I push through the door.
She looks up from the station she’s organizing.
I cross the room and kiss her the way I’ve been thinking about since I woke up this morning. She makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, then something warmer—and her hands find my chest. She pushes back just enough to breathe.
“Okay, wait.” She looks up at me, eyebrows raised. “We completely skipped the greeting choice.”
“Did we?”
“Bennett. There’s a system.”
“There’s a system,” I agree. “The system exists so that emotionally unavailable men learn to choose connection instead of defaulting to avoidance.” I hold her gaze. “I’m not avoiding anything.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
“Besides,” I say, “I already know what I’m feeling today.”
“Do you.” Her eyes are doing the thing—the careful reading, the assessment, looking for the deflection or the joke or the escape route.
There isn’t one.
“The feeling of the day ishard.” I let that land. “I thought you should know.”
The silence lasts exactly two seconds.
Then Gisele LaRue smiles—slow and sharp and dangerous—and reaches for my hand.
“Sit down, captain.” She nods toward her chair. The chair. The one she’s used for years, the one I’ve watched her work from across the room a hundred times, the one that has seen more of this town’s secrets than any confessional.
“In your chair?”
“In my chair.”
I look at the chair. Look at her.
“That’s your space,” I say. “You don’t let anyone—”
“I know.” She tilts her head. “Sit down.”
While I work on my breathing, she takes her time. Picks up the cape from its hook, shakes it out with the practiced snap she uses on every client, and drapes it over me. Fastens it at the back of my neck with the same efficient hands that have been in my hair, on my skin, pulling me closer.
“You know,” she says conversationally, moving around to face me, “most people come to me with a problem.” She crouches down to eye level. Her eyes are warm and dark and completely in charge. “I fix it.”
“Is that what this is?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“That’s what this is.” She holds my gaze. “Consider it emotional first aid.”
“Gisele—”
“Shh.” She presses one finger to my lips. “You talked plenty last night. This morning, let me handle the feelings.”
She steps between my spread thighs and looks down at me like I’m hers to command.
“You’re shaking.” She runs her hands up my chest.
“I’m not shaking,” I lie.
Her smile is slow and knowing. “You are. And it’s adorable.”
