I clear my throat and he releases my hand, scooting his chair back over to his desk to finish his notes. The air in this room is thick with want and regret, but neither of us says a word.

“So, any other concerns?”

A lot, actually. But none that you can help me with. “No. You’re…well, I won’t say the ‘r’ word because that would be twice in one day and we can’t have that, but I will acknowledge that I need to trust the process and stop with the pressure.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, but his eyes still crinkle with laughter.

We wrap up our session and I pack my stuff to leave. Kai’s staying behind because he has a session with another client, so I’m headed out solo this time. As I walk by him to leave, I swear I hear him mumble, “I’ll see you at home.” Slick motherfucker.

Goddamn it! I could kill that big oaf.

My box of Frosted Flakes is now on top of the cabinet that sits above the fridge. Seeing as I can’t reach that fucking spot, I know I didn’t put it there.

Normally my breakfast would consist of an omelet, some sort of fruit, and maybe a protein shake, but today all I wanted to do was eat a big-ass bowl of my favorite sugary cereal and veg out on the couch. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so for Kai All Up In My Business Morris. Ever since that walk down memory lane in his office last week, I’ve been distancing myself from him, but every step back I take, he takes two steps forward.

He’s everywhere! I like to have a cup of tea every night? He’s there at seven thirty p.m. on the dot to deliver it. I buy ingredients to cook chicken alfredo? He cooks it for us before I have a chance. I drop a glass in the living room? He picks me up and puts me on the couch so he can clean it up. It’s annoying! He’s so damn nice and helpful, and if I’m not careful he’s going to help me right out of my panties and I can’t have that shit. Doesn’t he understand my self-control is hanging on by a damn thread?

I make one more weak attempt to reach the cereal box. Man, I really need to get a little step stool. Wait, what? No. I don’t need a damn step stool. He needs to stop putting stuff on high shelves or get the hell out of my house.