“I’m sure. I’m not a drunk.”

“The thought of not drinking again—how does that make you feel?”

I think about it for a moment. “It doesn’t make me feel anything.” Not that anything makes me feel anymore.

“Still, I’d recommend seeing someone about the drinking. I know a great group that deals with substance—”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I bite. “I might have problems, but that’s not one of them.”

She carefully eyes me.

“Okay. We’ll shelf that…for now.” She puts her pen down on the paper on her lap and looks at me.

Her red lips are slightly parted, and all I can think of doing is smearing that lipstick all over her mouth as I kiss it.

“Our time is nearly up. The first session is always short. The next time, we’ll have a full hour to talk.”

I know what I’d rather do in sixty minutes with her, and it doesn’t involve a lot of talking.

But she’s the best, and I need to get better.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about before we end this session? Anything you feel I should know?”

I want to fuck you. “No. Actually, yes.” I scratch my nose. “I have to be back on the track by January, mid-January at the very latest, to allow me to prepare for the start of the Prix in March.”

She puts her notepad and pen on the table as she glances at the calendar on the wall, which is currently on the month of November. “That gives us three months. Three and a half, at a push.”

“Impossible?” The weak part of me wants her to say yes, so my coward has a way out. I fight against it.

“No. I like a challenge.” Her lips lift into a soft smile, making me smile. “But this means intensive treatment. I’ll need to see you at least three times a week. Are you up for that?”

I flex my fingers from the fist they were curled into. “I’m up for it.”

“Good.” She presses her hands together in a clap and rises from her seat. “Sadie, my receptionist, will be in touch with you tomorrow to schedule your appointments. We book them in batches for intensive treatments.”

“Okay.”

“So, I’ll see you in a few days, Leandro, and we can get started on getting you back on that racetrack.”

I follow her to the door, watching her ass sway as she moves. She’s heading to a different door than the one I entered.

“This is the exit door,” she explains. “I always have my patients leave through this door than the one they came in as I usually have another patient waiting to see me. Most people prefer anonymity—as I imagine you would.”

She holds the door open for me, allowing me to pass through.

I turn to face her. “This can’t get into the press,” I tell her.

From the other side, she smiles at me. “Anything you tell me never leaves this room. You’re safe here.”

I give her a nod. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you in a few days.”

Turning, I hear the door close behind me, and I jog down the stairs. I let myself out the door at the bottom that takes me out to the street.

Breathing in the crisp, cool air, I run a hand through my hair.

Then, I pull my cell from my pocket and dial.

I don’t even give him a chance to speak. I just hear the answering click before I start talking, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that she looked like that?” I growl down the phone at Carrick.

“Hello to you, too. And who looks like what?” There’s laughter in his voice.

Bastard.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about—Dr. Harris, dickface,” My cock starts to harden at the mere thought of her.

Jesus. What the hell am I now? A teenager getting a boner over an attractive woman.

Who am I kidding? She’s not attractive. She’s gorgeous.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Stop being a cock. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You might be pussy-whipped and have Andi vision, but you know a hot chick when you see one. You could have warned me.”

“Sorry, but the thought didn’t even cross my mind. Yeah, she’s decent looking, but she’s not my type. I never thought you’d want to bang her. Actually, scrap that. You’ll screw anything at the moment, so really, my warning was there when I told you she was a woman.”

“Funny, dickhead.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Fuck off.”

He laughs loudly. “Wanting to fuck Dr. Harris aside, how did it go? She’s good, right? She’s helped Andi a lot.”

“Yeah, she’s good, I suppose.”

“So, she thinks she can help you?”

“That’s what she says.” That is, if I don’t fuck her first and screw it up.

RELIEVED TO BE HOME, I open my front door, pizza boxes in hand.

“I’m home,” I call out.

“In the kitchen,” Kit calls back.

Kicking off my heels, I head to the kitchen.

Kit and the love of my life, Jett—my baby boy who’s not a baby anymore—are sitting around the table, playing a card game.

“Hey, honey.” I kiss the top of Jett’s head as I place the pizzas on the table.

“Hey, Mum. You had a good day?” He smiles up at me.

That smile, those blue eyes. They make the longest days worth it.

“Yeah. Good, long.”

“You work too hard.”

Affectionately ruffling his hair, I see that Kit has a beer on the table and Jett has a Coke. I grab myself a wine glass from the cupboard and fill it with a white I opened yesterday. The pizza boxes are already open and being devoured before I make it back to the table with my glass of wine and some paper napkins in hand.

I toss a napkin over to Kit and hand one to Jett. I take the seat next to him and grab a slice before they’re gone.

Kit can eat a pizza by himself, and Jett’s not far off from being able to do so either.

At twelve years old, he has so much of my brother and me in him—and, thankfully, nothing of his father. Not that I’d love him any less if he did. I’m just glad there isn’t any of that man in him.

Jett is a Harris through and through. He has our blond hair and blue eyes and Kit’s build. I’m five-six, and my son is already taller than me. I think he’s going to reach Kit’s six-three, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Jett surpasses that.

My brother is a handsome bastard, and he knows it. Jett is his double, so I foresee a lot of broken hearts in his future. Kit leaves a trail of them in his wake. I’m trying to teach Jett to treat women with more respect than my brother does.

Kit’s job exposes him to a lot of beautiful women. He’s a model.

When Jett was a few months old, Kit started modeling part-time to make more money when he wasn’t working seasonal construction jobs. His money helped me pay the bills. From the compensation I had received from the courts after what had happened with Jett’s father, I didn’t have a lot leftover after paying for the house and using the rest to put myself through school while I also worked part-time in a supermarket.

I owe my brother everything. He’s sacrificed so much for Jett and me.