He probably should have taken her there himself, but he was afraid if he spent one more instant in her company he’d give in to the career-ending, jail-time-inducing desire to touch her in the ways he’d been dreaming of. What was wrong with him? He was a psychiatrist. He knew that dreams weren’t real and the dreamer shouldn’t beat him- or herself up about having them. The subconscious was like a snarled ball of yarn—it could be unraveled, but why it was the way it was, how it had gotten to be that way, was often a mystery. On the other hand, his dreams were pretty straightforward. He wanted Willow in ways that he shouldn’t. What he needed was to get laid. Unfortunately he was new in town, had no time to meet anyone, let alone date them enough to warrant getting naked. He wasn’t going to pay for it either. Not only did the idea make him twitchy for more reasons than one—legality and the possibility of blackmail among them—but how would he even find such a place around here?
