Page 33 of Letters From A Stalker

“Come in.”

I follow him through the doorway already regretting my decision to return, although the thought feels dishonest almost as soon as I have it. I don’t really regret coming back. That might be even more unsettling.

The office looks exactly as it did last week, but walking into it feels different now that I know what happens inside it. During my first appointment, every object registered as part of an unfamiliar environment I needed to assess before I could settle. I knew where the door was without looking at it and how much space separated me from the hallway. Today, my attention doesn’t go to the exit. I walk directly toward the lounge chair I used last week and sit without waiting for him to offer me a choice.

Kai notices. Of course he does. There’s no comment, but his eyes flick briefly toward the chair before he takes the one opposite me, and something about that tiny acknowledgment irritates me more than an actual observation probably would.

He rests his notepad against his thigh before looking at me. “How have you been since I saw you last?”

“I’m fine.”

His expression remains perfectly neutral. Mine doesn’t.

“Fuck.” The word comes out on a defeated breath as I drop my head back against the chair and stare at the ceiling.

There’s a beat of silence before I hear him ask, with far too much calm in his voice, “Problem?”

“Thirty-nine.”

When I look at him again, there’s a smile on his face. An actual smile. It isn’t broad, and it disappears almost as quickly as it arrived, but for those few seconds the severe lines of his face soften enough to make me understand why the restrained version is probably safer for everyone involved. Some men become warmer when they smile. More approachable. Kai Blackwood somehow becomes considerably more dangerous.

I look down at my phone before my brain can develop that thought into something requiring another therapist.

“I’ve been keeping count.”

“I gathered that.”

“You look unbearably pleased with yourself.”

His voice carries the faintest trace of amusement when he answers. “I’m pleased you did the assignment.”

“You called it observation.”

“It was observation.”

“It was homework wearing a fake mustache.”

That earns me another brief pull at the corner of his mouth. “Did the disguise help?”

“Not even slightly, but apparently you accidentally assigned homework to an overachiever with control issues, so congratulations. I did it vigilantly.”

The words tumble out before I realize exactly what I’ve admitted, and the moment I do, Kai’s expression changes.

Not much. It doesn’t need to.

“Interesting.”

I point at him with my phone. “Don’t.”

A quiet laugh leaves him this time, low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Julia, I still haven’t said anything.”

“You didn’t have to. That was a therapist interesting, and I already know those are dangerous.”

“You’ve developed an impressive ability to interpret my behavior after just one appointment.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo.”

The amusement disappears from his face so quickly that I almost wonder whether I imagined it. Something settles behind his eyes instead, heavier and more focused, but he doesn’t reach for the comment the way I expect him to. He simply shifts his attention toward the phone still in my hand.