Harley
"Excuse me, Doctor. My boss is calling," I said quickly, my tone apologetic as I rose from the couch where I'd just gotten comfortable. The plush fabric still cradled the shape of my legs, but I was already halfway across the room before she could respond.
"You mean Clad Storm called?" Dr. Oliver asked, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity, like I'd just walked into a trap she had been waiting to spring.
God, she was unlike any other therapist I'd seen—and trust me, I'd seen plenty.
"Well, yes. Am I allowed to answer?" I asked rhetorically, one foot already nearing the door. The question was pointless; I was going either way.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her gesturing with a small wave of her hand, a subtle *go ahead* paired with a nod. But by that point, my attention had already tunneled into the digital leash vibrating in my palm.
I stepped out of her office and into the hallway, pressing the phone to my ear.
