Page 25 of The Therapist

“You must be Cooper,” she says, voice even but edged with something sharp. “The one who volunteered last minute.”

A pause.

“Funny,” she adds, her gaze flicking over him. “You don’t look like a journalist.”

His eyes dart over her shoulder and lock on mine.

“What do I look like?” he asks, and there’s amusement in his voice, but his gaze… his gaze is something else entirely.

I force myself to hold it, to keep my expression neutral, unreadable. But it’s damn near impossible.

Aubry huffs, unimpressed. “Like someone who’s here for a reason other than journalism.”

Cooper chuckles, lifting his hands as if in surrender. “I’m just here to cover the event,” he says smoothly. “Puppies, good people, a wholesome cause—what’s not to love?” His head tilts slightly, his focus never wavering. “I was thinking of getting some candid shots. Maybe even some with that lady over there.”

He points to me.

My stomach tightens. Say no, I plead silently.

Aubry hesitates, glancing back at me, waiting for my reaction. She has no idea who he really is to me—how he’s unraveled me in ways I should be above.

The words are right there, waiting on my tongue. No. Absolutely not.

“Fine,” Aubry says and steps aside, but not before giving Cooper a warning look. He barely seems to notice, already lifting his camera, a knowing glint in his eyes.

I exhale slowly, forcing my limbs to loosen as I return to the grass.

The moment I sink down, the puppies are on me again—climbing over my legs, licking at my fingers. I reach out instinctively, stroking their warm fur, letting their joy ground me.

Then I feel it.

The weight of his gaze.

The distinct click of his camera.

I don’t have to look to know that he’s not just photographing the puppies.

He’s photographing me.

I tell myself I should ignore him. That I shouldn’t care. But my body betrays me. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading like wildfire as I imagine how I must look through his lens—soft smiles, messy hair, the bare skin of my calves exposed as I shift among the puppies.

Click.

I swallow.

Click.

I glance up just as he lowers the camera slightly, peering at me from above it, the edge of his mouth curved in something dangerously close to a smirk.

He knows.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I shift, trying to refocus, but when I reach for a particularly squirmy puppy, my dress rides up just a couple inches higher. Click.

I exhale sharply.

He’s going to look at these later.

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