Mira

It's not often I struggle to keep my professional facade when I'm with a patient, but today… today it was really, really difficult.

"I think this is the first time a bird's asked me to lie down while my clothes are still on."

I did my best to fight back the heat in my cheeks as my patient flopped down on the couch in my office with all the self—assuredness of a rockstar.

He looked like one too, with his black leather jacket and hard rows of muscles pressing against his t—shirt. It was white, and tight enough that I could see the shadow of several tattoos on his chest.

"Again, I didn't ask you to lie down. The couch is for deeper therapy—not the first evaluation."

He gave me a smirk and casually kicked his boot—clad feet up onto the armrest of the couch closest to me, lifting his arms above his head so his shirt stretched taut across his chest. "Is that so, Miss Holler?"

"Yes, that is so." I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my tone neutral while I stared at his face. His completely perfect face, with its high cheekbones, light gray eyes, and eyebrows raised in obvious mockery. His stupidly sensual mouth with its defined cupid's bow and full lower lip was drawn into an imitation of a smile, but the coolness in his almost silvery eyes contradicted it. Despite having scheduled an appointment with me himself, it was obvious that my newest patient saw me as an opponent to conquer.

I sighed and tried to relax my expression before it betrayed my inner turmoil. He might be a smart arse—with abs that looked like they were carved from rock, even through his clothes—but it was my job to help him. Even if I mostly just wanted to kick his arse off my couch and out the door for rattling me so thoroughly within five minutes of meeting him.

"Why are you here?"

The corner of his mouth slipped down for the briefest moment as his gaze flickered to his boots. A display of uncertainty? Interesting.

Then he looked back up, and his armor of arrogance was back, complete with that annoying smirk. "Never did do a psychologist before, and when I came across your name it reminded me of a stern schoolteacher. The prissy types always did it for me."

I counted silently to ten and wished that the blush I could feel spread across my face would go the hell away. "I very much doubt that's the case—"

"Your glasses are pretty hot. I wouldn't mind if you kept them on."

"—so how about you stop acting like a hormonal adolescent and tell me what's happened to make you seek out therapy?" I was pretty proud of how unwavering I managed to keep my voice, despite his interruption.

"And what if you're wrong and that is why I'm here?" With a single, graceful movement, the rockstar look—alike sat up and swiveled around so he was supporting his elbows on his knees. He leaned forward a little and focused his unnerving gaze on me, and his smirk hiked up a little at the corner. "Then what do we do?"

I suppressed a primal shiver at the almost predatory gleam in his eyes. No doubt he was used to women tossing their panties at him after being on the receiving end of that look—even I couldn't help the small burst of desire it made trickle through my abdomen, and I was already distinctly unimpressed with his bad boy routine.

"Then we have a very disappointing hour ahead of us, Mr. Steel, because that isn't happening. If that were truly your intent, then your money would have been better spent on one of the ladies down on the corner. Even if they charge extra for role playing, I'm sure you could have gotten it cheaper than what this session will cost you. Now, are you quite done trying to intimidate me so we can get on with the session?"

His smirk turned to a slow, full smile. "Mr. Steel now, is it? You can call me Blaine, love. My mother went out of her way to give me a, ah, special name, so you may as well use it."

"Do you have some resentment toward your mother?" I'm not gonna lie—I latched on to the mother angle with both hands.

"Nah, she was a good woman." Blaine pushed his fingers through his black, perfectly tousled hair and sighed.

"You say was? When did she die?"

He quirked an eyebrow at me. "Caught on to that one, eh? When I was ten, so about eighteen years ago now."

Finally. I'd found the crack in Blaine Steel's armor. "How did she die?"

Blaine frowned, his idling hand sliding from his hair down to the back of his neck. "Doesn't matter. It's a long time ago."

It was a clear dismissal. Everything from his tone to his suddenly darkening eyes told me that here lay trouble—which of course meant I needed to dig deeper. But as I'd pointed out to him before, this was just the initial consultation, where I was meant to learn more about a new patient before deciding on how to best proceed.

"Tell me a bit about the rest of your family. Your father. Siblings, if you have any."

He sighed again, as if relieved to leave the subject of his mum's death, and leaned back, arms spread out over the back of the sofa. "There's not much to tell. My dad's a strong leader, runs his business with an iron fist. He eventually remarried, and me and my five brothers joined the family business when we grew up."