Page 67 of Unconditionally Yours

Just that brittle Stepford smile as she hands me a clipboard I don’t need and says, “He’ll be right with you.”

“Thanks so much,” I reply sweetly, while fantasizing about replacing her shampoo with expired cottage cheese.

I pick my seat very carefully, angled just so, legs crossed for the maximum garter-flash the moment that door opens. This isn’t desperation. It’s strategy. Marketing. I am the product and Rhys is going to buy with his eyes, even if his mouth still says “Miss Darling.”

Which is exactly what he says when he appears.

“Miss Darling.”

Oh. Oh fuck.

Tuesday Rhys hits different.

There’s the faintest shadow along his jawline, enough to suggest that if he put that stubble between my legs, I’d be speaking in tongues and limping into Wednesday. His sleeves are rolled up again. Forearms flexing like they’ve got a fuck schedule and I’m late for it. He smells like secret sins, and I am immediately, ferally, regretting my panties.

“Rhys,” I say like it’s a sin and he’s the priest who told me to do it again slower.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in. Not through his nose, into his soul.

God, I hope it smells like me.

“Follow me,” he says.

Oh, I will. I’d follow him into a burning building and ask him to rebuild me brick by brick.

I uncross my legs with a subtle hip-shimmy. Just enough to scandalize anyone watching. Which no one is, except maybe the ghost of Susan’s sex life.

I pad after him on clicky heels. He opens the door to his office, and I make a beeline for the couch. Not the edge, no, I sprawl out like this is a lovers’ quarrel and not court-mandated therapy. I wiggle out of my shoes with a delicate sigh. They drop to the floor.

I stretch my legs. Make sure the garters catch the light.

He sits beside the couch. Not on it. Coward.

Sit on the couch, Rhys. Sit beside me. Smell me. Fight God and your ethics.

“I understand you had an emergency,” he says calmly. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Had?” I say, propping up on my elbows, posing for a horny noir poster. “Rhys, I have an emergency. I had to survive motorcycle orgasms, a public assault, at least two love epiphanies, faced a childhood trauma, and some minor vandalism. And I did it all without your soothing therapist voice in my ear.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Since Thursday?”

“I’ve been busy. You think I just sit around fantasizing about you?” I do. But I’m also busy. “Or Hank? Who, by the way, I haven’t even looked at. No packages. No drive-bys. No death stares. I’m basically a saint.”

“That’s very good you didn’t interact with Hank,” he says. “How did that feel?”

“Irrelevant,” I snap. “Are you ignoring the part where I survived a full-blown psychological thriller by myself? I brought you chocolates. Dark. I don’t even like dark chocolate, Rhys. But I thought, you do, don’t you? And maybe you’d see the symbolism.”

“What symbolism?” he asks.

I blink at him like he just failed a quiz on us. “Because it’s sweet and dark and melts in your mouth and…” Focus. “Anyway. It’s in the bag.”

“Let’s talk about what warranted today’s emergency session,” he says, in his Therapist Voice.

Oh no. We are glossing over the symbolism? I bought you metaphorical sex candy and you’re just gonna... blink?

This is foreplay. With cocoa content. Participate.

I pout. Full lip-glossed pout. “Where do I even start? I called like, a lot. I left voicemails. I even whispered in one. That wasintimate. And now I have to cram all my breakdowns into one hour? Rhys. That’s like trying to funnel fifty gallons of feelings into a sippy cup. My trauma has chapters.”