Off the Clock

He gave her a small smile. “You do know how to provide therapy. You’ve done an internship. Your training has given you all the tools you need.”

She shook her head. All she could think about was her disastrous internship at a local mental health center. She’d had to do it as part of her program. But she’d been awful at it—awkward and bumbling, never knowing what was the right or wrong thing to say. What if she said the wrong thing and messed someone up? What if she was as bad as some of the therapists who had failed her mom? Then, in her first week, a client had stormed out mid-session, threatening suicide. Marin had promptly had a panic attack. She’d had to pull the fire alarm to get the staff to catch up with him and stop him. It’d been a goddamned nightmare. After that, she’d asked to transfer to a school position where she’d be able to focus more on educating students on mental health topics rather than actually providing one-on-one therapy.

“I’m good in a lab. I’m not good with people.”

He chuckled. “You’re just fine with people. You work with your research volunteers well, and you’re a good listener. But you’re right, though you have the tools and the smarts, more experience is needed. You would need to work under a supervising psychologist for a year to qualify for your license. But after that, you could do what you want.”

She took in a deep breath and tried to process his words. He was trying to help. She didn’t have a lot of options right now and couldn’t dismiss one out of hand. “I don’t even know where I’d start looking. I can’t imagine those types of positions pay much before you’re licensed.”

“Typically, no. But since your brother will be attending art school in New Orleans and I figured you might be open to moving there with him, I took the liberty of reaching out to Dr. Anala Suri at The Grove, a private institute in Louisiana. She’d called me recently, letting me know that she was down one clinician in their sex therapy department and wondered if I had any recommendations. They’re a very exclusive operation and only grant interviews through direct referrals. I’ve had a couple of students do well there. So I called her yesterday and told her you might be interested.”

“Exclusive? What do you mean?” She shifted in her chair, trying to keep her nerves from showing on her face.

He considered her as he took a sip of coffee. “Expensive. And experimental. Most insurance companies won’t cover the services there because they do some cutting-edge treatments.”

She frowned. “Who can afford treatment with no insurance help?”

“The wealthy. The famous. It’s very private, tucked away right off the bayou, and clients can stay on the grounds when there for treatment or can drop in. It’s off the beaten path, but it’s popular with celebrities because they can avoid the press. Plus, from what Dr. Suri tells me, New Orleans is becoming Hollywood South with so many movies and TV shows filming there now. So there’s a need to have something high-end and private nearby.”

“There’s that high of a demand for sex therapy?”

“They don’t just do sex therapy. It’s a complete operation—rehab facility, family counseling, individual and group therapy. It would give you lots of opportunities to work with professionals from all different kinds of specialties, and the salaries they offer will knock your socks off. I’ve been tempted more than once to leave all this tenure behind and take over a department out there.”

Marin’s nerves curled in her belly. “Why haven’t you?”

He let out a soft laugh. “Because my wife would kill me if I tried to move her out of state and because I’m never giving up this office. I can’t let Dr. Englebreit win.”

She let out a little laugh even though anxiety had clamped her in its grip.

“But I think you should take the interview. Dr. Suri is tough, and she’ll demand a lot of you if she hires you, but she’s a good supervisor. She’ll challenge you.”

Marin looked away. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful. But giving therapy to a bunch of spoiled celebrities and rich people wasn’t just galaxies outside her comfort zone. It flat-out terrified her. She wasn’t equipped for that. “I’m not sure—”

“You’re a brilliant researcher, Marin. You’ve been an asset to this department, and I’ve enjoyed seeing how you’ve grown here. But I think you’re limiting yourself. You shouldn’t avoid clinical work because you’re scared to be out in the real world. I worked in the field a number of years before I came back to academia, and the experience was invaluable. You can always come back to this, but for now the higher salary could support you and give you some left over to help your brother. And once you have your clinical license, you’ll always have something to fall back on if you need it. The Grove is a big hitter to have on a resume.”

Marin swallowed hard. She hated that he’d pinpointed her apprehension so easily. That thought of being out in the real world, trying to help people with their problems, had anxiety crawling over her like swarming ants. She hadn’t been able to help her own mother, how the hell was she supposed to help anyone else? But what other options did she have? All the other local postdoc positions would be filled by now. And she didn’t want to have to move to God knows where and be even farther from Nathan to find something else. She also couldn’t go home unemployed, nearly broke, and with no prospects on the horizon. They wouldn’t last two months without her paycheck coming in.

She rubbed her hands on her slacks, her palms clammy, and looked up at Dr. Paxton. “Well, I guess I better plan a visit to the bayou.”

“Excellent.” His smile lifted the lines in his face and he gave her a nod. “I’ll tell them to give you a call and set something up.”

She blew out a breath and stood.

Dr. Paxton rose from behind his desk and stepped around it.

Marin put out her hand. “Thanks, Dr. Pax. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you going to these lengths to help me find something. I know you didn’t have to do that.”

Dr. Paxton took her hand and instead of shaking it, stepped closer. Then the ever-professional professor pulled her into a hug. She stiffened with surprise at first but then relaxed into the gentle warmth of the gesture. She closed her eyes. He smelled like libraries and black coffee and her version of safety.

He leaned back, his hand clasped on her arm and a tenderness in his eyes, and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re going to be just fine, Marin. You’ve survived much worse than this and have landed on your feet. I have nothing but full confidence in you that you’ll make a brilliant therapist. The Grove would be lucky to have you.”

Her eyes burned, tears threatening for some reason, and she gave a quick nod. “Thank you.”

He gave her arm another pat and then stepped back. “Let me know how the interview goes, all right?”

She told him she would and headed out of the office. The hallway was buzzing with students and activity as she walked toward the quad, the familiar sounds making her want to cry even more. This wasn’t going to be her place anymore. This wasn’t her home. She’d spent so many years here, learning, growing, finding who she wanted to be. She passed the door of the sleep lab and got an old, familiar pang of sadness. She’d even lost her innocence here and had her first heartbreak.

Now she’d have to face what was outside these walls. The world. Real life. She couldn’t be a student any longer. She couldn’t hide.

She pushed out into the spring sunshine and tried not to dissolve into tears.

6 (#ulink_31d62427-ea52-5a86-8695-cfd094307e97)

Donovan woke up with a booming headache and the cloying scent of lavender filling his head. He grimaced and rolled his face into the pillow. The smell only got stronger, confirming it wasn’t his pillow. Or his bed. Fuck.

He turned his head and forced his eyes open, the morning light piercing his brain like tiny knives. Eyelet curtains blew in the breeze of the open window, the sound of the ducks puttering around the pond nearby drifting in. Great. Not only had he fallen asleep in the wrong bed, but he was all the way across campus, late, and hungover. Dr. Suri would shit a brick if she found out. He reached for his phone, which he’d managed to leave on the side table but not set his alarm—brilliance in action—and hit the speed dial.

His assistant, Ysabel, answered on the first ring. “I’ve already rescheduled your eight o’clock and pushed the morning group back a half hour.”

Donovan let his head fall back to the pillow. “I love you, Ysa. Marry me.”

“You’re not my type. I need more boobs and less penis.”

“I could work on the first if you keep bringing in those beignets from the Morning Cup. But the penis has to stay.”

“I’m out, then. What’s your ETA?”

“An hour?”

“Be quicker. Dr. Suri called for you earlier. I told her you were on the phone. She didn’t leave a message because she was walking into a meeting, but you know she’ll call back when she gets out.”

“Shit. All right. Got it. Thanks, Best Assistant Ever.”

“Yeah, yeah. Kiss up. But you can’t keep pulling this shit. Dr. Rhodes is never late. I want that bigger office. And I don’t want him messing around on our wing.”

He grimaced. Both he and Clinton Rhodes were up for the director position for the couples counseling building. The position would mean more money, a better office, extra support staff, and more time to devote to research in addition to the therapy. Donovan had stronger experience, but Clinton knew how to put on a good show and brownnose. And he showed up on time.

Fuck.

With a sigh, he let Ysabel go and braced himself for the conversation he had waiting for him outside of this room. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, his head pounding with a wine hangover and the need for coffee. Might as well face the firing squad and get it done with.

He climbed out of bed, made a quick trip to the bathroom, and then searched around the bedroom for his clothes. After he’d pulled on his boxers and slacks, he found his shirt in a ball on the floor. He shook it out and saw that half the buttons were missing and there were lipstick marks where the buttons used to be. Great. Someone had been aggressive last night. He tugged it on and had to leave it hanging open.

He found his way into the kitchen. Elle was sitting at the table with a big mug of coffee and her laptop open. She was already in her physician wear—gray slacks and a black top, all very conservative and to the point. She glanced over when she saw him walk in. “Good. You’re up. I need you out of here. I have an appointment in fifteen minutes and the cleaning lady will be here any second.”

“Fine. Is there more coffee? And do you have any T-shirts that would fit me? You demolished my buttons.”

“No shirts.” She frowned. “And I’ve already drank the pot I made.”