Page 1 of Look, Don't Touch

“I’ll tell her that my clitoris is not my heart, and if she can’t take care of them both, she won’t get the fun button.” Zhan slaps her palms onto the thighs of her bright pink slacks and lifts her sharp chin high. Her long onyx locks slip behind her shoulder like a curtain of seductive blades.

Pride blooms in my chest like the cherry blossoms in spring at Yuyuantan Park in Beijing. A year ago I attended the Olympics for a patient with performance anxiety, not from getting slammed into the plexiglass while playing one of the most brutal sports imaginable but in the bedroom. It affected his marriage and, in turn, his performance in the rink. It turns out the pressure of earning a degree while training for the Olympics and nurturing a young marriage would manifest somewhere.

I’d met the meek and mild Zhan at Capital Indoor Stadium when I’d shown up at the wrong facility.

How was I to know they’d have a different rink for damn near every ice sport? I know enough to be dangerous when it comes to ice hockey but far less about ice-skating.

At that time, the premier figure-skating manager wouldn’t have whispered the word clitoris, much less made interesting synonyms for it. However, Zhan had known her ice-skating protégé was destined to win the gold. What confidence she’d lacked in her relationship, she more than made up for in her work.

I can’t hide my grin. I don’t want to. After my morning, it feels amazing on my cheeks and lips. It soaks into my limbs, and I snatch it greedily into my heart. “Fun button?”

“It’s accurate, is it not?” Zhan’s thin brows furrow.

“Deadly so.” I close my digital notebook and set it on the obscene hunk of marble that operates as a coffee table and sometimes as an assassin in my office. I’ve ruined one pair of Manolos and one pinky toe on the damn thing. “You realize Cara could tell you she’s not capable of anything more than clits and tits?”

Zhan’s svelte shoulders pull back in her matching blazer. “I know. After far too long, I’m prepared for either outcome. Thanks to you, I’ve realized that I deserve someone who is all in with me. Heart, mind, and body.”

“You’ve done the work, Zhan. Not me. You. This is your triumph.” My hand presses to my heart, and it flutters against my palm. “I’m happy to stand as a witness.” I push from my chair, wait for Zhan to rise, then escort her to the exit door. “Call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you on our virtual visit next week. You’ll be in Calgary, right?”

“Yes, scouting,” she beams.

“Isn’t that called poaching?”

“She’s American. Only training in Canada for the winter.”

“Then isn’t that called cheating?”

She points her clutch at me. “Stick to therapy, and I’ll stick to skating.”

“That’s a promise.” I open the door to the exit suite, a small room apart from the reception area. It’s warm with ambient lighting, a trickling waterfall wall, and soothing music. It has meditative guides, tissues, and orange and mint-infused water. “Take your time. The chime will remind you when you need to leave.”

“Thank you, Doc Fitz.” She offers a bow in exchange for my smile.

I close and lock the door, then sag against it for just a moment. On any other day, I’d be finished by now, ready to head to the gym or throw myself into bed with a myriad of sex toys until I pass out from bliss or exhaustion, depending on what the day brings. Today warrants a Big Boy Bonanza, but not just yet.

After spending my morning in the psych ward, namely suicide watch, I’d had to cancel two afternoon appointments and push back Zhan and my newest case.

Mr. Arlo Judge.

A zing of excitement crackles up my spine, straightening me from the door. After so long in the game of human behaviors, many utterly complex things have become prosaic. Mr. Arlo Judge is the opposite of mundane. The man is thirty-two, with the looks of a European model, the bank account of a Rockefeller, and the respect of a Nobel Laureate. Most interesting of all, the man reviles personal touch. For him, both giving and receiving are akin to fire branding.

I can’t wait to dig into him.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

My intercom beeps, and my assistant’s chipper voice fills the line. “Hay Bale, Mr. Judge has arrived.”

No matter how many times I’ve asked her not to, the woman is determined to squeeze my childhood nickname into the day at least once. Giving it attention only exacerbates the issue.

“Thank you, Nettie Lou.” I smirk at the speaker on my desk. Natalia Louise Wright despises her nickname, but turnabout is fair play. “Please, tell me you remembered my express instructions about greeting Mr. Judge?”

“Well, of course.”

“Great.” Nat is a fifty-one-year-old smart-ass, but she is spectacular with my patients when she shows up. “Give me sixty seconds, and send him in. Don’t walk?—”

“I know, Hay Bale. I’ll let him in and see you tomorrow. I’m off to book club.”

“Goodbye.” I singsong, knowing she hasn't read the book of the month. She didn’t bother buying it. The woman goes for the booze and the broads. I can’t blame her one bit. She has a different event for every night of the week and several on the weekends. I don’t have the social stamina for half her schedule.

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