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I doubt there is any woman in all of Boston who could compare to her.
At least, not one I’ve ever met.
Then again, it’s not like I’ve been very picky in the past. The women I’ve been with have only ever served one purpose—warming my bed for a few hours, which doesn’t necessarily require much talking, let alone allowing any sort of time to get to know each other.
Shit.
Sometimes, I didn’t even get their name before I was balls deep inside them. Not that it ever seemed to bother any of them much. Most of the time, all I had to do was crook my finger their way at a party for them to line up, ready to go down on their knees, looking all too eager to gag on my cock.
Most guys would kill to have that type of reaction from a woman.
In all honesty, that whole scene gets tired fast.
Money, fame, and prestige will get you easy pussy alright.
Just not anything real.
If any good came out of this whole shitshow I’m in, it was realizing that I’m done with one-night stands.
Though, I’m still not quite surewhatI’m looking for.
Do I just want a warm body to stand beside me as the press takes our picture?
Or do I really want to give this whole matchmaking thing a real shot?
Family.
Isn’t that what I alluded to Lottie a few days ago?
That I wanted a family of my own?
Fuck.
Was I really being honest with her, or did I just tell Lottie what I thought she wanted to hear?
The only experience I’ve had with family was what most people would call toxic.
Do I really want to subject myself to that type of hellish experience again? Willingly?
You’re not him.
You’re not.
You never were.
I take a deep breath and wave that thought away.
It won’t do me any good thinking about shit like that when I’m seconds away from meeting the woman who holds my fate in her hands. Right now, I should be focusing on my new shrink.
Not my matchmaker.
Not my pathetic excuse of a previous love life.
I should be focusing on her—Dr. Roxanne Seymour—since she’s the one who has the power to dictate if I can continue to have a spot on the team or not.
Feeling the receptionist still eye-fucking me, I walk over to one of the spare chairs in the lobby and take a seat, my left leg bouncing up and down, revealing how fucking anxious I am to be in a therapist’s office again.
Shit.
