Until last night.
Liam.
Thinking about last night makes tingles spread up my spine. I might even consider sleeping with him again if the universe were to bring us back together. But believing in fate or destiny is for pussies.
I walk through the near-empty space toward the elevator and call the car. The doors open and I push the button for the tenth floor, but as the doors begin to close, a woman runs up and pushes her arm through the opening.
She smiles at me and tugs her daughter onto the elevator beside me. I ignore them and pull out my phone as I lean against the wall. The woman leans down and scolds her daughter, who has to be around eight or nine.
The mom is dressed in designer clothes from head to toe with an elegant French twist in her perfect blonde hair. The daughter is also striking with golden locks and sapphire eyes. But those blue eyes are dead; I know the look well.
We both get off on the tenth floor and I smirk to myself. Sorry blondie, if your kid is anything like me, you’re in for a show. I hope I don’t have to wait for the wannabe Stepford family to meet with Whitmore first.
I walk up to the pretty receptionist—who one of the doctors here is probably fucking—and check in.
“I’m Flynn Fletcher. I have an appointment with Dr. Whitmore.”
“Yes, of course. Please, have a seat and fill out these forms and we’ll be with you soon.” She smiles a bright, toothy grin. I roll my eyes and yank the clipboard out of her manicured hand.
I have to fill out three forms detailing my medical history, some rules about privacy, and a bullshit questionnaire about my drug and alcohol habits and whether or not I feel safe at home. I could fill out all these forms with my eyes closed at this point.
After an excruciating ten minutes listening to pop radio’s top one hundred in the waiting room, the receptionist comes to take me back to the room.
“Miss Fletcher, you can come with me. I apologize for the delay. Normally Dr. Whitmore would bring you back himself, but he’s running late in a meeting and told me to escort you. You can make yourself comfortable. He should be right in.”
I walk in the room and feel at ease in an instant. Soft, barely audible music streams through the room. A diffuser puffs out what I assume is some bullshit essential oils throughout the space. There are sofas and chairs spread across the floor.
The receptionist closes the door with a click and once she’s gone, I snoop. The back wall is covered with degrees from prestigious Ivy League schools. This guy must be fucking ancient.
The opposite wall from his desk is lined with bookshelves holding everything from medical books and journals to Stephen King novels.
I gravitate toward the wall of windows partially obscured by curtains and reminiscent of the ones I was fucked against last night.
I move to the large, dark oak desk which is pristine in its cleanliness. There’s a photo of a little girl, around the same age as the one I saw in the elevator, but much happier. She’s beautiful, with long, dark curls and big brown eyes. Although she’s slender and pale, her smile lights up her eyes.
I walk away and sit on a gray chaise lounge, extending my legs and crossing my feet at my ankles. This doctor better not charge for the time he’s running late. He already has one X in the no column. But then again, maybe his tardiness is a good thing. Less time to talk about my feelings.
After another five minutes passes, a voice carries under the door. The sound is rich and alluring, even though there’s no mistaking the malice in his tone. His voice is terse as he yells at someone through hushed whispers.
“Forget it, Miranda. You should’ve thought about that before I signed the fucking papers. Now, excuse me, I have to get to work.” He’s commanding. It seems not even therapists are immune to the hardships of relationships.
A shadow of feet appear under the door, but he doesn’t enter right away. There’s a pause and by the time the knob turns, I plaster on my signature smirk exuding my I don’t give a fuck attitude. Yet, when the door opens and Dr. Whitmore appears, the expression drops in an instant.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. In one hand he has a file, likely detailing my life up until this point. He closes the door and once he spins around, he spots me and his jaw falls to the ground. I sit up straight and rub my thighs together at the mere sight of him.
“Flynn? What are you doing here? How did you find me?” His eyebrows furrow as if he’s trying to place when he told me where he works or what he does. “You can’t be here. I have a patient.”
For a doctor, he lacks the ability to put two and two together. X number two in the mental no column. “Let me guess, you’re Dr. Whitmore,” I say. He flips through the file containing all of my personal information, much different from the intimate details he learned about last night. “Come on, Doc. Didn’t you see you had a patient named Flynn today? Isn’t it written right there on the file you’re holding? How many Flynns do you know?”
“I don’t look at my patient files ahead of time. I like to get an unbiased read on them for myself.” His voice is robotic, like he’s on autopilot and responding to the words without processing them. “I only know the bare minimum.”
Well, he surely knows me better than his other patients, I assume.
Liam is horrified. His hand
