and soothing, pastel colors, its aim is to create a relaxing and calm atmosphere where her clients feel safe enough to share their baggage with her. The room holds a desk off to one side, with two chairs placed strategically in the center facing each other. Notably, there is also the infamous couch that I suspect most of her patients avoid, paired with an armchair and side table at its feet. Without hesitation, I make my way over to it, settling in comfortably by placing my hands behind my head and crossing my legs at the ankles.

“Comfortable?” she asks before settling into the armchair.

“Extremely,” I purr.

She doesn’t say anything back, preferring to grab a pad of paper, a pen, and a recorder.

“Today’s date is March the thirtieth. The time is a quarter past four. I, Dr. Roxanne Seymour, am to conduct the first therapy session for Mr. Caleb Donovan,” she speaks into the recorder before placing it on the coffee table by her side.

“And probably last,” I quip with a teasing smirk.

“If that’s what you want,” she retorts, unbothered.

She really does know how to get under a man’s skin, doesn’t she?

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