The Devil in Denim by Melanie Scott Page A

it. The man was the devil. That was the only explanation for the fact that she could be so angry at him and yet still be far too aware of his eyes and mouth and hands.
    She lowered her head to the steering wheel, feeling the tension turning her back and shoulders to steel bars.
    “So what do we do when faced with a difficult choice, Ms. Jameson?”
    Patient displays reluctance to commit in the face of obstacles. Patient overwhelmed.
    “Eat chocolate?”
    Patient would benefit from better coping mechanism. Patient is going to end up with diabetes.
    “Perhaps you could try some visualization? What do you want out of the situation? Can you see it?”
    Patient reluctant to learn the lessons we have been teaching her. Still, she pays the bills.
    What did Maggie want out of the situation? That was easy. She wanted to walk upstairs and find her father in his office, Shonda manning the desk outside as always, telling her she needed to eat some more, and then go a few doors down to her own little office and get to work, with nothing having changed.
    “There is no point in visualizing what cannot be. Let’s try again. What do you want, Ms. Jameson?”
    Alex’s face flashed into her head, green eyes laughing at something Hana had said last night, beer in one hand, leaning back in his chair, collar loosened, sleeves rolled up, muscled forearms flexing.
    Her stomach lurched.
    No.
    She didn’t want that.
    That would be masochistic, idiotic, and several other things that her imaginary therapist wouldn’t appreciate her saying out loud.
    And now she was worried about offending her imaginary therapist? She really was losing it.
    Someone rapped on her window and she jumped about a foot as she jerked her head up.
    “Maggie, what are you doing?” Hana asked as she pulled the door open.
    “I’m, uh, just…” The words trailed off. No good explanation really sprang to mind.
    Hana’s brows drew down, her expression halfway between worry and irritation.
    “You’re here to see Alex?”
    “Yes. What are you doing here?”
    “Brett left his favorite glove at home.”
    “Why does he need his glove?” There were no games today. Not even training. The Saints were in vacation mode.
    “He said something about Lucas Angelo and the team doctor.”
    “Doctor? Is he hurt?”
    Hana shook her head, the thin gold hoops she wore bouncing wildly. “Not as far as I know.” She grinned suddenly. “There was nothing wrong with him last night.”
    Maggie groaned. “Don’t tell me. You two are an old married couple. Aren’t you meant to stop having constant sex at some point?”
    “Have you seen my husband? Besides, this is the one time of year he’s home a lot and not half exhausted. I’m not going to waste the opportunity.”
    “According to you he does pretty well even when he is half exhausted.”
    Hana’s expression turned smug, glee dancing in her eyes. “Yes. Yes, he does. Maybe that’s what you need?”
    Maggie grinned. “To sleep with your husband?”
    “Ha-ha. It is to laugh. Not him. But someone. Nothing like a few screaming orgasms to brighten a girl’s outlook on life.”
    “I have more important things to worry about.”
    “Sex is important. Exercise, endorphins, and did I mention the screaming orgasms?”
    “And who is supposed to supply these screaming orgasms?” Maggie asked, then wished she hadn’t. Buying into Hana’s flights of fancy when she got into one of her “let’s fix Maggie up” moods never resulted in anything good.
    Hana gestured upward vaguely. “There’s a whole building full of hot men above our heads.”
    “You know I don’t date team members.” Not since Ollie at least. The awkward six months or so after they’d first parted company—a time when half the guys wouldn’t talk to her and the other half gave her speculative glances—had taught her not to fish off the company pier. Too much potential for disaster.
    “There are plenty of nonplayers around. There’s that cute IT guy.