So she kept her thoughts focused on the most important thing—the two boys in her waiting room. “You asked Scarlett to call CPS?”

“Yes,” he said, and she winced, his booming voice sending a shard of pain through her ear and into her head.

“Sorry,” she said, and turned the volume down. “I turned it up to hear what you were whispering to Scarlett. In here, I don’t need it at all. Have a seat, Coach.”

He met her gaze unflinchingly, clearly understanding what she’d done by putting the desk between them. Distance was key to her sanity.

He was close enough, though, that she could detect his scent, and it was as it always was—delicious. Like verbena soap and light sweat. Common enough, but on him? Really, really good.

She concentrated on not sniffing the air like a puppy. That would be humiliating.

He was close enough that she could read his lips. Which were firm and full and . . . No, no, no. Do not look at his lips. He’ll know.

He was too damn close. That was all.

So find out what’s going on so that you can open the door and air the room out. You don’t want to be leaping over the desk and into his lap.

She cleared her throat. “I’m wearing my lab coat.”

Which was so not what she’d planned to say.

He nodded. “I’ve been working on that phobia. Desensitizing.”

When he’d first met her, he’d experienced panic attacks whenever he saw her in a white lab coat. But not today.

“Why?” she asked and clenched her jaw. She hadn’t meant to ask that, either.

He tilted his head, the light from the window highlighting his jaw, which was square and strong.

Like all of him.

“I didn’t want to be triggered by doctors anymore,” he said. His gaze dropped to her mouth briefly before rising to her eyes.

She nearly fanned herself. “That’s good. I mean . . . good.” She closed her eyes and drew a breath, aware that her nostrils were flaring but unable to change the fact. “So . . . Michael Rowland.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I need your help. He needs your help.”

She opened her eyes, locked onto his. “Why CPS, Diesel? What’s going on at his home?”

He settled his big body into the chair. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on that man. Anywhere. “I don’t know exactly,” he finally answered. “Joshua said their mother hits Michael. She threw a bowl at him this morning. That’s what needs to be stitched. I also saw him wincing when he shrugged, then later he only used one shoulder to shrug.” The side of his mouth lifted sadly. “I guess teenagers have to shrug to communicate, so he couldn’t stop altogether.”