“Can we hang out in your library?”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t call it that, but okay.”
The couch in the front room was dark gray and velvety, the exact sort of spot perfect for sinking in and napping a Sunday away, especially with rain streaming down the front windows. As much as I wanted to run over and examine Owen’s book stash, the couch was calling my name after a very long day.
I situated myself in the corner of it. Owen flipped on a small brass lamp behind the couch and opted to sit on the opposite end rather than the chair a distance away. I took a long gulp of wine.
I forced myself not to ask about his beautiful living space, even though housing was a safe topic of conversation in the city. There was simply no elegant way to ask how he could afford it on a pickleball instructor’s salary. But then again, living with Meredith had been a crash course in quiet familial wealth. She didn’t have to come out and tell me that a distant Waxmanhad made a killing in real estate; the second home in Aspen and first-class vacations provided plenty of context.
But then again, he’d told me that his father was a mechanic and his mom was a hairdresser.
“What?” Owen asked me, wearing a bemused smile.
With Owen, nothing went unseen, even something as fleeting as a frown of confusion. I’m sure it was somehow related to his gift for coaching—the ability to notice something as seemingly unimportant as pointer finger placement on a paddle—but it meant that I needed to stay on top of my poker face. He probably knew exactly what I was thinking about, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
“Nothing. Just feeling very mellow.” I drew my legs up and crossed them under my skirt. “Although I think I was back to hypergripping today. My forearm is killing me.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it happens when it’s an important game. We forget our basics. Try this.”
Owen set his wineglass on the marble table in front of the couch and pressed his thumb against the middle of his arm up near his elbow, rubbing in slow circles.
I mimicked what he was doing on my own arm.
“Good, right?” he asked.
“Eh.” I frowned. “I don’t feel anything.”
He tsked disapprovingly and moved down the couch to me, abruptly taking my wrist in one hand and pressing his thumb against my skin with the other before I could even comprehend what he was doing.
His knee wound up just a couple of inches from mine.
“Can you feelthis?”
He smoothed a firm circle against me, and I melted from the unexpected mix of sensations. My arm was sore enough to feelbruised from the abuse of the game, but the way he was massaging it made it hurt in a good way.
“Oh mygod.” I sighed. I had to fight to keep from letting my eyes roll back in my head. “That’s it, right there.”
It was such a tiny, forgotten junction of muscles, but the way Owen was working it made me understand just how crucial it was. He pushed his thumb against the skin in the center of my forearm up by my elbow, then moved it an inch outward, unleashing a completely different painfully delicious sensation.
His hands were dangerous, even on my freaking arm.
“Are youkiddingme?” I let my body sag as he continued massaging. “That is...”
He moved his thumb a quarter inch down and I shivered.
“Let me guess; you also did an intensive massage apprenticeship in Sweden?” I asked.
He let out an appreciative laugh. “Not quite. But I did plenty of time on the rehab and massage table back in my tennis days. I picked up some pointers.”
“Do tell,” I gently encouraged, hoping he’d open up but not stop touching me.
“Can’t. I need to focus on your fucked-up flexor carpi radialis.”
“That’s your official diagnosis, Dr. Miller?” I laughed softly. “Fucked-up?”
“Unfortunately, yes. That’s what happens when you don’t listen to my advice. But I’ll get you all fixed up.”
As usual.
