Page 1 of Total Abandon

Chapter 1

Tilly:What time is your interview, fancy pants?

Chloe:3pm. Leave my pants alone.

Tilly:If you’re a smart girl, you’ll leave that interview with NO pants. He’s uber hot.

Tilly:Like, I took one look at him and ovulated, hot.

Chloe:Chloe has left the chat.

Tilly:Don't be a spoilsport. If you don’t want him, can you get his number for me?

Tilly:I know you didn’t really leave.

Tilly:Hello?

CHLOE

“If you keep jogging your knee like that, you’ll spill coffee all over that pretty white skirt of yours.”

I almost squeak, the deep rumbling voice slicing through the pin-drop silent waiting room. My eyes snap up to the large newspaper spread out in front of the faceless man seated opposite.

“Might do me a favor at this rate,” I grumble, but place my Styrofoam cup onto the clinical white glass table beside me. My eyes linger on the glossy magazine covers splayed across the top in a painstakingly artistic fan. Pity the person who must do that every day.

“If therapy is really so bad, why be here at all?” the voice says back. This is beginning to feel like an episode ofStars in Their Eyes. I’m almost waiting for the smoke machine to start so that Matthew Kelly can make the big reveal. I narrow my eyes on long, broad, tanned fingers deftly holdingThe Financial Timesin place.My gaze tumbles down to worn Levi’s stretched tight over thick, spread thighs and squeaky-clean brown Barbour boots, deciding how honest I want to be.

“Court-mandated,” I confess on a hushed breath, feeling a pull of heat into my cheeks.

I stare at the sleek blonde receptionist smoothing her flyways into a severe-looking bun. Her gray skirt suit is sharp and tailored, her nose upturned. I don’t miss the glances she’s been casting my way.

Yes, I’m out of place here.

Anthony Sweeney, my charming ex-boyfriend of three years, is the reason I’m sitting in this uncomfortable art deco leather chair in an Upper East Side psychotherapy treatment center—the type that looks cool but has the comfortability of a medieval torture rack. Fucking pig asshole that he is. My molars clench together. Anthony knows exactly how to get under my skin, and this bullshit is the icing on the cake. A final farewell blow.

I hear the delicate rustle of thin newspaper sheets. It’s apparent he’s looking at me now, but I don’t quite have the balls to face him right away in the light of my painful honesty.

“Addiction or anger management?” My lips twist at the further questioning from a total stranger.

“Perhaps I’m an axe murderer,” I quip, finally snapping my gaze to him. And it feels like a steel-capped boot to the stomach.

Tanned skin stretches over impossibly sharp cheekbones, disappearing beneath a curated scruff of stubble over a square cut jaw. But his eyes—his eyes are twinkling pools of the darkest chocolate beneath dark brows. They’re sharp, astute, and entirely juxtaposed to the casual smile that graces his overly decadent mouth. There is a scar puckering the line of his top lip, carving a path through the smattering of hair. It gives his clean-cut appearance a distinctly bad boy haze that has me blinking in surprise.

“You don’t look like an axe murderer.” He inclines one brow, his gaze skating down over my body in a manner that is entirely inappropriate.

My skin heats in a way that has me fighting against fidgeting in my seat. “Even axe murderers have to dress smart for jobinterviews,” I explain airily, casting my hand over my black lace-trim blouse, pencil skirt, and court heels.

He nods slowly, as though considering my point. The silence stretches and I expect him to go back to his paper, but his eyes seem to be taking a leisurely stroll up the inseam of my stockings as he folds it neatly in his lap. Fucking pervert. The tendons in his heavily corded forearms flex as he moves, peeking beneath the rolled sleeves of his white shirt. And the fact I notice has me wondering if I’m just a little perverted too. The flash of a shiny watch tells me enough. He can afford the services here. Ergo, his therapy isn’t paid for by someone else, like mine is.

“Although, something tells me that my skills with an axe may come in handy for that too.” I’m talking when I don’t really want to, to try and ease the bizarre tension I feel crackling to life between us.

“Oh?” He casts the paper aside, shuffling the neat fan of matching glossy magazines on his table out of place. The action pleases me. There is too much order in here, everything placed just so. A bullshit facade considering everyone who walks through that front door must be messy enough in their own way.

I hum noncommittally, notching my elbow on the back of my chair and crossing my legs. It’s a subtle move to garner me some protection from his discerning gaze, angling my body away from him, but something tells me he doesn’t miss it. Especially as his gaze now lingers on the hem of my neckline. I resist the sudden urge to check my blouse isn’t gaping.

“Elaborate.” He leans forward with the simple command, balancing his elbows on his denim-clad knees. The overhead lights catch on his dark, wind tousled hair, throwing shades of dark chocolate amongst the inky black.

I blink, my indignation flaring to life. “Then should I sit? Maybe do a spin? Offer my paw for a treat from master?” I scoff, tearing my eyes away from him. Who is this asshole and why is he getting under my skin? A deep, silky chuckle rumbles over my flesh, commanding the baby hairs on my arms to attention. Brain hates him—body does not, apparently. Traitor.