I am thiiiiis close to finally becoming a full-fledged psychologist. PhD? Check. Prestigious postdoc position, providing therapy to entitled millionaires and C-list celebrities whose pumpkin spice lattes cost more than my Converse and make excellent projectiles during their reality TV-worthy tantrums? Check. Letter of recommendation from my velociraptor-like supervisor?

That's going to take a miracle. Not only because my boss said I have to cure our most-prized client's writer's block in time for him to meet his insane deadline, but also because that client just so happens to be ...

Thomas F*@%ing O'Reardon.

Yeah, that Thomas O'Reardon. The wickedly brilliant, achingly beautiful, devastatingly British best-selling author whose psychological thrillers line my bookshelf at home and whose face I might or might not picture while I ... you get the point. Sitting in a confined space with him; inhaling the crisp, clean scent of his cologne; gazing into his broody blue eyes while trying to remember to nod and listen and come up with suggestions that don't involve taking our clothes off ... it's torture.

So, when Thomas casually asks me out at the end of a therapy session, I'm forced to make an impossible choice: say yes and risk losing my dream job, or say no and risk losing my dream guy. In a panic, I blurt out a third option-the only solution I can think of that will allow me to see this man after hours without it being considered a career-ending ethics violation:

Group therapy.

The only problem? I've never actually done group therapy. And side problem: my other clients are ... a handful. But what's the worst that could happen? I mean, it's not like I'm going lose all control of the group and let it devolve into a chaotic, bloodthirsty, topless fight club.

Right?