“It’s easier to move here,” I say. “I don’t feel like I’m dragging a dead limb.”
“That’s the point.” He stops, gestures for me to turn around. “Let’s try backwards, then we’ll do some calf raises.”
I grab the wall to help balance myself through the calf raises while he watches me close. Water ripples around us, and the sky stretches forever above us. In the distance, there’s the gentle crash of waves from the bay hitting the shore. I forgot how quiet it was here. How peace permeates everything. It’s… nice. And something about being with Nash only adds to the feeling.
“So this job you’re fighting so hard to keep…” He says, his voice low and personal. “What is it, actually?”
“Backup dancer for Sandro René.” I wait for the typical, excited reaction.
Instead, Nash groans. “That guy? He’s the worst.”
“What?” I spin toward him in disbelief, nearly losing my balance. “Who even says that?”
He shrugs like it’s common knowledge. “People with ears.”
“You realize he’s won artist of the year for, like, five years straight? His concerts are amazing. They sell out almost instantly.”
“What’s popular isn’t always right.”
I stare, open-mouthed. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack. You won’t catch me dead listening to him, let alone at one of his concerts.”
“Wow. How oldareyou?”
“Old enough to know good music when I hear it. And that, my friend, is not it.”
Ready to hit him with a serious rebuttal, I instinctivelystep in Nash’s direction. My foot protests and I grab for him. My hand hits bare chest. His wraps around my wrist.
Our eyes lock, the water swirling quietly around us. There’s a moment of silence. Of recognition. Ofoh crap I suddenly want to climb you like a jungle gym and wait, ‘cause I think the feeling might be mutual.
Nash clears his throat, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “I think we’ve had enough for today.”
We exit the pool, dry off in mostly-silence, but the spell doesn’t quite break. It lingers, warm and crackling, as he leads me back to the gym. I sit down on the mat again, pulse still tripping over itself.
“Let’s check that ankle,” he says, voice lower now. Rougher.
Then his hands are on me. Steady, skilled, professional.
But the vibe is nowhere near clinical. The air is cool against my skin. His fingers… not so much. Nash presses gently into the side of my ankle, and I flinch, not from pain, but from the sudden jolt of awareness.
“You okay?” His voice is quiet. Personal. The timbre sends a chill of pleasure across my nerve-endings.
“Yeah. Just…”aching for you to touch me more“…sensitive.”
His hands slow. “Want me to stop?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
He doesn’t respond. Just begins working the muscles, applying slow, deliberate pressure. My breath hitches. The ache fades, replaced by heat. His thumb slides in aslow arc behind my calf, tracing the line where muscle meets tendon. Every stroke is controlled but there’s nothing casual about the way it feels.
I glance up and find him watching me.
There’s nothing casual about the way that feels, either. His storm-thrashed grays meet my blues in a riot of connection. Of tension. Of recognition.
Neither of us speaks. Nash’s mouth twitches like he’s got something to say, but then his eyes dart away and he gives his focus back to the massage.
He’s close—not close enough to touch my face, but if I leaned in, just a little, I could thread my fingers into his hair, press my lips to his?—
