I burst outughing at the oundish question. “Please, for the love of God, keep your pants<i ss="calibre2">on</i>.”


    “You sure?” Hunter says, his fingers poised over the button of his jeans.


    “Positive.”


    “Your loss.” He winks and shoves his hands behind his head.


    Davenport is entertaining, I’ll give him that. He’s also too attractive for his own good. My sorority sisters left drool puddles on the floor when he walked by them before. Most of them have a huge thing for jocks, so they’ll probably burst into my room begging for details the second Hunter leaves.


    He stretches out on my little couch and kicks off his shoes. He’s wearing jeans that are ripped at the knees, a ck T-shirt, and an unzipped gray hoodie. Muscr but not bulky, he’s got a great body, and the heart-stopping face to go with it. And when he shes me a cocky grin, I’m horrified to feel heat rise in my cheeks. That smile of his is dangerous. No wonder Pax is obsessed with this guy.


    I open therge envelope and extract a stapled packet with the instructions for our assignment, as well as two other envelopes. One isbeled “DOCTOR,” the other “PATIENT.”


    “Here.” I toss the patient envelope at the couch. Hunter catches it easily.


    Inside my envelope, I find a stack of papers, and flip through it. It’s nk temtes that I’m supposed to use for my “session notes.” I skim the instructions bundle. We need to log a minimum of eight sessions, but we can do as many as we want. My session notes will apparently be included in the appendix for the case study I’ll need to write. My package also includes diagnostic tools and tip sheets.


    From the couch, Hunter chuckles softly. I nce over to see him skimming through papers. His stack isn’t as big as mine, likely because his part of the project involves more research.


    “We probably should’ve decided on our roles in ss,” I realize. “I don’t know if we can do much of a session before you’ve brushed up on your fake condition.”


    But Hunter just shrugs. A wry note enters his voice as he studies his papers again. “It’s cool. I know enough to wing it, at least for this first chat.”


    “You sure?”


    “Yup.” He slides the paperwork back into the envelope and drops it on his bag. Then he getsfortable again. “All right, let’s go.”


    As per Andrews’ instructions, I’m not allowed to record the session. But I’m confident in my note-taking abilities. I crunch thest bit of my lollipop between my teeth, swallow the candy, and toss the little stick in the wastebasket.


    Once we’re both settled, we start going through the formalities. “So, Mister…?” I wait for him to fill in the rest.


    “Sexy.”


    “Veto. You can do better than that.”


    “Big,” he supplies.


    I sigh. “Smith,” I say firmly. “You’re Mr. Smith. First name, um, Damien.”


    “Like the devil kid from that horror movie? Veto. It’s bad karma.”


    “You’re bad karma,” I mutter. Jesus, it’s taking forever just to record his fake name. At this rate, the project will never get done. “Fine, your first name is Richard, you picky dick.”


    He snorts.


    “It’s nice to meet you, Dick Smith,” I say sweetly. “I’m Dr. Davis. What brings you here today?”


    I half-expect another bullshit line, something about how this Dick needs to be sucked. But he surprises me. “My wife thinks I need therapy.”


    My eyebrows shoot up. Ooh, getting right down to it. I love it. “Is that so… And why does she think that?”


    “Honestly? I don’t know.<i ss="calibre2">She’s</i>the one who needs therapy. She’s always losing her mind over something.”


    I jot down his phrasing. “What do you mean by that, losing her mind?”


    “She overthinks everything. She bitches all the time. For example, if I’m homete from work, her brain immediately jumps to ‘he’s been screwing around.’” Hunter pauses irritably. “I guess for the sake of full disclosure, I should mention I cheated on her once or twice, and yes, she is aware of this.”


    Wow, this is like a soap opera. I’m already invested.


    “All right…this cheating you mention.” I make some more notes. “How long ago did it take ce? And was it once, or was it twice?”


    “The first affair was years ago, the most recent one this year. I was under a lot of stress at work.”


    I note that he ignored my question about how many times he’d actually cheated.


    “Why do you think you cheated? Is there a particr reason that stands out?”


    “It’s hard to feel connected to somebody when they’re constantlyining and making demands. She fucking drove me to cheat. I mean, what else did she expect would happen if she kept acting like that?”Exclusive ? content by N(?)ve/l/Drama.Org.


    Ugh, what a prick. He holds his<i ss="calibre2">wife</i>responsible for<i ss="calibre2">his</i>cheating—


    I stop the train of thought, reminding myself that I’m not supposed to be judge. I’m supposed to understand.


    If I’m going to be a clinical psychologist, I’m sure I’ll hear thousands of sordid tales of infidelity. I might even need to counsel someone who physically or emotionally abuses their partner. It’s highly likely I’ll encounter patients I despise, or who I might not be able to help.


    My job isn’t to condemn them; it’s to hopefully help them reach self-awareness.


    “So when you came clean about the affairs, did you and your wife agree to start over? Start fresh?”


    Hunter nods. “She epted responsibility for her part in what happened and agreed to forgive me. That means it’s done, in the past. Her being suspicious of me all the time doesn’t make me want to spend time with her. Trust me, she’s not making it easy to be around her.”


    “I imagine so. But can you recognize why she might be behaving this way? Let’s try to put yourself in her position. How do you think you’d react if your wife was unfaithful?”


    “She’d never cheat on me,” he says smugly. “I’m the catch in this rtionship. She’s definitely punching above her weight ss.”


    <i ss="calibre2">You’re the fucking worst</i>, I want to say.


    “I see,” is what I say instead. And now I understand why therapists seem to cling to those two words. It’s code for whatever expletives are ringing in your head.


    Hunter and I talk for another twenty minutes about his fictional wife, her nagging, and his infidelity, and I begin to notice a trend in his responses. Aplete inability to put himself in her shoes.


    <i ss="calibre2">Lack of empathy</i>, I write down, and draw a little star around it.


    As he finishes another long-winded anecdote that paints his wife as the viin and himself as the innocent victim, I can’t help but be impressed by how he just threw himself headfirst into this assignment. And he’s doing<i ss="calibre2">such</i>a solid job, which is…ugh, it’s sexy as hell, if I’m being honest.


    I’m about to ask another question when Hunter sits up. “Let’s stop now. I’ve officially tapped out my knowledge about…my condition,” he says vaguely. “Got to do some more research before we keep talking.”


    “This was fun,” I admit. “Don’t you think?”


    “Yeah, it kinda was.” He slides off the loveseat and raises his muscr arms above his head to stretch them out. His T-shirt slides up as he does this, revealing abs of steel.


    My jaw drops. “Oh my God. That is so unfair.”


    “What?” Hunter’s dark eyebrows furrow.


    “Have you seen your abs? Who the fuck has abs like that?”


    His confusion gives way to a smug smile. “I y hockey. Every inch of me looks like that.”


    Once again, my cheeks feel a bit warm. I’m trying hard not to picture what the rest of him looks like beneath his clothes, but I have a feeling he’s not exaggerating. His physique is bonkers.


    I notice my phone light up on the nightstand and go over to check it. It’s been on silent, and Nico texted twice during the past hour. One message thirty minutes ago, and another just now.


    <b ss="calibre1">NICO</b>:<i ss="calibre2">Hey bb I’m gonna have to bail on sleepover 2nite. Car died after work. Battery probs. Gonna get it towed to the garage in Hastings and pick it up in the a.m. b4 ss.</i>


    <b ss="calibre1">NICO</b>:<i ss="calibre2">R u mad</i>


    I type a quick reply.


    <b ss="calibre1">ME</b>:<i ss="calibre2">Not mad, babe. Disappointed, tho.</i>


    “Everything okay?” Hunter asks as he zips up his hoodie.


    I shrug. “My boyfriend canceled on me. He was supposed to stay over tonight but his car battery died. I guess he needs a new one or something.”


    “Bummer. I’d invite you to y pool with me and the boys tonight, but I need a break from chicks.”


    “Yes, I imagine all the female attention must be excruciating.” I think about the cute girl from yesterday, the one who went out of her way to make him lunch and he totally spurned her. “Come on, I’ll walk you downstairs.”


    But before I can reach the door, Nico calls. “Oh, I need to answer this,” I say as we leave the bedroom.


    I have no choice, because whenever I miss a call or text from Nico, he has a tendency not to answer when I call or text back, even if it’s half a secondter. I don’t get it. Way too many people do that. How are they not avable five seconds after contacting me? I swear, it’s like they send a text and then hurl their phones into the river.


    “Hey,” I say hastily. “What’s up?”


    “Just wanted to check in,” Nico says. “I’m gonna shower soon and then I’ll probably crash early.”


    “Why—oh, right, you need to pick up your car.”


    “Pick it up?”


    “Because you got it towed to the shop…?” I remind him. From the corner of my eye, I notice Hunter curiously listening in. I urge him to walk faster as we descend the stairs.


    “Oh no, actually, I got a jump from Steve. He had cables in his truck.”


    “Wait, so you got the car started?”<i ss="calibre2">Then why can’t you drive here</i>? I want to ask, but force myself not to.


    “Yeah, I did. But I don’t want to drive it again tonight in case the battery dies again,” Nico says as if reading my mind. “I’m gonna get it checked out in the morning. But I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?”


    “Sure.”


    “Love you,<i ss="calibre2">mami</i>.”


    “Love you too.”


    I’m frowning as Hunter and I reach the front door. “The boyfriend?” he prompts.


    I nod slowly. “I guess he got his car going with jumper cables, but the battery is still messed up? I’m not sure. I don’t know much about cars.”


    “Sounds a bit shady,” remarks Hunter. “Using the ol’ car broke down excuse to avoid seeing someone.”


    “Really?” I challenge. “Do you often lie about your car breaking down to get out of a date?”


    “Often? No. Have I done it? Yes.”


    I re at him. “Well, not everybody is a liar like you.”


    He doesn’t take offense. Just grins. “Gee. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”


    “You didn’t.”


    “Uh-huh. Anyway. My boys are waiting. Later, Semi.”


    I practically shove him out the front door. Maybe if I get rid of him fast enough, that little seed of doubt he created won’t take root.