She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and let her mind clear of Jack. The last thing she needed demanding space in her frontal lobe was that sexy, naughty, dangerously addictive man. She scoffed quietly to herself. Addictive. Funny that she’d used that term. She’d treated so many patients who had struggled with sex and love addiction; she’d helped them find their way to the other side. To peace. To sanity. To calm. To real love.

Here she was, using that word as if it were a good thing that Jack was addictive.

Addictions were bad. Addictions were trouble. If Jack felt addicting, that could only mean one thing—it was damn good their relationship had an expiration date. They’d spent three nights together now, and each time she’d left around midnight. “I turn into a pumpkin,” she’d say, then tell him how busy she was the next day. That was all true—well, perhaps not the pumpkin part. But the busy part. There was another side to the coin though, and that was the side where sleepovers unfurled into intimacy. They translated into vulnerability. Closeness. Cuddling and snuggling while deep in REM, then waking up next to someone in the broad light of day with the hope that the person would still like you was too risky. That’s why she preferred to meet at his place. If he came to hers too often, then he might fall asleep there. It was easier to be the one to leave than to kick someone else out. Meeting at his apartment gave her a small semblance of control.

She didn’t need Jack to have any questions about her. He viewed her as a sexual creature, a sensuous woman, and that’s all he needed to see of her. Any more would ruin the point of them. To help each other move on.

Right?

Right.

Once more, she pushed Jack from her brain. No. That was wrong. She gave him a massive shove, then kicked him under the carpet, because she needed to focus. Soon, she opened the door for her new patient, and said hello to the dark-haired Clark Davidson. He had deep brown eyes, a square jaw and a close-cropped cut.

“Good to meet you,” he said, and shook her hand. He was unusually confident for a first-time patient. Interesting.

“And you as well. Please, come in,” she said, holding open the door.

“Thank you,” he said, and his eyes lingered on her a tad longer than she would have liked.

Fifty minutes later, she had the oddest feeling that he’d been studying her the entire time. That even as he unspooled bits and pieces of his challenges with his wife, he was cataloging her.

From her hair to her lips to her breasts to her shoes.

She wished he’d look her in the eyes.

The next evening, she mentioned the session to the consultation group of other therapists that she met with every week to share best practices. There were five of them, all other women who specialized in intimate relationship psychotherapy. Carla Kimberly led the group; she was Michelle’s mentor and the president of the New York chapter of the Association of Intimate Relationship Psychologists.