Locking a smile into place, she leaned against her desk. The man had a killer voice. It was heavy with masculinity and touched with just the right amount of sensuality. Getting rid of Rashawn wouldn’t be easy, but her last session of the day was about to start and she wanted to read over Mr. Gallagher’s file. “I wish we could talk further, but I’m expecting my next client any minute now. It’s his first time here and I want to be prepared when he arrives.”
“Cool. Don’t mind me.” Rashawn stepped back, stretched out on the tan-colored couch and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Do what you have to do. I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”
“You’re not Brody Gallagher.”
“I know, his assistant made the appointment on my behalf.”
“I see.” Yasmin swallowed. She could do this. She was a trained professional, equipped to help clients resolve their personal issues and achieve self-awareness. It didn’t matter that Rashawn had a dreamy voice and rippling muscles. This was business and Yasmin refused to let anything stand in the way of doing her job. “I need a few minutes to get myself together and then we can begin.”
He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest. “Like I said, Doc, take as much time as you need.”
Yasmin was behind her desk, gathering assessment forms, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called, glancing at Rashawn, who was still lounging on the sofa.
Her assistant came in, an apologetic look on her face. Niobie Slade had been with her from the first day she had opened the doors of A Better Way Counseling Services three years earlier, and though the twenty-three-year-old single mom still had a lot to learn, Yasmin could always count on her to be affable and efficient.
“Yes, what is it?” she asked, trying to squelch her frustration. Niobie had a penchant for see-through tops, miniskirts and stilettos and, though Yasmin had spoken to her at length just last week about her wardrobe, she had shown up today in a getup straight out of a music video. If it weren’t for all the work that had to be done for the fund-raiser, Yasmin would have sent her home. The slinky tomato-red dress was a soft, lightweight material but looked very expensive. Yasmin liked it, but not on Niobie. Her assistant was literally busting out of it. Her breasts were on display like a Ferrari in a showroom and the sides bunched up in layers when she walked. The outfit was clearly intended for a woman with height and curves and Niobie was short on one and had too much of the other.
“Sorry to disturb you, but Ms. Dubois called from Pastries and Stuff Catering. They’re booked the first Saturday in June, but when I explained it’s a charity event for inner-city children, she said they could squeeze us in,” Niobie explained, tucking a lock of golden-brown hair behind her ears. “The only catch is they can’t decorate or provide servers. We’ll have to take care of that ourselves.”
“That’s fine. I think it would be a nice touch if we had the kids serve the guests.” Pleased that things were finally starting to fall into place, Yasmin said, “Did she leave a number where I can reach her?”
“Yes. She asked that you call by five and let her know either way.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Niobie turned toward the door but stopped abruptly when she saw the man stretched out on the couch. A pudgy hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God! It’s Rashawn Bishop!” The words came out muffled, but there was no mistaking her excitement. “I’m your biggest fan!”
Rashawn sat up and swung his legs out in front of him. Seven years ago he had been an amateur boxer with only a handful of fights under his belt. Winning the Golden Gloves and then placing well at nationals had catapulted him from obscurity into the local spotlight. And after his record improved to thirty-seven wins, his celebrity had grown and offers started rolling in. Better management, more exposure and a professional debut had soon followed. These days he was recognized more often than not, and he was receiving more and more female attention. Except from Yasmin Ohaji.
“Could you autograph something for my son? He’s only seven but he already has dreams of becoming a boxer. Crazy, huh? I’m saving up so I can send Miles to one of those junior boxing camps. He’s good and I’m not just saying that because I’m his mom.”
Rashawn chuckled. “How about I swing by tomorrow and drop off an autographed picture for your boy?”
“That would be awesome!”
Yasmin cleared her throat, which snapped Niobie out of fan mode and into work mode. “Sorry for the interruption, Ms. Ohaji. If you need anything I’ll be at my desk.”
“Thank you, Niobie. That will be all.”
Waving good-bye at Rashawn, she proceeded through the open door and shut it behind her. They could hear Niobie giggling, then the sound and her footsteps faded.
“I apologize for my assistant’s behavior. It was—”
“No problem. I love meeting fans.”
“You’re a boxer? I don’t watch a lot of sports but you must be pretty popular if people recognize you.”
“I do all right.”
“How long have you been boxing?”
“Since I was fifteen. I got decent grades but I was always getting into trouble at school. My phys ed teacher took pity on me and started letting me hang out at his father’s gym. I’ve been hooked on boxing ever since I threw my first punch.”
Boxing was a violent, barbaric sport and Yasmin would never understand why someone would subject himself to such abuse. Shuffling the papers on her desk, she collected her clipboard and sat in the chair across from Rashawn. He could fill out the assessment sheets later. The clock was ticking and Yasmin didn’t want him to feel short-changed. After all, he was paying a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. “What brings you here today, Mr. Bishop?”
“You, Dr. Ohaji. And please, call me Rashawn.”
Chapter 3
Yasmin shifted in her chair, convinced the man sitting across from her liked making her sweat. Rashawn wasn’t her only male client, but he had a way of looking at her that made her feel nauseated, dizzy and nervous all at the same time. The long, steady looks, the way he wet his lips and the naughty gleam in his eyes troubled her.
Shoving aside her trepidation of being alone in her office with a man with whom she shared a sheer, almost magnetic chemistry, Yasmin made notes on her client assessment sheet. “Our relationship is strictly a patient–doctor one, so let’s stick to what brought you here and the issues you’re dealing with in your life right now.”
“Does that mean I can’t ask you out again?”
Yasmin dodged the question. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“You first.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Tell me about your educational background.”
No one had ever asked her that before. People from all walks of life came into A Better Way Counseling Services for her help, assuming everything they had heard about her was true. Yasmin didn’t know if she should be impressed or offended by his request. “I graduated from the University of Miami with a degree in psychology, then got my master’s degree in marriage and family therapy the following year.”
“I bet you got good grades. You strike me as someone who wouldn’t settle for anything but a perfect GPA.”
Rashawn was right. Proud that she had coasted through her studies and made the dean’s list four consecutive