Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Valentina
And Sometimes, You Need to Push Past The Defensive Zone
The problem with therapists is they’re entirely too good at waiting.
Dr. Stephanie Wright sits across from me, her posture perfect, legs crossed, not a single sign of impatience on her serene face. Her office smells like lavender, the kind of scent that’s supposed to calm you but only makes me hyper-aware of my inability to relax.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says, her tone as soothing as the decor—a palette of soft grays and creams that practically screams, “Let’s chat over a cup of herbal tea.”
I cross my legs and adjust my blouse, trying to buy time. “Well, I’ve been . . . busy. Really busy. Work’s been?—”
“Valentina.” Her gentle interruption comes with a smile that suggests she’s heard this tap dance before. “This is your eighth session. You can’t keep going like this. Last time, we agreed we’d talk about more than work today.”
I mean, part of my job is dealing with this very hot, infuriating hockey player who kisses like he’s trying to suck the life out of me and fucks me like . . . okay, that’s not something I want to bring up to her.
Reluctantly, I sigh and lean back into the plush armchair that’s both too comfortable and weirdly judgmental. “Okay, fine. Let’s talk about Steve. My ex-husband. The man who decided I wasn’t his forever but, apparently, early-twenties yoga instructors are.”
Dr. Wright nods, jotting something down in her pristine notebook. “How does that make you feel?”
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, terrible at 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.”
“Is it?” she asks, tilting her head. “Or are you just afraid of what happens if you let someone in again?”
Damn her and her therapist’s wisdom.
I stare up at the ceiling, the faint lavender scent of the room suddenly feeling too much. “Maybe. Or maybe I just need a hobby that doesn’t involve emotionally unavailable men.”
“If you date him, you’ll figure out if he’s truly emotionally unavailable—or maybe, you’re the one keeping people at arm’s length,” Dr. Wright says, her voice calm but pointed. “Dating isn’t a commitment. It’s a way to explore, to let someone in little by little. It’s not about deciding if they’re your forever—it’s about learning more about them and about yourself.”
I sit back, her words sinking in like a stone tossed into a still pond. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am afraid—afraid to risk something real again, afraid to feel everything I’ve buried for so long.
Or maybe . . . I just need to figure out how to survive fake-dating Kaden Crawford without accidentally falling for him.
No big deal, right?
Right.
Except my heart isn’t as boarded up as I thought. And that? That’s the real problem.