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“Marketing genius destined for premature death? Rumors swirl about the remaining Anderson bachelor.”

“I can show you more.”

He shoves my phone to the side and looks away. A vein pulses in his temple. “No, I’ve seen enough.”

“I don’t know you well, Mr. Anderson. But then again, I don’t think anyone truly knows you well. But an average, well-adjusted man in his mid-to-late thirties doesn’t behave this way. And we all know you’re anything but average, right?”

I tap my fingers on the table, drawing his attention back to me. “I don’t want to fight you on this. I have no skin in the game other than a doctor caring about her patient and wanting what’s best for him.”

All right, that might be pushing it, since I want the Anderson funds for ADAS, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Shoving the thought away, I add, “But you? If rumors are correct, this cruise venture is your idea—the first and most expensive project in recent years spearheaded by you. I don’t know the first thing about planning a cruise, but I bet it’s hard work. You don’t put in those hours unless you want it to succeed, unless you have something to prove.”

Rex stiffens, his face darkening as storm clouds brew over his head.

Standing up, I grab my tote bag and slip the notebook back inside. Emotions are too high right now and this session won’t go anywhere. It’s better to let him stew over it and try again next time.

“You have a wonderful family,” I murmur.

He falters, his eyes snapping to mine. His gloomy countenance softens. Clearly, he’s thinking about them.

The Andersons are a tight bunch. Each sibling would go to bat for each other, and I’ve witnessed it firsthand. When Maxwell was spiralingfrom untreated PTSD and anxiety, Ryland contacted me immediately, desperate to help his brother. The siblings rallied around Taylor when the press tried to eat her alive after her past trauma came to light.

My chest squeezes, and I wish I had that for myself.

Despite Mia’s faults, I miss her so much.

“Maxwell thought you might be reluctant, and he instructed me to tell him if you backed out of therapy. One call from me and he’d send security to escort you back to the city. I was told, ‘bound and gagged if need be.’”

I don’t believe in violence, but now, having had my first real conversation with the infuriating man, I can understand where Maxwell is coming from.

Rex’s jaw works, a flush creeping up his face. His hand curls into a fist, his arm trembling from restraint.

I don’t know what comes over me.

Maybe it’s the faint sheen of moisture gathering in his eyes, which could be a trick of the dim cabin lighting or the way his breath throttles out of him like he’s ashamed.

Unbidden, I place my hand over his.

He freezes, and I jolt from the barrage of sensations coursing over my skin from that tiny point of contact. It’s like being hit by lightning and surviving to tell the tale.

Quickly, I let go, but he snags my fingers with his, those silver eyes riveted at our hands.

My pulse roars in my ears.Why am I touching him? I shouldn’t touch my patients.

I try pulling away, but he tightens his grip, the seconds dragging, the pressure increasing until it’s borderline painful.

“You’re playing with fire, Olivia,” he growls.

My breath catches, the raspy, sinewy undertones of his voice prickling my skin, coiling between my legs.

Lighting me up like fireworks bursting in the night sky.

“L-Let go of me.”

He strangles my hand in his and I whimper from the sensations—still not quite pain, but not far away from it, either. Then, abruptly, he loosens his grip.

Blood rushes back into my fingers, a thousand pinpricks exploding in my nerves. He fans the flames by skating his thumb over my palm, then moving to my inner wrist.