Chapter Two
Delilah
The receptionist glances up as I approach the desk, still twirling the pen I stole from Rhys’s office like a trophy I won for Most Likely to Make Therapy Horny. Her mug has been refilled with something herbal. Possibly hallucinogenic. Possibly brewed over a cauldron while chanting.
“So,” I say breezily, “Dr. Rhys says I’m a once-a-week delight now.”
She stares at me.
No smile. No nod. No oh wow, your trauma is adorable, let me schedule you energy. Just a blank face and those judgmental, try-hard brows.
“Therapeutically,” I clarify. Obviously. Jesus.
Although… was that a twitch at the corner of her mouth? A wrinkle of disdain?
Oh no.
She has a thing for him.
I narrow my eyes.
Does she want my therapist? Because I get it. If I worked with Rhys, I’d be professionally useless and probably very pregnant.
But this is a problem. Because he clearly wants me.
Weekly sessions? That’s not therapy. That’s foreplay with paperwork.
Bi-weekly is for people who cry once in a while and own yoga mats.
I’m special.
Her blink slows, like she’s processing my existence at half-speed. Studying me. Assessing. Maybe silently hexing me.
“I suggested breakfast sessions,” I add sweetly. “He seems like an éclair man, don’t you think? Or maybe Boston crème. He’s got that… creamy center energy.”
She physically recoils.
It’s extremely satisfying.
Unquestionably into him.
I’m about to ask for one of those How Did We Do?
feedback forms just so I can note that the receptionist gave cock-block vibes and failed to match my enthusiasm for pastry-based flirting when the office door swings open behind me with the kind of violent swagger that should come with a musical sting and a warning label.
And then God personally intervenes.
Because he walks in.
Boots. Tattoos. Tight jeans painted onto thighs that probably make eye contact when he walks. A faded gym tee clings to a chest that looks sculpted by regrets. His arms? Designed for sin. Biceps built to ruin someone’s credit score.
He’s got that kind of effortless strut that says I’m the problem and you’re gonna like it.
“Yes, please,” I whisper.
Sign me up. Swear me in. Sacrifice me to his delts.
“So,” he says to the room, voice all gravel and sex, like he’s chewing on a cigar and your boundaries. “This where the group shit goes down?”
Group shit? Oh no. He’s a fellow criminal. A kindred spirit with felonies and forearms. Our souls have already high-fived.
I stare. No, it’s more. I gape.
Not in horror.
In full ovarian surrender.
Because sweet creamy Christ on a cracker, this man is not Rhys.
This man is absolutely not my therapist.
But this man is one hundred percent talking to my reproductive system.
The receptionist points to the hallway without looking up. Probably because she doesn’t want to risk making eye contact with the sun.
He winks at her (rude) then saunters past me with a flash of white teeth and a scent like spiced chocolate, sweat, and poor impulse control.
I don’t just watch him walk away. I swivel like a possessed music box ballerina with a bad boy kink.
“Oh no,” I whisper to myself, one hand fluttering dramatically over my heart. I’m about to faint into a dick appointment.
The receptionist slides a paper toward me like it might explode.
“Here are your scheduled appointments,” she says, tapping the list with one perfectly square, French-tipped nail.
Basic bitch gel set. Boring. The kind of hands that have never known spontaneous lust or glitter-based vengeance.
“Six weeks of morning sessions. After the sixth, Dr. Hartwell will assess your case and determine if continued therapy is recommended.”
I nod like this is normal and I’m not already mentally cataloging which outfits best say “yes, I’m emotionally unstable, but also tragically hot and court-approved.”
Then I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, um. That guy who just walked in?” I tap the air vaguely, as if it still holds his scent. “The one who looks like a whiskey-soaked sin dream in a gym shirt? What’s his deal?”
She gives me a look. The “I’m too old for this glittery nonsense” look. “You mean Mr. Ryker?”
Ryker. Of course his name is Ryker. Probably doesn’t even try to seduce people. He just breathes and ruins them. Says shit like “this isn’t gonna be gentle” and people start ovulating on the spot.
“He asked about ‘group shit,’” I clarify. “What’s that? Do I get group shit?”
She hesitates. “That’s the court-mandated Anger Management group. Thursdays. Late afternoon.”
I blink, deeply offended. “And I’m not in it?”
She blinks back, tired. “Miss Darling, you don’t have an anger-related citation on record.”
“Well that’s a technicality,” I say, puffing up like an overcaffeinated goose defending her honor. “I contain rage. Like a sexy, glitter-laced volcano. I seethe recreationally. Untamed, vengeful goddess levels of fury.”
“You don’t need anger management,” she says gently, in the tone people use for animals who’ve eaten tinsel.
I slam my palm on the counter like I’m in a courtroom drama directed by Ryan Murphy. “Enroll me, dammit. For character development. For arc. For righteous fuckin’ fury with a redemption subplot.”
“Miss Darling…” she begins, using the tone people reserve for toddlers and emotional support peacocks.
“Do I need a government-issued slip to be livid?” I shout, flinging an arm with such raw conviction I nearly send her herbal trauma-tea flying. I can be angry as hell if that’s what it takes to be in proximity to Biceps Von Thunderpants.
The woman sighs deeply, pinches the bridge of her nose, and then says, “We have other support groups you might benefit from.”
“Great! I’ll take them all. Load me up. Stuff my schedule like a therapy Thanksgiving turkey. But we deal with my anger first,” I snarl, aiming for savage and landing somewhere between Gremlin-on-fire and drama camp Valedictorian.
“You can’t just…”
“Do I look like a woman with boundaries?” I hiss, then kick the desk for emphasis. “Ow. Fuck. My toe.”
I grit through the pain, ready to hurl more sparkly rage. But it fizzles, just a little. Maybe I just want to belong somewhere. Even if it’s in a room full of rage and regrets. Even if it’s next to someone who smells like bad decisions and good sex.
She doesn’t answer just shoves a sign in sheet toward me.
I snatch a glitter gel pen from my bra, because I came prepared and wouldn’t dare use Rhys’s pen to sign up for Ryker. That’s just gross. I scrawl my name with a flourish worthy of royal decrees and kink contracts.
“Six weeks. Write it down. And if Biceps McCourt-Order is in for six too, I want us partnered. Trust falls. Rage charades. Whatever,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. “Is the angry sex angel in for six weeks too?”
“That’s private information,” she snaps, yanking the sheet back like I might try to lick it for Ryker’s scent.
I slap my palms on the counter, freshly recommitted to both emotional healing and whatever sins Ryker’s forearms have planned for me.
“One more thing,” I say, lowering my voice into husky confessional booth at a strip club territory. “Is there a bathroom?”
The receptionist sighs. “Yes.”
“I need to… freshen up,” I say, already digging through my purse for emergency mascara, backup glitter balm, and a travel-sized vial of perfume labeled “Poor Decisions No. 5.” “You understand. First impressions. Sweat glands. Lip gloss logistics.”
Her dead-eyed stare says she absolutely does not understand. “You don’t need makeup,” she says like a woman who’s never flirted with a man so hot he might punch drywall for fun.
“I’m not doing it for me, Susan,” I snap.
(Her name is probably not Susan. But she flinches, so I’m going with it.) “This isn’t vanity.
It’s justice. Lip gloss and lawful horniness.
I’m about to meet my future second court-ordered ex-husband and I refuse to show up with crusty lashes and neutral pH. ”
She checks the clock. “You have thirty seconds.”
I spin on my heel, eyes wide, lip balm half uncapped. “Shit. I wanted to be mysterious and ethereal and slightly damp from face mist. Now I’m just aggressively damp.”
I break into a speed-walk, trying to apply mascara mid-stride like a sexy, legally-compelled tornado. “If I die, tell him I was flirty and emotionally unavailable.”
“Please don’t talk to anyone,” the receptionist calls after me, voice weary with secondhand embarrassment.
Too late.
This glitter grenade is armed.
And about to walk into a room with rage issues, raw sexual tension, and orgasms wrapped in jeans and a t-shirt.