"Do you want me to rub your back?" I say it before I can stop myself.
He looks at me for a beat, caught off guard. Then says, "Is that a real offer?"
"Why not?" I shrug, pretending to be casual. "I used to do it after your shifts. Remember?"
His whole face softens with that memory. "Oh yeah. I mean, I'm not saying no to that."
I smile, shift toward him, pull the back of his shirt slightly down, and press my thumbs into his shoulders.
I tell myself it's fine—normal—my hands on him like this. He's exhausted, and massages are what friends do, right?
His head tips back, giving me a better view, and from this angle he's all jawline, that tiny bump on his Italian nose and unbearable perfection.
"Christ," he mutters, his voice instantly wrecked. "You're too good at that."
"Just pressing where you're tight."
And I'm tight everywhere because of you, but we're not saying that, are we?
I dig into a spot and he lets out a pained groan that reverberates through my fingers.
"Damn, jokes aside, you're a mess," I murmur, kneadingharder. "One big knot. You need to do this more often."
His voice is half lulled, like I've found some secret off-switch. "Can you do this for me every day after my shift?"
"Doesn't Lisa rub your back?" The words are out before I can drag them back. Idiot.
His whole body stiffens under my hands and I mutter, "Sorry. Forget I asked."
"No," he says anyway, but nothing else.
"No, as in—" I drawl, running my hand along his neck. "She doesn't?"
"No, she doesn't."
"Oh." It makes me glow a bit, even though it shouldn't.
He tilts his head to the left, exposing the side of his neck, as if asking me to touch there, and I follow along. "No one would do it like you anyway."
That knocks a grin out of me—too wide, too giddy for the moment. "You should pay me for this."
"Gladly. What's your rate?"
"High. Very high."
"I'll give you anything. Within reason. Maybe."
I snort a laugh, and he pulls his shirt up and turns to me. "You still haven't told me how you are."
"I'm good."
His head tilts. "Emma. It's me. I'm not asking for polite answers. How are you, really?"
It's me... I can't even roll my eyes when he says it like that.
"Iamgood," I say with an assertive nod. "Right now, I am. I missed our talks. Like this."
The second I say it, something flickers in his eyes, like the sun finally broke through those dark irises. He faces forward again and says, "Me too," like he's saying it to himself.
