But oddly enough, it didn’t bother him that Michelle knew he was seeing a shrink. And that was information only Casey was privy to.
Maybe that’s why wanting more of Michelle didn’t feel as strange as it should. She already knew he had crap to deal with; he didn’t have to pretend with her that he was New York’s most eligible bachelor.
He wasn’t.
He had a hunch he didn’t have to be that guy with her. He relished the freedom he’d felt last night in letting go of what everyone thought they knew about him. He had enjoyed being Just Jack. He wanted to be that guy again. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to get to know the woman behind the pencil skirt, the sharp blouse and the black high heels. The combo was like a straight shot of heat to his groin.
“So, do you think you’ll want to keep going?”
Oh, crap. Kana wanted to know if he was game for more therapy. Hell if he knew. “Sure,” he said.
After she said a quick goodbye and shut the door, he honed in on the stairwell, covered two flights, and headed to the first office he’d been in, knocking sharply on the wood.
In seconds, Michelle opened the door.
“Do you have an appointment right now?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Good,” he said, stepping inside, clicking the door shut, and locking it behind him.
* * *
“Do you like Italian?”
She scrunched up her brow at the question, but then she connected the dots as she sat down. The last text he’d sent her was about dinner.
“I do,” she said, because it was the truth, and because it didn’t commit her. She wasn’t sure if she was going to continue this thing—whatever it was—with him. She wasn’t sure about anything, except the fact that he looked good at three o’clock in the afternoon when his five o’clock shadow seemed to start. Add in that dark hair that had felt so luxurious in her fingers, the chiseled cheekbones and the slightly loosened tie, and she’d have to say he seemed like a man who’d stepped off the pages of a magazine.
He took another step closer. “I made a reservation.”
“Where?” she asked, feeling a bit like they were having this conversation on another plane of reality. Then again, the last few hours had her feeling like she’d slipped into another world.
“There’s a place near Madison Square Park. It has bocce ball and the best—”
“—Pasta primavera in all of New York.”
He raised an eyebrow as she cut in, finishing his sentence.
“Restaurants are my thing,” she said, by way of explanation. She loved researching New York’s best eateries, both the newest shi-shi ones, the off-the-beaten-path spots, and the best-kept secrets in dining.
“Then you’ll go with me to Gia’s tonight,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and the way his cool blue eyes held her gaze made it clear he wouldn’t take no for an answer. She tilted her head, considering. The conundrum was this—Michelle wasn’t a woman who was turned on by a lack of choices, but she was a woman turned on by this man. And she hadn’t seen this give-a-woman-an-order side of him. Well, of course she hadn’t seen this side of him. She’d only spent one night with him. There was no reason why she’d know that he had this kind of intensity, and such a commanding tone to his rich, deep voice that was like a note held long and lasting on a bass guitar. And it made her feel like this . . .
“Yes.”
Because it turned out, she liked this side of him.
In his presence, she was keenly aware of her body. Of her physicality. She’d never been so aware of it before, but every bone, cell and nerve seemed to be on high alert near him.
He moved closer. She remained still, seated in her chair, facing him. He crossed the remaining distance and placed his palms on the arms of her chair, his chest inches from her, but not touching. The air between them was like an electrical storm in the summer. Charged, heated, and ready to crackle with a lightning strike in seconds.
“Did you think about me when I was with Kana?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice bare and truthful.
“Did you look me up online?”
Another nod.
“What did you learn?” he asked, never looking away or breaking the gaze. The man radiated intensity. She could picture him in a boardroom, owning a negotiation. Winning all the points in his favor without breaking a sweat.
“What do you think I learned?” she tossed back.
“What the press says about me.”
“I don’t care what the press says,” she said firmly, and his gaze drifted down to her throat. He stared at the exposed skin peeking above the top button of her silk blouse. “What do you care about, then?”
“I want to know how you can be a sex toy mogul and have intimacy issues,” she said, reaching her hand to his chin and forcing him to look up again.
“Why should I tell you? I’m not your patient anymore,” he said, and there was teasing now in his tone. The toughness was drifting away.
“But that’s why you’re here. In this office. Needing a therapist.”
“And that’s why I’m seeing another shrink. For my intimacy issues,” he said with a scoff. “Besides, why does my job have any bearing on my life outside of the office? Are you the same person in here that you were with me last night? Or did you show me another side?” he said, and brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek.