7. First Date
Chapter Seven
First Date
Neve
The assignment comes through on my university email account at midday on a Tuesday, and my smirk is completely impossible to hide.
Miss Hart,
I’ll be your supervisor for Intro to Therapeutic Intervention for Sex and Relationships Counseling simulated therapy sessions.
I’ve scheduled our first meeting in Lab C for 4 p.m. today. Please be prompt.
Best,
Doctor Grant King, PhD
Head of Psychology Department
University of Talan
I respond professionally via email.
Doctor King,
Thank you for letting me know. I’ll see you at 4 p.m.
Best,
Neve Hart
But I also send a message to Grant’s personal number.
Me:
can’t wait for our first date!
Professor Daddy:
It’s not a date.
Me:
you’re going to hurt my feelings
Professor Daddy:
Is that even possible?
I snort at my phone, but it’s not a laugh. I’m not upset, but I’m also not exactly in the mood to unpack all the gnarly issues my parents gave me about my emotional expression. Instead, I play it off as a joke.
Me:
I guess you don’t know yet, but I’m the emotionally volatile one
Professor Daddy:
Who told you that?
Me:
pretty much everyone
Professor Daddy:
I’m not telling you that. Emotional sensitivity isn’t a bad thing, Neve.
I quirk a brow. “Tell that to my parents,” I mutter under my breath.
Me:
thanks daddy
Professor Daddy:
See you at four.
I’ve never been to the labs at the university yet, but it’s exactly what I expect. Sterile, white, and clean, the tang of soap in my mouth when I step into Lab C.
Grant is already there, waiting. I take my chance to be a little rude and stare before he realizes I’m here. He’s sitting in the chair with a laptop and a second monitor, but he’s looking at some kind of literature review.
He’s wearing a burgundy button-down and dark jeans with boots.
Fuck me, he’s gorgeous. His hair is pushed out of his face, tousled like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
His beard is, as usual, neatly trimmed, dark auburn like his hair, with those sexy little streaks of silver, the same as he has at his temples.
He’s leaning back in the chair, a little relaxed but still alert. I clear my throat from the doorway because I don’t want to startle him too badly, but he still jolts when he registers my presence.
Grant spins in the chair, then shoots up to standing. “Miss Hart,” he says, sounding almost breathless. “Thanks for coming. Shall we get started?”
“Yes.” I sound breathless, too.
Grant gestures to the chair beside his—another small, basic thing on wheels—and I drop myself into it obediently.
“Do you know what these sessions entail?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, dropping my bag by my feet and unclipping the roll top so I can grab my binder, pencil case, and notebook. “They’re kind of ‘fake’ therapy sessions, a simulation designed to replicate actual therapeutic sessions in a low-pressure environment.”
“That’s right,” he confirms. “Do you have any questions for me, before we begin?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, setting my notepad on my lap, then glancing back up to him. I flash a smile. “Shall we get started?”
He blinks at me, but doesn’t speak.
I look back at him. “Unless you want to let me know what you treat yourself to for a small victory?”
Grant’s brows fly up, and he chuffs a surprised sound. “No,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”
My lips quirk as I look down at my lap, shifting slightly in my chair. I’m not immune to the effect he has. The guy is pure impact.
I know I’m not the only one. I’ve seen the way other women in his classes look at him. I’d like to say that I’m not jealous, but I am. I know that’s stupid. I don’t have any claim on him.
But I want to.
“Do you know how these sessions will work?” Grant asks. He sits back in his chair, hooking one ankle over the opposite knee. I try to resist crossing my legs, because frankly, how dare he? He rests his hand on his thigh, the other one swiping the clipboard from the desk.
“I’m the therapist, and you’re the patient,” I say. “You have a scripted set of responses, to which I’m reacting on the fly, and my ‘treatment’ is being graded.”
“That’s right,” he says, tapping his knuckles on the clipboard. “But not by me. Our sessions will be recorded—audio, not video—and you’ll be graded by a third party. It’ll be someone who hasn’t posed as the patient for any students in these sessions.”
“I understand,” I say quickly, trying to hide my disappointment that the sessions are recorded. Something flashes in Grant’s eyes, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. I wonder if he specified that it’s audio only for a reason.
“Are you ready to begin?” Grant asks, voice gone a little rough.
“Yes, Doctor King,” I demur.
His throat works with a swallow, and I track the movement, mouth quirking. Yeah, I called him that on purpose. I think he knows it.
He leans over to his laptop, tapping a couple of buttons. “The recording has now started.”
I clear my throat, trying to put myself in the headspace of the amiable therapist. I settle back in my chair, then lift my gaze to Grant, who is all but hiding behind his clipboard now.
“Thanks for coming in today, Doctor King,” I say, putting on my best professional facade.
It feels almost silly, but I know this is what I’m supposed to be doing—even if right now, it’s like playing pretend.
“How have you been this past week? Give me a score from one to ten, and let me know if anything in particular has been bothering you. We can go from there, and remember these sessions are always flexible.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my rambling, worrying that my ‘intro pitch’ might be a little too much.
“Thank you, Doctor Hart,” Grant says evenly.
I try to hide my response to being addressed as if I’m my sister.
I don’t know if I’ll end up getting my doctorate—I know my parents don’t think I’m capable of it—but I might.
Maybe it would be nice to be Doctor Hart as well.
I know Fia would encourage and support me. So would Cade.
I wonder if Grant would.
I shake my head, trying to refocus.
“This week has been a six,” Grant goes on. “I’ve been doing… okay, but not great.”
“That’s all right,” I say, offering a small smile. “Every week can’t be a ten. Sometimes you have to have the sixes, the threes, even the ones—or how would you know the tens?”
Grant stays quiet, but I watch his beard twitch, as if he’s resisting a smile. I try not to let myself believe I’ve impressed him.
“Is there anything in particular that you’ve been struggling with, or anything you’d like to discuss this week?” I ask carefully, glancing down at my notes about not guiding questions or trying to direct the session too much.
Grant does the same, looking at his script. His green eyes flick back up to me, going dark for a moment.
“My partner and I haven’t been sexually intimate in a while,” he says.
“It’s starting to… wear. On both of us.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I’m honestly a little surprised at how much he’s throwing himself into the act.
He glances again at his notes. “He’s not initiating, and neither am I, but it feels as if we’re both stuck. ”
I nod thoughtfully. “And have you discussed this with your partner?”
He rolls his lips in. “No.”
“Is there a reason why?” I ask.
Grant sighs. “He’s not been receptive to that kind of discussion in the past.”
I open my mouth, intending to ask if his imaginary partner has become combative or aggressive, but stop myself. I’m not supposed to make assumptions.
“Is there anything in particular that concerns you about his lack of interest in sexual intimacy with you, or in his lack of receptivity to discussions on the topic?” I ask carefully.
Grant pops a brow, but he shutters the expression quickly.
He was definitely impressed then—he couldn’t hide it.
He scrubs a hand over his beard, then shakes his head, like he’s contemplating his answer, even though I know he has it written down in front of him.
“I’m worried about him being aggressive when I bring it up,” he admits, though it isn’t really an admission. “I’m safe—he’d never hurt me—”
“Are you sure?” I don’t mean to cut him off, but the words are out before I can stop them.
Grant’s head pops up, eyes meeting mine. His mouth falls open, and he hesitates. “No,” he says quietly.
I swallow hard. This feels heavy, even though it isn’t real—or, it’s not supposed to be. But something in it feels like a corollary. I don’t suspect his ex-wife was physically abusive, but it sure seems like she did a number on him emotionally.
I know what it looks like when someone has internalized a lot of bullshit.
I’ve had my fair share of crap to unlearn and unpack from my parents. I know Fia did too, and I know we’ve both worked hard to do so.
The rest of the session goes by in much the same fashion—me trying not to draw real-life parallels or make things personal when I see myself or even possibly Grant in his little made-up script—until he leans over to his laptop and hits a button to stop the audio recording.
“Thank you, Miss Hart,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you again next week. Same time.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
Grant glances up, setting his clipboard on the desk. “That’s it,” he echoes.
I stand from my seat, but before I can make myself leave, I turn back to him, books clutched to my chest. “So, how does this affect our bet?”
Grant frowns. “Our bet?”
“Yeah, our bet.” I tilt my head, letting a smile curve my lips. “You’re not exactly going to be begging to see me or touch me if you get to see me here every week, are you?”
His brows lower further. “It’s not like we can help this. It’s a professional obligation.”
I shift my weight. “Maybe… maybe we could add voice notes to our challenge.” I shrug, like it’s not a big deal, even though I know it is.
“How would that work?” He leans back in his chair, performing casual—and failing. I can see the tension wrought through his body.
“Well, this is like… a release valve. I don’t get to have you as desperate because you get to see me here. So, let me have another weapon with voice notes.” I smirk again. “You told me my voice is dangerous.”
“Using voice notes gives me another weapon, too,” he says evenly.
“I know that.” I shrug again. “I don’t mind.”
Grant props an elbow on the desk, rolling his lips in as if he’s contemplating. His throat works with a swallow, and he scrubs a hand over his face. “Don’t you think that would be… too much?”
My lips part, though I try to hide how stunned I am by the words, and how hard they hit me. There’s a lot of unpacking that I’ve done, but being ‘too much’ is one that still gets me. It’s a trigger point, you could say. I swallow hard, taking a step back.
“You’re right,” I say quickly, but my voice is all air. “I’m sorry. I’ll back off.”
Grant knows something is wrong instantly—of course, he does—and he leans forward, so the chair squeaks. I can tell he knows he’s hit on something, but also that he’s confused about what exactly it was. “Wait, Neve—”
“No, you’re right,” I cut him off, voice high and too bright for the room. “I’m being too much. I’m sorry I pushed you.”
“Whoa, no,” he says quickly. “I didn’t say that you’re too much, Neve. You didn’t—”
“Thank you, Doctor King.” I turn to the door, holding my books to my chest with one hand and reaching for the handle with the other, but before I can open it, Grant’s long, thick fingers close around my wrist.
The air stops moving in my lungs. I think it stops moving in the room, too.
“Neve,” he says, voice low and careful, but a little rough. I don’t turn to face him, but I don’t try to leave either. “If you pushed me, I’d have used our safe word. I told you that, remember?”
I nod, still feeling shaken, but I can’t turn around and look at him. I don’t want him to look at me, because I’m about a second away from a really embarrassing collapse.
I just nod again—it’s all I can do—and slip my hand from his grip. I force a smile even though I’m not sure if he can see my face. “Yes. I remember. Sorry, Doctor King, but I have to get to my next class. Excuse me.”
This time, my hand makes it to the handle, and I shove out of the lab and get as far away as possible as fast as possible, feeling like a fucking fool.