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“As far as ethics,” she continues, “dating a coworker or even a boss can be tricky. But your situation sounds a little less formal. Didn’t you say it was temporary?”

“I—yes.”

Though I’ve enjoyed the change of pace and the dopamine rush from completing tasks, managing a building or being an assistant isn’t my dream. Then again, it’s making me wonder if a cookie business is actually my dream. I love the cookie part. But it’s been a relief to not worry about Serendipitous Sweets. Maybe that’s not what I want either.

The best part about my new job, if I’m being fully honest, is seeing Archer. My skin prickles every time he strides into the office, with his blazing eyes and firm mouth, ordering me to do something. Even when thatsomethingis calling the plumber.

The deep timbre of his voice is like a tuning fork. It makes my heart hum.

My favorite thing, though, is the way he’ll hesitate in the doorway a few times a day like he wants to say something. Like he’s starved for some kind of human contact. He never brings himself to speak, so I happily jump to fill the silence by either babbling inanely or asking him questions.

Oh, no…

My conversations with Archer are my conversations with Judith, only in reverse. I groan, dropping my head into my hands. Awesome. I am therapist-ing Archer.

Except he wants to be there. He keeps coming back, dispensing orders and then softening a little, hovering just inside the office with a look that’s almost hopeful. That isnotlike Judith and me.

I feelslightlybetter.

“I think ultimately, it would depend on the power dynamics between you. In a healthy relationship, both parties are on equal ground,” Judith says. “You wouldn’t want him to be your boss outside of work.”

A sly smile overtakes her face, and I realize I was wrong. She’s not a supportive side character in a cartoon movie. She’s a straight-up villain.

“Unless you want him to boss you around … elsewhere.”

I gulp. Then I glare, but it’s hard to do so when my face feels like it’s melting right off my bones. “I don’t think it’s … we’re not …”

“Do you feel like you can freely express yourself with Archer? Could you be partners?”

She’s back in business mode, thankfully. No smiles. No innuendos—was that an innuendo? Are therapists allowed to make those?

Whatever it was, I’m still recovering. But I force myself to think about her question.

I think of bossing him around in the kitchen while he wore a pink, frilly apron. Despite his commanding and somewhat intimidating presence, I’ve never had a problem speaking freely. Even the night we met.

But it doesn’t matter because I’m not seriously considering this, am I?

I can think of at least five or ten good reasons not to. Perhaps the biggest one, which has become more clear as I’ve heard bits and pieces of Archer’s conversations with Bellamy and others, is that his real life is in New York. He’s said nothing about going back, but he’d have to, wouldn’t he?

A billionaire would be bored in Serendipity Springs.

And even if the idea of living in a bigger city like New York excites me, I can’t. Literally. It would be Paris and Trey all over again.

It would be different, some small voice insists.Archer isn’t Trey.

But the parallel between the two situations has been made, leaving me with a sour feeling in my gut.

The alarm on my phone beeps, and I jump to my feet, relieved I’ve survived another week of war. And safely avoided answering her questions about Archer. He is a pothole—no, a sinkhole—up ahead on the road I’m driving. And the best option is for me to steer right around him and keep going.

So why is my foot twitching to hit the gas and drive straight into him?

“If you can, take that drive again,” Judith says. “Only as far as you already went. Unless you want to go beyond. But Willa?”

“Hm?” I turn at the doorway, where I’ve got one foot out of the room already.

“Go easy on yourself.”

I give her a tight smile, not sure this is something I can do.