Page 24 of The Flames Between Us

I leave her office in a daze, barely acknowledging Jim as I pass through the waiting room and out into the afternoon sunshine. In my truck, I sit gripping the steering wheel, alternating between self-recrimination and the lingering sensation of her lips on mine, her body pressed against me.

What have I done?

Chapter 6 - Everly

I watch the door close behind Ollis, then sink into my chair, hands covering my face. My heart is racing, my body still humming with the electricity of his touch.

This cannot be happening. Not to me. Not after years of impeccable professional conduct. Not with a patient who needs my help more than he needs a romantic complication.

I should never have let him get so close. Should have maintained stricter boundaries from the beginning. Should have referred him to another therapist at the first hint of attraction.

Yet, even as I catalog my professional failures, I can't stop remembering the feel of his hands on my waist, the gentle urgency of his kiss, and his solid strength against me. In those moments, I wasn't Dr. Morgan, trauma specialist—I was just Everly, a woman responding to a man who awakens something I've kept dormant for too long.

"Stop it," I whisper to myself, standing abruptly. I move to the window, needing physical distance from the space where we just crossed every professional boundary.

I need to call Dr. Winters immediately. Need to confess what happened and seek her guidance on how to proceed. Need to determine whether I can ethically continue as Ollis's therapist (almost certainly not) and how to transfer him to a colleague without derailing his progress.

But beneath all these necessary professional considerations is a more personal truth I can hardly admit to myself: I want him. Not as a patient. Not as a case study. As a man. I want his hands on me again, want to explore every inch of his body.

"This stops now," I say aloud, as if vocalizing the decision might make it easier to follow through. "You're his therapist. He needs help, not complications."

I straighten my blouse one final time, smooth my hair, and reach for the phone to call Diane. This is the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

Yet as the phone rings, I can't help but touch my lips, still sensitive from his kiss, and wonder what might have happened if I hadn't stopped him.

The Next Day

The morning after what I can only think of as "the incident," I'm in my office early, determined to handle this situation professionally despite the turmoil of my personal feelings. My first action was calling Diane last night, confessing everything in a rushed, mortified explanation. Her response was exactly what I needed—neither condemning nor dismissive, but clear about the path forward.

"You need to refer him to another therapist," she said simply. "It's not a punishment for either of you—it's what's best for his treatment and your professional integrity."

I spent the rest of the evening drafting an email to Dr. Marcus Reynolds, a colleague who specializes in first responder trauma. The email sits in my drafts folder now, awaiting only Ollis's contact information and my final decision to send it.

I'm midway through preparing for my 11 AM session when Jim knocks on my door.

"Dr. Morgan? Mrs. Halloway just called to cancel her appointment. Something about her grandson being sick."

"Oh," I say, momentarily thrown by the sudden gap in my schedule. "Thank you for letting me know."

"Do you want me to try rescheduling any of your afternoon patients to fill the slot?"

I consider this, then shake my head. "No, that's alright. I could use the time to catch up on some notes."

Once Jim leaves, I lean back in my chair and exhale slowly. An unexpected free hour. After the emotional whirlwind of yesterday, the prospect of quiet reflection time is appealing. I turn on my small Bluetooth speaker, selecting a calming playlist of instrumental music that won't distract me from my work.

With Mrs. Halloway's file set aside, I pull out my notes on several other patients, determined to use this time productively. The gentle piano music fills the office as I review my observations and treatment plans, making occasional updates.

I'm deliberately avoiding Ollis's file. In fact, I've placed it in my desk drawer rather than the active stack on my desk—a small symbolic gesture acknowledging that he will soon be another therapist's patient.

Twenty minutes into my unexpected break, a commotion erupts in the reception area—raised voices, hurried footsteps, Jim's concerned tone. Before I can fully process what's happening, someone pounds on my office door with urgent, heavy knocks.

Startled, I set aside my notes and move quickly to the door. The moment I open it, Ollis Crawford practically falls into my office, his large frame filling the doorway. He's in full firefighting gear minus the helmet, face streaked with soot, breathing heavily as if he's just run a marathon.

"Ollis?" I manage, stepping back in shock. "What on earth—"

"I did it," he says, his words rushing out between labored breaths. "I went in. All the way in. Middle of the worst of it. And I didn't freeze. Not even for a second."

He's speaking so rapidly, his excitement and adrenaline clearly still pumping, that I can barely follow what he's saying. Behind him, Jim appears, looking both apologetic and flustered.

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