CHAPTER 56
A "counseling center" tucked between a yoga studio and a boutique that sells four-hundred-dollar leggings to trust-fund babies.
The building’s nice. White brick, polished glass, private parking.
No signs of anything shady.
If anything, it’s so aggressively polished it makes my skin crawl.
I kill the engine and nod toward it.
“Last one. Then you can go manifest yourself into a closing argument.”
Paty’s halfway out the door before I finish the sentence, fresh coffee clutched like a weaponized bribe.
We linger near the entrance, Paty pretending to dig through her gigantic purse.
Women come and go. All upscale. Designer bags, perfect hair, jewelry that probably costs more than my SUV.
They walk out giggling like they just won the lottery.
And every "therapist" walking in?
Male.
Young.
Model-tier hot.
The kind of good-looking that makes you suspicious.
I clock it all, but before I can say anything, Paty spins on me, eyes wild.
“It’s a brothel.”
I choke on nothing.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
She’s already launching into it, hands flying.
“Think about it. Private counseling center. Female-only clientele. Cash only. Gorgeous male ‘therapists.’ No records. No paper trail. And who’s going to self-report? No one. The clients are rich women with reputations to protect. It’s the perfect front.”
I stare at her.
Blink once.
Twice.
Then drag a hand down my face. Jesus Christ. She’s right.
“That’s…” I blow out a breath, shaking my head, “…brilliant.”
Paty beams like I handed her a Nobel Prize.
“Congratulations,” I mutter. “You just diagnosed Manhattan’s prettiest STD delivery service.”
She grins. Spins back toward the building, practically bouncing.
I rub the bridge of my nose.
“Gonna need another fucking coffee.”
The second Paty gets her dumb little idea, I know I’m screwed.
She yanks on my sleeve like a hyperactive crow spotting something shiny.
"Be in love with me," she hisses, pulling me along.
I blink. "Come again?"
"But when I leave," she adds, tossing a chunky ring onto her left finger like she’s preparing for battle, "flirt with the receptionist."
I stop dead.
"What the actual fuck are you talking about?"
She’s already halfway across the street, not slowing for my existential crisis.
"Trust me," she throws over her shoulder. "Just—go!"
Before I can list the forty-seven reasons this is a terrible idea, she’s throwing open the door and striding in like she owns the place.
Fucking wonderful.
Inside, the place smells expensive—soft florals, clean polish, and the stench of too much money.
Paty’s instantly in character, wrapping her arm around mine like I’m her beloved emotional support gorilla. She leans in, all soft smiles and glittering eyes.
My hand hits her thigh. Fine by me.
I flex my fingers across the fabric and feel her tense. I ignore the heat that shoots up my arm and the cocky grin that follows.
"We’re interested in… couples counseling," she says, twirling the fake ring like it’s taboo.
The receptionist—young, hot, and professionally detached—gives us a once-over. She looks at Paty like she has horse shit hanging out of her mouth.
She looks at me like I’m a sizzling steak.
And right in front of myfiancée. A scandal.
"I don’t think—" She’s about to shut us down when Paty leans closer and says:
"Kay sent us."
Boom. Golden ticket.
Her posture softens. "Of course. We’re always happy to take on one of Mrs. Bennett’s referrals."
Well, fuck me sideways. That worked.
She slides a clipboard across the counter, all sugar and fake empathy now.
"Just fill this out and I’ll get you into the system."
She’s talking to Paty, but looking at me.
Paty flashes a megawatt grin, snatches the clipboard, scrawls something down, and gasps.
"I’m so sorry, where’s your bathroom?"
She shoves the clipboard into my hands.
The receptionist waves her toward the back.
Before disappearing, Paty gives me the most exaggerated wink I’ve ever seen I’ve ever seen in my life—and a double thumbs-up.
Right. Showtime.
I lean on the counter, elbow close to her.
"So," I say, nodding, "been working here long?"
Christ, I want to punch myself.
She giggles. Fucking giggles.
She crosses her arms, pushing her tits out until they’re nearly falling out of her shirt. I swear I can see my death reflected in her lip gloss.
I reach over, brush a piece of hair off her shoulder. "Beautiful hair."
She purrs, leaning in, eating up the attention.
"Your fiancée is a very lucky woman, Mr..."
Full fuck-me eyes locked on me like I’m the last drinkable man in Manhattan—except shit, we didn’t come up with cover names.
Paty reappears with an exaggerated cough. We spring apart like guilty teenagers. She glares at me, full scandalized housewife.
It looks good on her.
The receptionist flushes, proud of herself.
"Excuse me," Paty says sweetly, "you’re out of toilet paper." Her stare says,go fix it, bitch.
I retract my grumbling. This is fun.
The girl huffs, stands with an eyeroll, then looks at me all doe-eyed. "Excuse me a moment."
She struts away. I’m shocked she didn’t throw a hip out on her sashay.
At the doorway, she tosses a not-so-subtle over-the-shoulder look like she wants me to follow her into the stockroom and defile her among the Charmin rolls.
Paty doesn’t waste a second.
She vaults behind the desk as the footsteps dissolve out of range.