Page 40 of The Polly Principle (The Laws of Love 2)

Polly had to admit he looked like someone had lifted a weight off his shoulders.

“I don’t know, it’s weird,” Grant mused, “but I feel like he really gets this PTSD stuff better than any other health professional I’ve talked to.”

Polly had to force her fingers to let go of the squeegee. Okay, she’d concede her reaction was probably about her own baggage. She was big enough to recognise it. “I’m pleased. Glad the session was worthwhile.”

Grant nodded. “Thanks, Polly. I’ll be off, then—if you’re sure you don’t want any more help?”

“Absolutely.” She gave him a mock frown. “Now go home.”

After Grant left, Polly grabbed the tea towel and wiped up the crockery, her ears still focused on the farewells drifting through the door. Finally, there was quiet.

Where was he?

She crept over to the kitchen door and peered out.

Solo was pensively rubbing words off the whiteboard.

Something about the angle of his head, the bunching around his shoulders, made her heart do a strange little turn in her chest.

For fuck’s sake, she didn’t need to start feeling sorry for him.

Irrationally irritated, she went back to her washing up. If he wanted to stand there cutting some brooding tragic figure, let him. Like, what was his problem? Half an hour ago he’d been firing on all cylinders, standing up there at the front of the group. And grudgingly, yeah, she’d concede he had conveyed just the right mix of authoritative and approachable. She’d had to stop herself from staring at his firm butt cheeks as he turned to scribble on the whiteboard. Had to stop her insides unfurling like one of those sped-up YouTube clips of budding flowers every time he ruffled a hand through his hair or looped it loosely on his hips. That really nice way he had of listening, head tilted to one side, small encouraging nods as group members voiced their concerns.

There was a sudden clatter as her crockery stack collapsed and Polly dived to grab the pieces flying off the draining board.

Too late. A plate and two mugs smashed onto the kitchen tiles.

Hell, this was what Solo was doing to her—completely messing with her ability to organise a simple clean-up.

“Everything okay?”

Crouched down, Polly glanced up to see black-jean-clad legs in the doorway.

“What does it look like?”

In a flash, Solo had squatted down next to her and was picking up pieces. “A plate-throwing contest?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Where’s the dustpan?”

“Under the sink.”

She averted her eyes from the strong V of his thighs before he sprang lithely up and returned a moment later. As he started to brush up the shards, Polly got up and threw the broken bits in the bin. The kitchen suddenly felt too small.

“So,” Solo said as he shook the remains of the dustpan into the bin. “How did my medication spiel go?”

“It was fine,” she said. Then, unable to stop herself, she added, “If a bit long-winded.”

When she glanced up a sudden darkening in those silver eyes made her swallow. That wasn’t true, not for a second. His knowledge was textbook accurate, and somehow he’d made it fascinating.

She just didn’t want to admit it.

“I see,” he said.

“It was good to do an update.” Polly leaned her butt against the bench, her hands gripping the edge behind her until her knuckles hurt. “But focusing too much on medications shouldn’t override our program’s goals.”

“Meaning?”

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