Jonathan Gilchrist sat at his desk, his head in his hands as he grumbled quietly to himself.
He was a trained psychiatrist! He had attended one of the best schools in the country and had a list of professional credentials a mile long! Right now, he was supposed to be sitting in some oak paneled corner office with a great view while dressed in a corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows, listening to the rich and famous whine about how unhappy their childhood had been!
How had he then ended up as a high school guidance counselor?! Why was he sitting here trying to shepherd spoiled, snotty children through their ridiculous teenage dramas?
Damn economy . . .
As far as he could see, the only saving grace to all of this was that he got to spend so much time around a veritable army of drop dead sexy girls, each and every one of them in the prime of life and armed with perfect young bodies. Even this was bittersweet though – not merely because he certainly wasn’t allowed to touch any of these girls, but also because he had to sit here and listen to them talk about how their lives had been ruined because their mothers wouldn’t buy them the right color of nail polish.