“Yes.” I had to tell Reese what happened. She called my bluff. Unlike Dr. Markson, she didn’t have to be professional. “Stop being a chicken.” “I’m not being a chicken! I have an anxiety disorder!” “Maybe so, but you spent the last three months getting massages, orgasms, and felt up by a sex god. I think you owe everyone a little bit more.” “I don’t have any more to give.” “Bullshit.” She’s standing in the middle of my loft, hands on her hips, pissed off. No. She’s furious. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her this mad; not even when the caterer screwed up her wedding cake and put figurines of two men on the top because they got confused by her name. “I’m exhausted, Reese. All I ever think about is sex.” I drop to the couch. “I’m also absolutely terrified.”” “About what?”
