“Thank you,” she says softly.
We wait in silence another few seconds, but when she doesn’t say more, I go back to massaging her neck and shoulder. The muscles are all in knots, probably from tensing around the injured area, and she flinches occasionally when I hit an especially sore spot. It’s several minutes before I feel the muscles loosen up, and I knead hard when I find one stubborn knot that won’t let go.
The doc lets out an involuntary noise as I dig in, and I’m a hundred percent certain it’s one she makes during sex. We both go still.
“I’m-,” she starts to say, but I cut her off before she can apologize.
“This one’s tough. I should’ve warned you before I went after it.”
I see her throat jump as she swallows.
“Just let me get this one loose, and you should feel better,” I say.
“Alright,” she says, the word barely a sound.
I go back to working on the knot, but I’m now hyperaware of everything about the woman in front of me. There are goosebumps on her arms, and when I inhale, the scent of something floral winds its wayaround my brain. I’m not familiar enough with plants and flowers to recognize the scent immediately – Lavender maybe? Jasmine? – but whatever it is resets my senses.
I’m leaning in close enough to flutter the wispy hairs at her nape with my breath, and I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to kiss the back of her neck. I lean back quickly.
I refocus on the knot and start to work at it again. My other hand holds her opposite shoulder to keep her steady, but she remains quiet this time. Finally, I feel the knot release.
“Got it,” I say, letting go of her, and she breathes an audible sigh.
I scooch back a few inches to give us some room, and the doc pulls her sweater back on before turning to me.
“Thank you,” she says. “That does feel better.”
“No problem.” I pause, and the air is thick with something unspoken before I break the silence again. “We get back into town late Thursday night, well, technically Friday morning, and then we’ll have practice that afternoon. Can you come by to meet the team?”
“Yeah, sure. I usually have Friday afternoons free.”
She looks like she’s about to say more but stops herself.
“What is it?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
“Just tell me,” I say.
She sighs heavily and looks down. “It…It’s about those texts you sent me the night we met.”
My brows furrow as I search my memory for what texts she could be talking about.
“I’m not sure what your expectations are, but I think we need to keep this professional,” she goes on.
I frown deeper. “What?”
“I mean, I don’t want to assume why you sent the picture,” she says, “but I think we can both agree that letting things get…personal would make working together entirely too awkward.”
“Picture?” I ask, completely confused. I don’t remember ever sending her a picture, and certainly not one that has her this flustered and flushed.
What she’s talking about finally hits me a second before she speaks.
“The dick pic you sent me,” she says.
My eyes blow wide. "Oh fuck." I shoot off the couch as I run my hand through my hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I feel the doc’s eyes on me as I start to pace, but I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze as the significance of the G-r-a I saw on my phone that morning hits me. Not Grace…Gray.
