Page 37 of The Therapist

I hesitate, feeling their collective curiosity pressing in on me. Play it close to the chest, Robin. “I testified in his hearing.” I pause. “And yes, he showed up to the puppy adoption event.”

Silence.

Eve’s brows shoot up. “A patient you had to testify against? That Peeping Tom?”

Nora blinks, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell us?”

I sigh. “Because it wasn’t relevant. Not to you. Not to NEL.”

Aubry lets out a dry laugh. “Oh, sure. A former patient, who you had to testify against, randomly showing up at an event we hosted isn’t relevant at all.”

I give her a pointed look. “He hadn’t been arrested yet during the adoption event. I had just started seeing him then.”

Another beat of silence, then Eve huffs. “Nope. Not good enough.”

Aubry grins. “Agreed.”

Nora straightens, her voice decisive. “Dinner. Your house. Tonight.”

I rub my temples. “I have work to do.”

Eve smirks. “Bullshit. You’re trying to avoid this conversation.”

Aubry claps her hands together. “It’s happening. We’ll bring wine.”

I stare at them, knowing full well I’ve lost this battle.

Nora arches a brow. “What’s that thing you always tell us? Avoidance isn’t a solution?”

I huff a laugh despite myself. “Using my own words against me? You know I can’t say much due to confidentiality.”

Aubry winks. “All’s fair in love and nosiness. And…if he’s in jail, he’s not your patient anymore right?”

I shake my head, exhaling in defeat.

Eighteen

Past

Ishouldn’t have let it happen. That night in my office—where it all began—was a mistake. A line I never should have crossed.

And yet, I crave him.

Cooper has a way of unraveling me, stripping me down to my rawest self, making me feel beautiful and filthy and seen. In his presence, I don’t have to be the poised, put-together therapist. I don’t have to be Dr. Robin Richardson.

I can just be… his.

I tell myself it’s just for now. A brief indulgence before I return to reality. But then he touches me, and I stop caring about consequences.

Three weeks pass in a fever dream of tangled sheets and whispered confessions. Our sessions no longer exist in the way they once did—there is no couch, no chair, no safe distance between us. Instead, he has me pinned against walls, bent over desks, spread out beneath him on the floor of my own office. His voice—low, commanding, coaxing—pulls truths from me I never dared to acknowledge.

And I love it.

I love the way he looks at me, the way he makes me feel young and reckless and starved for something I hadn’t realized I was missing.

But tonight… tonight is different.

I see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his fingers trace lazily over my bare thigh as we lie tangled in my sheets, our bodies slick with the remnants of our latest sin.

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