forearm to contract and ripple. He looked her in the eyes as he introduced himself.
“Logan Barberi.”
“Barberi?” Hunter repeated. Sophie flinched, reorienting herself to the present. “The Barberi? As in the Barberi crime family?”
She smiled sadly. “That’s the one. He’s the son of Vicenzo Barberi. If only I had known.”
Hunter appeared puzzled. “You didn’t know his family was Mafia?”
“I didn’t know! In my defense, Vicenzo was sentenced to life in prison when I was only seven years old.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Hunter nodded. “But didn’t you follow Angelo Barberi’s trial? It was the talk of the town when he got off on a technicality.”
Sophie shrugged. “That happened when I had just started grad school. Back then I didn’t have time to sleep, much less follow the news.”
Hunter continued writing, and he waited patiently for her to resume the story. She crossed her long legs and exhaled deeply, maintaining an elegant posture on the sofa. Her mind drifted back to her first meeting with Logan, as it had done so many times while sitting in her cell.
He had just told her his name, and she was drowning in the magnetism of those deep blue eyes. The timbre of her voice was tremulous. “Um, welcome … Please have a seat.”
He eyed her appreciatively as he crossed to the sofa. “Damn, if I knew shrinks could be so pretty, I would have started this therapy thing long ago.”
Backing unsteadily into her own chair, Sophie felt her cheeks redden, and she emitted a nervous giggle. Oh Lord, the physical attraction appeared to be mutual. It definitely seemed like the time to refer this client to another psychologist before they even started this charade of therapy. Instead, she found herself asking, “What brings you in today, Mr. Barberi?”
“It’s Logan. None of that formal stuff. A judge, uh, ordered me to see you. I had a little, uh, incident, and they think I have a gambling problem.”
Her mind, overwhelmed by his ferocious intensity, drew a blank. What would her supervisor tell her to say in this moment? When in doubt, make an empathic statement. Reflect the client’s feelings. Sophie racked her brain for an appropriate response. “And you’re angry about that, Logan? You don’t think you have a gambling problem?”
He exhaled derisively. “A problem implies lack of control. I’m always in control of my bets. I know what I’m doing.”
“Fair enough,” she responded, wanting to establish rapport before challenging him too much. “So, what was this ‘little incident’?”
He looked around the small office, sizing it up. Taking in the bare walls and sparse furniture, he observed, “You haven’t been in this office long.”
“That’s right, less than one month.”
His leg jiggled nervously as he continued his visual scan. Abruptly popping off the sofa, he strode to the lone object on the wall: a framed document. Peering at the date on her psychologist’s license, Logan turned to her and arched one eyebrow. “2006? You’ve been in this office about the same amount of time you’ve been a full-fledged shrink, huh? Only one month?”
Sophie nodded her head, and her throat felt dry. So she was green. A freshly licensed psychologist. So what?
He returned to his seat and shot her a disinterested smirk. “What the hell are we supposed to do in here?”
“Well, I’d like to get to know you better, Logan. Why don’t you tell me a little about your family?”
“Oh, you know, they’re … family. Nothing to talk about there.”
Watching his eyes dart around the room, Sophie decided to try another tactic. “How about gambling then? What’s your favorite game?”
He brightened immediately. He turned his deep-blue gaze back on her, and on her it stayed. “Blackjack,” he responded. “It’s got the best odds of any game at the casino, and I’m crazy good at it. Just yesterday I made seven thousand dollars.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows.
“Logan Barberi.”
“Barberi?” Hunter repeated. Sophie flinched, reorienting herself to the present. “The Barberi? As in the Barberi crime family?”
She smiled sadly. “That’s the one. He’s the son of Vicenzo Barberi. If only I had known.”
Hunter appeared puzzled. “You didn’t know his family was Mafia?”
“I didn’t know! In my defense, Vicenzo was sentenced to life in prison when I was only seven years old.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Hunter nodded. “But didn’t you follow Angelo Barberi’s trial? It was the talk of the town when he got off on a technicality.”
Sophie shrugged. “That happened when I had just started grad school. Back then I didn’t have time to sleep, much less follow the news.”
Hunter continued writing, and he waited patiently for her to resume the story. She crossed her long legs and exhaled deeply, maintaining an elegant posture on the sofa. Her mind drifted back to her first meeting with Logan, as it had done so many times while sitting in her cell.
He had just told her his name, and she was drowning in the magnetism of those deep blue eyes. The timbre of her voice was tremulous. “Um, welcome … Please have a seat.”
He eyed her appreciatively as he crossed to the sofa. “Damn, if I knew shrinks could be so pretty, I would have started this therapy thing long ago.”
Backing unsteadily into her own chair, Sophie felt her cheeks redden, and she emitted a nervous giggle. Oh Lord, the physical attraction appeared to be mutual. It definitely seemed like the time to refer this client to another psychologist before they even started this charade of therapy. Instead, she found herself asking, “What brings you in today, Mr. Barberi?”
“It’s Logan. None of that formal stuff. A judge, uh, ordered me to see you. I had a little, uh, incident, and they think I have a gambling problem.”
Her mind, overwhelmed by his ferocious intensity, drew a blank. What would her supervisor tell her to say in this moment? When in doubt, make an empathic statement. Reflect the client’s feelings. Sophie racked her brain for an appropriate response. “And you’re angry about that, Logan? You don’t think you have a gambling problem?”
He exhaled derisively. “A problem implies lack of control. I’m always in control of my bets. I know what I’m doing.”
“Fair enough,” she responded, wanting to establish rapport before challenging him too much. “So, what was this ‘little incident’?”
He looked around the small office, sizing it up. Taking in the bare walls and sparse furniture, he observed, “You haven’t been in this office long.”
“That’s right, less than one month.”
His leg jiggled nervously as he continued his visual scan. Abruptly popping off the sofa, he strode to the lone object on the wall: a framed document. Peering at the date on her psychologist’s license, Logan turned to her and arched one eyebrow. “2006? You’ve been in this office about the same amount of time you’ve been a full-fledged shrink, huh? Only one month?”
Sophie nodded her head, and her throat felt dry. So she was green. A freshly licensed psychologist. So what?
He returned to his seat and shot her a disinterested smirk. “What the hell are we supposed to do in here?”
“Well, I’d like to get to know you better, Logan. Why don’t you tell me a little about your family?”
“Oh, you know, they’re … family. Nothing to talk about there.”
Watching his eyes dart around the room, Sophie decided to try another tactic. “How about gambling then? What’s your favorite game?”
He brightened immediately. He turned his deep-blue gaze back on her, and on her it stayed. “Blackjack,” he responded. “It’s got the best odds of any game at the casino, and I’m crazy good at it. Just yesterday I made seven thousand dollars.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows.
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