Page 22 of The Therapist

“Unacceptable.” My voice is faint, but lacking real conviction. His nostrils flare as my words hang in the space between us.

He waves away my words as if they’re inconsequential and straightens. But Cooper is patient. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand. He takes another step closer. His fingers clutch the collar of my blouse as he leans in. His head dips to mine.

His lips skim my cheek, and I swear electricity sparks everywhere they touch. They inch toward my lips.

He lets me feel it first—the heat, the taboo, the desire curling between us like a rising flame. His lips part against mine, not forceful but persuasive, coaxing, creating the illusion of safety while every fiber of my being screams that nothing about this is safe.

And maybe that’s why I want it so badly.

Then he speaks, his voice a murmur against my lips. “I want to watch you, Robin. I want to see you.”

His words snake through me, a slow, decadent poison, curling in places I pretend don’t exist.

That should be the final straw. It should snap me out of this.

It does—but not in the way I expect.

I shove him again. Hard.

He stumbles back, eyes flashing, breath uneven. I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart, trying to remind myself who I am, what I stand for.

Cooper watches me, and for the first time since he walked through that door, I see it—the flicker of uncertainty beneath his arrogance.

I drag in a shaky breath and meet his gaze head-on. “Get out.”

His jaw tightens. “Robin—”

“Now.”

I watch as he hesitates, as his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for me again.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he gives me one last look—dark, unreadable, promising—before turning and walking out.

The moment the door closes, a deep sigh hurls from my lungs. My fingers brush my lips as if Cooper’s lips on mine still exist there. The kiss felt good, and not just because I haven’t been kissed with that much zeal in ages, but that’s what worries me most.

If there are only three truths I’ve learned in this life, it’s this: life is a maze, love a conundrum, and trouble can find you no matter where you try to hide.

Developing an emotional attachment to a patient is a liability. It clouds judgment. It happened with Amelia, although she was never my patient, and I feel it taking root with Cooper.

This was a mistake.

A beautiful, shattering mistake.

Eleven

Present

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, a rhythmic metronome to the quiet tension in the room. My newest patient—Claire Reynolds, according to the intake form—sits across from me, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap. There’s something too controlled about her posture, too polished. But I push the thought aside. People come into my office with all kinds of walls up.

I fold my hands on my notepad. “What brings you in today?”

She exhales, as if steadying herself. “I struggle with…attachment.”

The words feel rehearsed. My skin prickles, but I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Attachment how?”

She tilts her head, studying me, her lips curving just slightly. “With men, mostly. Dangerous ones. The kind you know you should stay away from, but can’t seem to resist.”

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