swishing sound of her scrubs alerts me to her approach, and I wait for her touch. It’s sweet torture, my skin tightening in anticipation until she places her palm feather-light against my skin.
Relaxation filters through my bloodstream, and the tension leaves my brow as her pressure grows stronger. She’s silent, letting the fake whales preclude any conversation. Fuck you, whales. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since we’ve returned, and I want to hear her voice.
“When you treated me in my hotel suite, you talked me through the entire procedure.”
“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. Now that we’ve worked together, you can sleep if you want. It doesn’t bother me.”
It bothers me.
“What wrong idea would I get?” Yes, I’m pushing her to engage with me.
“That I was attempting to violate your rules by doing anything inappropriate.” She’s being sassy. “Now you know what I’m going to do, and I have my own rule about clients.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Again, the whales fill the void, and I allow it.
Her palms stroke my shoulder blades, sliding down my back to my waist. It makes me want to pull her close and kiss her long and hard, but I’ll respect her rules. I’ll wait until she’s ready to break them, perhaps with a bit of encouragement.
I prop my cheek on my fist so I can see her profile. “It’s quite a move from flowers to massage therapy. What prompted that jump?”
“It’s not such a jump if you think about it in terms of service. I’ve always wanted to lift people’s spirits, make them smile, or ease their suffering. Flowers led to aromatherapy and learning which scents eased anxiety and elevated the mood. That dovetailed into healing, which is how massage therapy works, and here I am.”
As she speaks, she kneads her fingers into my strained muscle, and I hold my breath at the pain.
“You need to breathe through it.” Her voice is soothing, calm.
I do as she says, and she gently moves away, dragging her forearms down the large muscles in my back. I feel her breath against my skin, and it’s tantalizing. Her body heat surrounds me as she makes her way to the top of my back again, to my scar. Her palm covers it, holding steady, and I feel something like warmth transferring into my damaged skin.
It’s a place I don’t share with anyone, and her hand feels like it’s opening the lid on a box I keep sealed for a reason. Anger rises in my throat, and my playful mood is gone.
I roll away abruptly. “Are we finished here?”
“Yes.” Her tone is different, like she knows she trespassed. “I’m finished.”
Heat burns in my stomach. I don’t need pity.
“Thank you for your time.” The ice wall is firmly restored. “I’ll change in my bathroom.”
“I’ll see you in a week.” She takes the towel from my slacks and uses it to wipe her arms.
Her expression is calm, and I wonder how we went from me having the upper hand to her acting like she knows some secret I haven’t shared.
She knows nothing.
“Your payment will be in your Venmo account in the hour.”
“Thank you.” Her soft voice carries as I shut the door.
When I return, she’s gone, but the scent of peppermint lingers. She also left a bottle of water on my desk with a note. It reads “stay hydrated” and has a little smiley face.
I swipe it off my desk ready to chuck it across the room when my phone buzzes. Glancing at the face, I see it’s a text from her. Sorry if I pushed you today.
My thumbs move quickly with my reply. I don’t know what you mean.
Several seconds pass, and she responds, It felt like things had changed in Oceanside. But you still don’t want to share your scars with me.
My answer is quick. I mixed a pain pill with alcohol in Oceanside.
It’s a dodge, but fuck it.
She doesn’t immediately answer. Gray dots appear then disappear… appear, disappear. Finally, she replies, I don’t sleep with intoxicated men.
I huff a laugh at her throwing my words back at me. I was angry just now, but she always manages to make me laugh. I don’t understand it. We’re going somewhere I’ve never been, and even when I fight, I still go back to her.
I have to get on top of this.
Lowering my device onto my desk, I don’t reply.
Chapter 15
Joselyn
“Tree frogs can live five to nine years.” Ollie sits on the opposite end of the couch from me