Strong hands, he thought. She didn’t look strong. But as they pushed, rubbed, pressed, as her fists dug into his back, aches he’d grown used to carrying rose to the surface, and lifted out.
She used her forearms, slick with oil, her body weight, knuckles, thumbs, fists. Every time the pressure hovered on the edge of too much, something broke free.
Then she stroked, stroked, stroked, firm, rhythmic, constant.
And he drifted away.
When he surfaced, floating back to consciousness like a leaf on a river, it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t in bed. He remained stretched out on the padded table, modestly covered by a sheet. The fire simmered; candles glowed. Music continued to murmur in the air.
He nearly closed his eyes and went under again.
Then he remembered.
Eli pushed himself up on his elbows to look around the room. He saw her coat, her boots, her bag. He could smell her, he realized, that subtle, earthy fragrance that mixed with the candle wax, the oil. Cautious, he pulled the sheet around him as he sat up.
He needed his pants. First things first.
Holding the sheet, he eased off the table. When he reached for his jeans, he saw the damn sticky note.
Drink the water. I’m in the kitchen.
He kept a wary eye out as he pulled on his pants, then picked up the water bottle she’d left beside them. As he shrugged on his shirt he realized nothing hurt. No headache, no toothy clamps on the back of his neck, none of those twinges that dogged him after his attempts to get some exercise.
He stood, drinking the water in the room soft with candlelight and firelight and music, and realized he felt something he barely recognized.
He felt good.
And foolish. He’d given her grief, deliberately. Her answer had been to help him—despite him.
Chastised, he made his way through the house to the kitchen.
She stood at the stove in a room redolent with scent. He didn’t know what she stirred on the stove, but it awakened another rare sensation.
Genuine hunger.
She’d chosen grinding rock for her kitchen music, turned it down low. Now he felt a twinge—of guilt. No one should be forced to play good, hard rock at a whisper.
“Abra.”
She jolted a little this time, which reassured him. She was human after all.
When she turned, she narrowed her eyes, held up a finger before he could speak. Stepping closer, she gave him a long study. Then she smiled.
“Good. You look better. Rested and more relaxed.”
“I feel good. First, I want to apologize. I was rude and argumentative.”
“We can agree there. Stubborn?”
“Maybe. All right, I can concede stubborn.”
“Then, clean slate.” She picked up a glass of wine, lifted it. “I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself.”
“No, I don’t mind. Second, thank you. When I said I felt good . . . I don’t remember the last time I did.”
Her eyes softened. Pity might have made him tense again, but sympathy was a different matter.
“Oh, Eli. Life sure can suck, can’t it? You need the rest of that water. To hydrate, and for flushing out the toxins. You may feel some soreness tomorrow. I really had to dig down. Do you want a glass of wine?”
“Yeah, actually. I’ll get it.”
“Just sit,” she told him. “You should stay relaxed, absorb that for a while. You should consider booking a massage twice a week until we really conquer that stress. Then weekly would do, or even every other week if that doesn’t work for you.”
“It’s hard to argue when I’m half buzzed.”
“Good. I’ll write the appointments down on your calendar. I’ll come to you for now. We’ll see how that goes.”
He sat, took his first sip of wine. It tasted like heaven on his tongue. “Who are you?”
“Oh, such a long story. I’ll tell you one day, if we get to be friends.”
“You’ve washed my underwear and had me naked on your table. That’s pretty friendly.”
“That’s business.”
“You keep cooking for me.” He angled his chin toward the stove. “What is that?”
“Which?”
“The thing, on the stove.”
“The thing on the stove is a good hearty soup—vegetables, beans, ham. I gave it a mild kick as I wasn’t sure how spicy you can handle. And this?” She turned, opened the oven. More scent poured out and stirred that burgeoning appetite. “Is meat loaf.”
“You made a meat loaf?”
“With potatoes and carrots and green beans. Very manly.” She set it on the stove. “You were out over two hours. I had to do