Cover Reveal

๐Ÿ˜ ๐‚๐Ž๐•๐„๐‘ ๐‘๐„๐•๐„๐€๐‹! ๐Ÿ˜

๐…๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐—ช๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐’๐ญ๐ซ๐ž๐ž๐ญ ๐‰๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง๐š๐ฅ ๐›๐ž๐ฌ๐ญ๐ฌ๐ž๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐š๐ฎ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ซ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’ ๐‚๐‡๐€๐๐“๐„๐‘๐’ ๐€๐๐Ž๐”๐“ ๐Ÿ’ ๐Œ๐„๐ (๐ข๐ง๐ฌ๐ฉ๐ข๐ซ๐š๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐Ÿ’๐ญ๐ก ๐Œ๐จ๐ฌ๐ญ-๐—ช๐š๐ญ๐œ๐ก๐ž๐ ๐๐ž๐ญ๐Ÿ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฑ ๐Ž๐ซ๐ข๐ ๐ข๐ง๐š๐ฅ ๐’๐ž๐ซ๐ข๐ž๐ฌ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ข๐ฆ๐ž, ๐’๐Ÿ‘๐—/๐‹๐ˆ๐…๐„) ๐œ๐จ๐ฆ๐ž๐ฌ ๐š ๐Ÿ๐ฎ๐ง, ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ๐›๐ข๐๐๐ž๐ง ๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ๐š๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐œ ๐œ๐จ๐ฆ๐ž๐๐ฒ ๐š๐›๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐š๐ง ๐ข๐ง๐ž๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ž๐ซ๐ข๐ž๐ง๐œ๐ž๐ ๐ฉ๐ฌ๐ฒ๐œ๐ก๐จ๐ฅ๐จ๐ ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ ๐š๐ง๐ ๐ก๐ž๐ซ ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ญ๐ซ๐š-๐Ÿ๐š๐ฆ๐จ๐ฎ๐ฌ ๐œ๐ฅ๐ข๐ž๐ง๐ญ.

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 TVโ€“worthy tantrums? Check. Letter of recommendation from my velociraptor-like supervisor?

๐˜›๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ตโ€™๐˜ด going to take a miracle. Not only because my boss said I have to cure our most-prized clientโ€™s writerโ€™s block in time for him to meet his insane deadline, but also because that client just so happens to be โ€ฆ

Thomas F*@%ing Oโ€™Reardon.

Yeah, ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ต Thomas Oโ€™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 โ€ฆ 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 donโ€™t involve taking our clothes off โ€ฆ itโ€™s torture.

So, when Thomas casually asks me out at the end of a therapy session, Iโ€™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 optionโ€”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? Iโ€™ve never actually done group therapy. And side problem: my other clients are heathens. But whatโ€™s the worst that could happen? I mean, itโ€™s not like Iโ€™m going lose all control of the group and let it devolve into a chaotic, bloodthirsty, topless fight club.

๐˜™๐˜ช๐˜จ๐˜ฉ๐˜ต?

๐‚๐Ž๐Œ๐ˆ๐๐† ๐…๐„๐๐‘๐”๐€๐‘๐˜ ๐Ÿ๐’๐“!

๐๐‘๐„-๐Ž๐‘๐ƒ๐„๐‘ ๐๐Ž๐—ช ๐€๐•๐€๐ˆ๐‹๐€๐๐‹๐„ ๐ˆ๐ ๐€๐‹๐‹ ๐…๐Ž๐‘๐Œ๐€๐“๐’: artbyeaston.com/grouptherapy

๐๐‹๐Ž๐†๐†๐„๐‘ ๐’๐ˆ๐†๐๐”๐: https://forms.gle/ipUzJkWG4nV7awqt8

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