Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

She shrugs. “It looks like I don’t have a choice. I want to keep my job. And you need yours too…so, yes.”

“Also, isn’t it kind of nice that we’re speaking again? I like it.” A whole lot more than I probably should.

Ellie nods. “Yeah, it probably is.” She points at the door. “After all this warm-up, are you ready to jump into your first RTAT session? We can use my boss’s office. She’s off to the hospital to give birth, but she left me her keys.”

She smiles, patting her coat pocket, which makes a metallic tinkle. Seeing her lips curl up makes me ask myself whether I made a mistake by committing to see her every day for the next three weeks.

I refuse to let this thought linger in my head.

The butterflies in my stomach, as giant as they might be, mean nothing. They come from old instincts that still need to die off. I just need to keep my history with Ellie where it belongs, and this arrangement will work out seamlessly.

I can totally do that.

Chapter 7

(Ellie)

My palms are sweaty as I push Stephanie’s office door open.

I wish I could say my jitters are only caused by performance anxiety, but I know that’s not the case. My nerves are shaky because Wyatt will be on the receiving end of my therapeutical services, which is entirely silly.

We broke the ice in the waiting room, didn’t we? We had our first chat in years, and it went fine. I acted rather composed with him, so I can be proud of myself.

Especially when Bill appeared. I ignore the snooty voice asking why I suggested dinner to the handsome doctor when only this morning I was having some doubts about his invitation for coffee.

I picture Wyatt’s face when I turned Bill’s invite into a romantic evening date. The image of his sour expression acts as a balm on my jumpiness. My diaphragm relaxes and the balloon that seemed to be squeezed beneath my ribs shrinks considerably.

I’ve got this. The therapy with Wyatt will be smooth cruising. I just need to stick to my professional duty.

I stride into my boss’s sanctuary with my chin high.

Wyatt follows me but stops when he reaches Stephanie’s beige carpet. He pulls his nose into a funny little grimace. “Ah, this smell again. It reminds me of the talc Mom bought me in high school to reduce sweating during trainings. Not that it worked.”

Stick with your role.

I give him a serene look that I hope doesn’t betray how I almost conjured an image of his bare chest covered in perspiration and baby powder. “It’s a tailor-made ambiance fragrance my boss orders from Spain.”

Wyatt steps closer to me and pats his masculine nose. “Well, I broke my nose a few times, so it might not work that well anymore. Even if, I can still recognize an enticing scent. Like the perfume you’re wearing. Orange blossom, perhaps?”

Heat rushes to my skull and, without answering him, I scurry to the window.

“I’ll open it. Our olfactory system influences our memory. We don’t want to subject you to any potentially disturbing smell while we dive into our first session,” I blabber while my fingers close around the cool aluminum handle.

I pull on it with way more energy than necessary, but it doesn’t move. I go at it with both hands, but nothing. “The stupid thing is stuck.”

Suddenly, a hot stream of air lands on my nape.

“Let me help,” Wyatt says.

Jeez, how close is he exactly? I don’t dare to check.

The last thing I need is a close-up look into his caramel eyes. I don’t want to lose my newly found confidence in my ability to carry my first case successfully to an end.

It’s enough that the small hairs on my neck are already standing up and the blimp in my stomach has re-inflated bigger than before.

Without turning, I step aside.

With ease, Wyatt twitches the handle the opposite direction from where I tried to force it, then grins at me. “Here you go. Is tilted okay?”

“Uhm, sure. It’s fine,” I say, while shame brews in my belly.

I’ve opened this window like a thousand times already. I should have known to turn it to the left. Okay, no point in dwelling on it. Let’s just get to work.

I clear my throat. “Take a seat please and then we can get started.”

He nods. “Of course, where shall I sit?”

I point him to the black couch while I go to the cabinet where we keep the patient files. I fetch my notebook and the documents I need to fill out with him.

When I have everything together, I move over to Stephanie’s egg chair.

My boss claims that clients are more prone to confide in her when she sits on something that resembles the shape of a womb, but I doubt Wyatt’s chattiness will be influenced by this maternal symbol. Still, I choose it because it’s the furthest I can stay from him without seeming like I’m doing it on purpose.

First, we go through the administrative files, then I give him the papers that are supposed to test some of his personality traits and habits. “These are questionnaires you can complete tonight. Tomorrow we can check the results together.”

Wyatt picks them up and scans them then nods. “Okay.” He places the documents beside him and raises his chin. “So, what shall we do now?”

“The first session is always short. I’ll just explain what you can expect during our treatment, and then we’ll talk some more about the reason that brought you to our clinic. Sound good?”

“Sure.” Wyatt shrugs and places his elbows on the couch’s armrests. His causal gesture presses his T-shirt to his wide chest.

I keep my eyes on his face and recite the words I’ve so often heard Stephanie chant to her patients. “During a Rapid Transformational Anger Therapy, which I’ll just refer to as RTAT from now on, we won’t be psychoanalyzing your entire childhood.”

Relief floods Wyatt’s features.