Page 35 of Into Pitch

It’s not even a full blown smile, just recognition.

“Sadie,” He hums, like he’s been expecting me.

My heart gives a traitorous little kick, because that’s asinine and even I’m not that level of delusional.

“Dr. Dormsworth,” I reply automatically, then immediately want to smack myself for it.

He lifts a brow, gaze flicking over me in a way that feels different than it does in his office. He takes in my ripped jeans, my boots dusted with paint flecks, and the oversized sweater I threw on without much thought.

“You don’t have to call me that out here,” he murmurs mildly. “Alex is fine.”

Fuck—Alex is fine.

Because that’s going to be okay.

“Alex,” I repeat, testing it out. It feels strange on my tongue and all too familiar to be safe. “I didn’t realize you shopped at…” I glance around. “Well, a mall.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t. I’m meeting someone who does.”

Oh.

Does this someone come of the romantic variety?

Wait, why do I give a shit? He’s your doctor, Sadie, get your shit together.

I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how close I still stand and how tall he is. He has to be at least six and a half feet if I had to guess, all long lines and quiet presence. Standing this near him, I get a better sense of his features; sharp jaw, straight nose, a mouth that looks expressive even when it’s neutral. The kind of face that could soften if he let it.

Oof, those are dangerous thoughts.

“Art supplies?” His words snap me out of my sudden fascination with my therapist.

“Yeah,” I croak. God help me. “Imogen has been persuasive.”

“About the paintings.”

I blink. “Yeah, you remember that?”

I don’t think I told him that but once.

“I remember most things,” he shrugs easily.

That should not be as attractive as it is. ‘Oh, I’m a man and I paid attention to what you said when you said it’. I am in desperate need of an intervention, because I’ve officially dived off into a whole cesspool of entirely unhealthy imaginings.

A beat of silence stretches, and it’s of my own awkward making. Charged enough that it makes my skin prickle, my brain trying to run a systems check. Mainly to keep myself from blushing like a hormonal thirteen year old with her first crush.

Your therapist, Sadie. My brain reminds.

Very bad. No touch. No lick. No think about. My brain continues.

Why does he look even better out here than he does in that office?

He seems to come to a decision about my silence and gestures to the food court behind him. “I was going to grab some lunch before my meeting. If you’re free, you’re welcome to join me.”

Um, yes please. My subconscious chirps eagerly.

I slap that bitch down to rationality where it lives on planet Not Happening. Only she’s brought a jet pack and is rocketing right back into the clouds.

“No professionalism required or notes, of course. Just lunch.”