Page 35 of The Plus One Pact

"A business partner," he says. "Strictly professional. And platonic."

"How can a professional relationship be platonic in your line of work?"

He chuckles. "We did go on a call together once, but it was a train wreck. We couldn't stop giggling over the absurdity of seeing each other naked."

"But you run this business together?" I'm curious about his colleague. And how it all works. And, dammit, I’m already going into therapist mode. “So what does this all have to do with me, Romeo?”

“He won’t go into business with me, because he thinks I’m a fuck-up who can’t commit to anything. If I can commit to someone smart and responsible…”

“Then he’ll want to create a company with you?”

“And he’s getting married. So I need to come with a date anyway.”

I’m not sure I see the vision, but I suppose I do see the logic. He wants his family to believe he's got a nice, normal girlfriend.

Which is not what many people think when they meet a sex therapist. Even back in college, when I was studying psychology undergrad, and I first decided to go into sex therapy, I got the weirdest responses from people.

Some were intrigued. Some found it cool. Others suggested I was a freak or a pervert or a slut because of the interest.

Mostly, they hinted at it. This is California, after all. We’re polite here. But they got the point across.

What sort of weirdo wants to help people fuck for a living?

After my first year in grad school, I learned how to own it. Sure, call me Doctor Good-Fuck. Of course I know which vibrators are the best. Will I talk to your teenager about sex? Why not? I got a lot of practice for my role as no-nonsense super-freak Doctor O.

"Are you sure your brother will be convinced by someone like me?" I ask.

"A doctor?" he asks.

"With a PhD in fucking," I say.

He chuckles. "Have people really said that."

"A few."

"Did you tell Mom?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I didn't want to…" Force him to stick with any one story. "Put you in a corner."

He nods. "She'll love it. Daniel, not as much, but he'll like that you're a doctor. And he'll understand it. I… well, let's say I turned my hobby into a career."

That’s quite the euphemism. It’s honest, without being truthful. Is he not a truthful person? No, dammit, we’re not in therapy. Though I do need to get to know him if I’m going to play his girlfriend.

Shit, am I actually considering this?

Am I out of my mind. "And that's why he won't start this business? Because he thinks you’re irresponsible and you spend all your time sleeping around?" I ask.

"One of the reasons," he says.

"What are you not telling me?" There's something I'm missing. There always is with families.

He knows there is. It's all over his face. But he doesn't say it.

And I, well—

I get a little distracted by the whole not wearing a shirt thing. He really is sculpted. Shoulders like a swimmer. The arms of a uh, well, a person who really works on their arms a lot. The strong pecs. And abs.

Not so much that he looks ridiculous.