Off the Clock

She stood in the hallway, tears threatening, and then slunk back in her room and fell onto the bed, the unpaid bills littered around her. She grabbed her laptop and woke up the screen. She could do this. She just needed to figure out how to make three times her salary immediately. Easy peasy.

That left winning the lottery, selling organs on the black market, and …

Hmm, maybe she could become a stripper. She glanced down at her faded, oversized sweatshirt, the empty bag of M&M’s, and the yoga pants she had yet to use for actual exercise. Yeah, probably not.

She was so damn screwed.

5

The frustrated look on Dr. Paxton’s face told Marin everything she needed to know. He was in his office, which was neat as a pin as always, but his gray hair was sticking up on one side. His hair only got like that when a study wasn’t coming together or a student had done something stupid … or he had bad news to deliver. She’d emailed him over the weekend, requesting this meeting and letting him know what was going on with Nathan. But she’d known it’d been a long shot.

When he saw her standing in the doorway, he waved her in. “Come on in, Marin. I’ve got Clint bringing us some coffee.”

She stepped inside the small but stately room and took a seat. The ceilings arched high and a tall window that looked out onto the big trees in the quad let in a flood of dappled light. It was the most coveted office in the psych building, and Professor Paxton, head of the department, said he wasn’t giving it up until they dragged his cold, dead body out of it. He also joked that Professor Englebreit in the neuropsychology department was plotting his demise to make that happen.

Marin’s office, on the other hand, was tiny and windowless. She didn’t mind it much since she spent most of her time in the university’s library or in one of the bigger labs, but some days she did feel like the walls of that tiny room were closing in on her. She’d been hoping to stay here long enough to get a tenured position at the university so that she could work her way up, maybe teach a few courses in between her research. But she may not have time for that dream to come to fruition. She needed a raise now. Not in three years.

Dr. Pax folded his hands atop his desk. They were good hands, solid ones. During her Ph.D. program and this postdoc, she’d relished those times when his big paw had landed atop her shoulder to congratulate her or to convey how pleased he was with her work. She’d never known her real father, and in a lot of ways, Dr. Pax had filled some idolized version of that role for her. A mentor. A person she’d been able to go to when all the stress of raising Nathan on her own had gotten just a little too heavy to bear. He had a therapist’s soul and a researcher’s mind. She’d learned a lot from him. She’d also learned how to read him.

“There’s no room for a raise, is there?” she asked, getting the hard part out of the way first. “I’m going to need to pick up a second job.”

He frowned. “It’s a little worse than that, I’m afraid.”

Marin tensed, but before she could say anything Dr. Pax’s student worker, Clint, tapped on the door and carried in two cups of coffee. He set one on the desk and handed Marin the other.

The paper cup seared her cold fingers. “Worse, sir?”

He sighed and leaned back in his creaking chair. “When I got your email, I decided to call and check on the grant status. I thought maybe if we had an idea how much we were going to get this year, then I could find some room to adjust your salary. But the news wasn’t good. We landed two smaller grants, but we’re not getting the Filmore this year.”

The words didn’t register in Marin’s head for a second. “Wait, what?”

He wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup but didn’t take a sip. “Apparently, they have a new board in charge of the foundation, and they didn’t think your research warranted new funds. They said they are excited about the program you’ve created but that they feel it’s ready to go. Now the challenge will be getting it into schools, not doing more research.”

“But there’s so much still to do, components we haven’t tested and—” Panic was tapping her shoulder, ready to tackle her.

“I know, Marin. I understand where you’re coming from. I always think more research can only lead to a better product. But I see their point, too. You’ve developed an amazing online program for an underserved population. The sooner we get it out there, the better. If we turn over your work to a company that can streamline the program, we can get kids access to it all the sooner. Start helping people now. And if all goes well, you’ll eventually make money on it.”

Eventually. That was the key word. Eventually didn’t help her right now. Plus, she didn’t have it in her to charge some exorbitant price to nonprofits and schools for that kind of program. She sat back in her chair and set her coffee to the side, her heart like thunder in her chest. The grant had fallen through. No more study. “But if I don’t continue that project, what does it mean for me? What am I going to do without that grant?”

Dr. Pax swiped a hand over his mustache and beard, his expression sympathetic. “Marin, without the Filmore grant, we don’t have the funds to keep you on for another year at the salary you’re at. You’d have to take a significant cut in pay, and I know that’s the opposite of what you need right now.”

Her breakfast threatened to come up. No money? There was no money. And that meant no position. She couldn’t work for less than she was already. She’d starve. Nathan would have nothing to live on. She put a hand to her forehead. “Oh, God.”

Dr. Pax leaned forward on his forearms. “Take a breath, Marin. I know this is a shock, and I’m sorry for that. But I’ve been thinking through this over the last day or two, and I may have an option that could work out for you.”

She lifted her head. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’ve expressed that you’re not interested in a clinical career. I get that research is your passion. But the truth of the matter is, you need money and clinical work is where you can find it. If you can get yourself set up in a private practice one day, you won’t ever have to have this type of conversation again.”

She blinked. “Clinical work? Like actually be a sex therapist? I don’t know how to do that. And I can’t do private practice. I’d need to get licensed and that takes at least a year of supervised work, right?”

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

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.”

She didn’t offer to make more. He wasn’t surprised or offended. Elle didn’t make coffee for men on principal.

He went to the cupboard to get a glass and filled it with water from the sink. “Why didn’t you wake me up? You know I didn’t plan on sleeping here.”

She barely glanced over. “I’m not your mother.”

He sipped his water, evaluating her. Her blond hair was neatly tucked into a bun, her lips pursed as she typed away on her laptop. Dr. Elle McCray was a cool fortress of impenetrability ninety-nine percent of the time. Her patients and colleagues called her the Bitch, sometimes behind her back, much of the time to her face. But you had to have an ego of steel to work in the rehab wing, and Elle did. Handling pampered celebrities detoxing from drugs was like working in a daycare half the time and a war zone the other half. Addiction had an insidious way of bringing out the worst in people and smothering the good. And Elle was like the priest in The Exorcist, helping patients tackle the demons for what they were and fighting hard for the soul choking for air beneath. You couldn’t go into that fight without a lot of armor, and Elle was armed to the teeth.

But he was beginning to wonder why Ms. Cool Customer had let him sleep over the last few times. That wasn’t what this relationship was. They both knew it.

He needed to stop drinking when he came over here. Elle had grown up in Napa and had a penchant for a good, strong cabernet, but the stuff was too easy to drink. He couldn’t let these lines get fuzzy. “Me sleeping here isn’t a good idea.”

Her jaw tightened. “You called me. You drank too much. It’s not my fault you fell asleep. I didn’t hold you down and make you stay.”

No, he was usually the one doing the holding down. That’s where they connected, despite barely being able to tolerate each other at work. Elle liked her sex like he did—unsentimental and without strings. Hate-fucking. They were good at it. They served a purpose for each other—two workaholics letting off steam. At least that’s what it was supposed to be.

“Well, I’ve got to get going. Suri is hunting me down this morning.”

Elle smirked. “Oh, poor Donovan.”

“Don’t mock. She loves you.” He dumped his glass out and set it in the sink. “Must be nice.”

She sent him an angelic smile. “I know how to play the game and follow protocol. You should learn it sometime.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, Dr. McCray.” He strolled past her and grabbed his keys off the counter. They didn’t kiss or hug. He’d tried that after their first night together, feeling like it was the right thing to do even if he hadn’t been overly inspired to do it, but she’d shrugged him off. I don’t need empty gestures, Donovan, she’d told him. Just sex.

Fine by him.

They exchanged a nod of good-bye, and he headed outside. He’d walked over to her place because it’d been a nice night, but now he regretted it. His house was on the other side of the expansive compound and making it across campus in his wrinkled clothes without being seen would be a challenge. He just had to hope that most of his co-workers were in sessions by now or at least in their offices.

The last thing he needed was Doc Suri finding out he was sleeping with a colleague. She already considered him the problem child since he liked doing things his way and couldn’t keep staff for long on his floor. He’d probably already be gone if it were solely up to her. But he was good at what he did, well-known from getting a few national TV spots when his female arousal research went viral, and the elite clientele here asked for him because of it. The Orgasm Whisperer. That’s the ridiculous name the media had given him. But it worked. The board of directors wanted him here because it brought in high-paying clients, and it let him get away with a few transgressions more than Dr. Suri would normally tolerate. But she had her limits, and he was close to pushing over them.

Donovan slipped around the north edge of the pond and avoided the tai chi class going on nearby. The ground was spongy from an overnight rain, and his dress shoes sank into the earth, making obscene sucking sounds as he skirted the edges of the surrounding trees. By the time he reached the main parking lot, his favorite shoes were a loss. Fantastic. Between his ruined shirt and muddy shoes, he was starting to resemble a hobo. But at least he was making good time and no one had seen him. The administrative building of the institute loomed in the distance, but this parking lot was quiet since this was the visitors zone and visiting hours didn’t start until ten.

He was almost home free. His house was only a few hundred yards on the other side of the trees. But when he hurried around a large pickup truck to turn onto the walking path, someone ran smack into him.

He let out an oof and automatically put up his hands to block whoever or whatever it was, but when he did so, the person who’d run into him lost her balance and went sailing backward onto her ass. Papers flew in the air. A curse flew from her.

The wet sound of her butt hitting the earth alongside the path made Donovan cringe. Only then did he take in the sight. A woman in a business suit. Short dark hair. Horrified expression. He went to her side. “Shit. Are you okay?”

Ignoring him, she peered around at the scattered papers and the mud that had splashed onto her legs and skirt. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

He reached out his hand. “Here. Let me help you up.”

She glanced up then, annoyance in every corner of her expression, but when her gaze met his, she froze. Her lips parted for one long second and she blinked rapidly.

Donovan stilled, his hand extended, and a little jolt of awareness went through him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about her seemed familiar. He frowned, trying to place her. A former client, maybe? “Are you okay, miss?”

She broke the eye contact and took his offered hand. “I’ll be fine.”

He helped her to her feet, and then they both gathered her things. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and did her best to clean off some of the mud.

“Do you need me to get you anything? Paper towels?”

“It’s okay.” She glanced at him again, her gaze briefly tracking over his state, and only then did he remember how he must look. His shirt was hanging open with lipstick all over it, and he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Of course she didn’t want help from him. She probably knew not to trust strangers wandering the grounds of a psychiatric institution.