Page 86 of Faking the Shot
Oh, we’re doing that today. Fantastic.
“Well,” I say, crossing my arms. “If I had to rank my feelings on a scale from one to ‘set his Jeep on fire,’ I’d say I’m firmly at a ‘smash the toaster we picked out together against the windshield.’”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh, but she schools her expression back into Professional Empathy. “So, there’s still some anger.”
I give her a look. “Stephie, I don’t know if you know this but being replaced by someone who says things like ‘I don’t eat gluten, it disrupts my aura’ can lead to a little resentment.”
She writes again, and I shift uncomfortably. What does she write in that thing? Is she cataloging my bad jokes? Creating a bingo card of my emotional breakdowns?
“Let’s dig a little deeper,” Dr. Wright says, leaning forward slightly, her pen poised like she’s about to unearth the secrets of the universe—or at least mine. “What about moving on? Letting someone new in? You’ve mentioned you’re hesitant to date again.”
Oh, here we go. The Big Question.
“Not hesitant, per sé,” I reply, waving my hand in what I hope is a nonchalant way. “Just . . . strategically cautious. You know, like avoiding another iceberg after the Titanic situation.”
“Strategic caution? That’s an interesting way to frame it. Have you met anyone who makes you want to take the risk?”
And just like that, Kaden Fucking Crawford crashes into my brain like a speeding Zamboni.
“Well, there’s this . . . situation,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. My stomach tightens instantly. Regret.
Dr. Wright perks up like a cat spotting a laser pointer. “Go on.”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s nothing. Just work-related.”
“Work-related situations don’t usually make people hesitant to discuss them.”
Damn her and her unrelenting therapist logic.
“Fine,” I grumble, throwing my hands up in defeat. “There’s this guy. Kaden. He’s—ugh. He’s infuriating. And smug. And so ridiculously attractive it’s like the universe is testing my fucking patience.”
Her brow arches slightly. “And?”
“And nothing! It’s fake. Completely fake. We’re pretending to date for his image. He’s a hockey player—rich, famous, terribleat PR. I’m just helping him not look like a raging asshole. It’s not real.”
Dr. Wright leans back, her eyes sparkling with that infuriating mix of curiosity and calm. “But?”
“But,” I drag out the word, slumping farther into the chair, “he kissed me the other day. And it was . . . good. Stupidly, maddeningly good.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Maddeningly good?”
“Yes, maddening,” I snap, gesturing wildly. “The kind of kiss that makes you question every bad decision you’ve ever made because suddenly, you’re thinking, ‘What if this one isn’t a bad decision?’”
What I don’t tell her? I don’t tell her about the bad decisions I’ve made after the first kiss. How I let him use his mouth anywhere and everywhere on my body. His cock is probably one of my most favorite parts of his body. How . . . okay, we’ve crossed all lines and not just that. Also, he says he’s falling in love with me.
In. Love.
I can’t love again. Can I?
Dr. Wright’s pen scratches against the notepad, and I swear she’s doodling hockey sticks and hearts.
“How did it make you feel?” she asks, her tone steady and annoyingly calm.
I glare at her. “What is this? Feelings Boot Camp? It made me feel confused. And maybe a little . . . hopeful? Like, maybe not every man on Earth is a walking red flag. But mostly confused. Then again, what if I’m just blind to his red flags because his mouth is that good?”
“Hopeful is good,” she says, her smile softening. “It means you’re open to the possibility of something new.”
I snort. “Open? Dr. Wright, my heart’s more boarded up than a beach house before a hurricane.”
