“Are you sure it’ll be no trouble?” India asks me.
A day spent with you?
“No trouble at all.”
“So, is that a yes?” Jett checks with India.
“It’s a yes.”
“Yes!” He fist-bumps the air before planting a kiss on India’s cheek.
Then, he’s on his phone, probably texting his friends or updating his Facebook status.
I glance at India and find her already watching me.
Thank you, she mouths to me.
It gives me this warm feeling in my chest, like it’s something secret she’s giving just to me.
You’re welcome, I mouth back.
THIS IS A BAD IDEA.
I really shouldn’t be here, but it’s not like I could say no when Leandro Silva, one of Jett’s heroes, was there, offering him tickets to go watch a karting championship race. Jett’s face was all lit up, and I would be Devil Mother if I’d said no, but I would be Mother of the Year if I said yes. Who could turn down the chance to be Mother of the Year, right?
And it’s not like I could explain to Jett that it would be unethical of me to take the tickets and spend the day with Leandro because he’s my patient.
But then, technically, I didn’t take the tickets. Jett did. Leandro gave them to him, and Jett gave the spare ticket to me.
So, that’s my rationalization on the situation, and I’m sticking with it.
How I ended up in the back of the car with Leandro and Jett in the front with the driver and with control of the stereo though is beyond me.
But I really need to put my work head on because Leandro is being even more charming than usual, and he looks so bloody hot in his jeans and black shirt. And those depthless eyes of his every time they meet with mine…I swear, they are sucking me in. And his accent…sweet baby Jesus, his accent. I feel the need to cross my legs every time he speaks in general, but sitting here with him, isolated in the back of this car because Jett put up the bloody privacy glass, without my work head on…it’s not good.
And so very good.
I need to say something to fill the quiet tension.
“Thank you for inviting Jett today,” I say. It was the only thing I could think of to say.
“You already said that. Five minutes ago. And when I first picked you up.”
“Did I?”
I make the mistake of looking at him.
Fly trapped in web.
“You did.” His voice is soft and alluring.
I have to force myself to look away. I fix my gaze on the scenery outside my window.
“India, are you okay? You seem nervous.”
My eyes swing back to him. “Nervous? I’m not nervous.” My voice comes out high-pitched and saying, I’m totally nervous.
“No?” He tilts his head to the side, and some of those soft black strands fall into his eyes.
My fingers itch to brush them away. Maybe run into his hair and feel it, see if it’s as soft as I think it will be.
I’m his therapist. And I’m dating Dan.
I sit on my hands. “Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous.”
“Why?” He moistens his lips with his tongue.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he did that to torture me.
Finding my mouth dry, I lick my own lips for moisture. “Because…I’m your therapist.” I lower my voice to a whisper even though I know Jett can’t hear me up front.
“And?”
“And…” I frown. “It’s unethical of me to be socializing with you.”
“It’s unethical of you to spend time with me?”
“In a non-therapist-patient capacity, yes.”
“And that’s the only reason you’re nervous right now?” His eyes bore into mine.
No, it’s not the only reason. I’m mostly nervous because I have the strongest urge to kiss you right now and find out if you taste as amazing as I think you will. And if Jett weren’t sitting in the front of this car right now, I’d have a hard time stopping myself from doing so.
Jesus, what is wrong with me? Why can I control my thoughts while with him at the office but not here?
“Of course it is. What other reason would there be?” I have to force my voice to sound even, and it’s seriously hard going.
“No reason.” He looks away from me.
I stare down at my hands.
From the moment he met me, I’ve seen Leandro look at me in a sexual way, but I know that’s because he uses sex as a defense mechanism.
He looked at me the way he would any other woman he deemed attractive—as a temporary means of escapism.
But, lately, the way he’s been looking at me is different.
I don’t know how to explain it, but he’s no longer looking at me like I’m just another object for him to screw.
He’s looking at me like he actually wants me.
And it scares the crap out of me.
Because I want him, too.
“So, why don’t you treat this like a therapy session, if it’s bothering you so much?” His words come from nowhere, and his tone is biting. He sounds pissed off. “I can talk to you about the usual shit—you know, how my life sucks—if that’ll make you feel better about being here with me.”
“You’re blowing it out of context, Leandro.”
“Am I, Dr. Harris?”
Not since out first initial meeting has he called me Dr. Harris. He always calls me India.
And hearing him calling me Dr. Harris scratches over my skin like unwelcome nails.