Tegan lowers her gaze again, making my heart jump in my throat. Oh gosh, why the guilty expression? What’s about to hit me this time?

Tegan looks up with a curious set to her jaw, like she’s steeling herself to say something. “No, Mom, he isn’t part of a special program. He’s just a normal therapist that you hire. And he’s kind of doing it pro-bono.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Who’s he, exactly?”

“Luke. That nice man with the office next to yours?”

My brain takes a few extra seconds to figure out who she’s talking about, because nice man doesn’t fit my mental characterization of the ogre next door.

Oh, burning hell, no! Of all the people Tegan could talk to, she went to Shrek? Shrink Shrek? And how dare he talk to my daughter without asking for my permission? I’m going to have his license revoked faster than he can—

“And Mom, before you go ballistic—Luke is a wonderful therapist.”

I scoff in my head, so I keep hearing.

“He helped me see things from a different perspective…”

“Really, which perspective?”

“Yours.”

I pause, momentarily thrown. “Is that why you apologized to me today? Because he told you to?”

“No, Mom, he didn’t tell me. Luke made me see it was the right thing to do.”

Tegan’s answer is so annoyingly perfect and impossible to retort to, it makes me want to strangle someone. A very specific blue-eyed, curly-dark-haired someone.

Twelve

Lucas

Early on Thursday morning, a loud, angry pounding on my office door distracts me from the computer. I don’t have any sessions planned for at least another hour, so it’s probably not one of my patients. When the banging continues, I get up from my chair and warily approach the door.

The moment I open it, Medusa barks in my face, “I’m going to have your license revoked!”

Medusa is so worked up, even her bun isn’t as composed as usual. Instead of the sleek curtain of hair glued to her scalp, haywire locks are escaping in all directions. The new hairstyle makes her look more human, even, dare I say, cute. Pity that it’s framing a face so enraged it has lost all cuteness.

“According to New York MHY 33.21,” she rails at me, “in providing outpatient mental health services to a minor, the important role of the parents or guardians shall be recognized. That’s me.” She jabs her thumb against her chest for emphasis.

I know I should keep calm and be reasonable, seeing as this is a professional matter, but this woman has the extraordinary power of pushing all my buttons quicker than an arcade champion playing Space Invaders. How dare she storm in here and threaten my career when I was just trying to help?