My hand freezes on the handle. That does not sound like a sixty-year-old sports medicine physician. But maybe it’s a trainer. Or an assistant. Or someone who can at least point me in the right direction.
I open the door.
Warm air rolls out, thick with eucalyptus oil and expensive cologne. The door swings open, betraying my attempt at stealth. A massage table dominates the center of the white room—but my eyes lock onto the naked man beside it.
He’s standing next to the table, towel in hand, clearly in the middle of wrapping it around his hips, his back to me. Thank god.
Tanned skin. Broad shoulders. Muscle layered over muscle, like it was sculpted purely for intimidation.
“Oh—” I squeak. “Sorry. Wrong room.”
I step back.
The man turns his head, and the world narrows to two piercing green eyes that pin me in place. Not friendly or safe. The come-here-so-I-can-ruin-you-and-you’ll-thank-me-later kind.
A slow smirk spreads across his angular face.
“About time,” he murmurs, his voice pure gravel and honey. “Didn’t think the team hired new massage therapists, but I’m not complaining. They’re definitely upping their game.”
Heat floods my face. I turn and drop my things on a nearby bench, desperate for something—anything—to look at besides him.
“I’m not… I’m not your… masseuse.”
“Tsk tsk.”
The sound snaps my attention back to him.
Slowly—deliberately—he turns.
The towel isn’t secured.
My brain registers that detail a split second too late.
Gravity does the rest.
The towel slips from his fingers and pools at his feet.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh wow.
He’s big. Obnoxiously big. Confidently big—the kind of big that suggests he’s never once worried about disappointing anyone in bed.
My eyes—traitorous, disloyal things—drop before I can stop them.
And stay there.
I hear a low chuckle.
“Careful,” he says mildly. “If you’re going to stare, at least pretend you didn’t mean to.”
My gaze snaps upward so fast my neck protests with an audible crack. “I wasn’t staring,” I blurt. My voice is three octaves higher than usual.
His eyebrow lifts. One slow, mocking inch. He doesn't even reach for the towel. He just stands there, comfortable in his own skin, while I’m vibrating with enough nervous energy to power the arena's scoreboard. “Sure.”
Heat detonates across my cheeks, down my neck, straight to places that have absolutely no business reacting right now.
