“Coming up.”
He sits on a barstool, wincing and rubbing his shoulder.
“Is it hurting again?” I put four sausages under the grill and then gather everything else I’ll need.
“A little. Not as much as yesterday, thanks to you.”
I want to offer him another massage, but that wouldn’t be in the spirit of giving him time to think about the possibility of us. I don’t want to do anything that could be construed as pressure. Hence why I gave him the option to eat a quick bowl of cereal and leave sooner rather than later. He chose the longer option. Is that a good sign?
“At least you’ve got today off. It’ll give you a chance to rest it.” I empty a can of baked beans into a saucepan and put it over a low heat.
“Yes.”
“You might be able to get a last-minute appointment for a proper massage.” I add a bit of oil to one of the frying pans and turn the heat to warm it.
“The one you gave me last night wasn’t a proper massage?”
I laugh. “You know what I mean. Get a massage from an expert. Someone with qualifications.”
“Can you recommend anywhere?”
“You can try the place I had my summer job at, although that was sports massages rather than relaxing ones.”
“Isn’t that what I need?”
“Maybe.” I find the details on my phone and put it on the counter in front of them. “Give them a call.”
He purses his lips, pausing before tapping the number into his phone and pressing Call.
I turn the sausages before adding the bacon to the warmed pan. I concentrate on the sizzling bacon, rather than Flynn’s conversation with the receptioniston the other end of the phone. Even so, it’s impossible not to get the gist.
“They don’t have any appointments until next week,” he said as he disconnected the call.
“Did you book one?”
He shakes his head. “I’m hoping it’ll be better by then, or I’m going to be useless at my job.”
“It’s not all heavy lifting, is it?”
“No. But there’s a lot of repetitive work, especially while milking the cows. It’ll be fine.”
“Take care of yourself, okay?” I stir the beans to avoid looking at him.
“I will.” His voice is soft, almost wistful. His stare makes my skin tingle.
I want to reach across the breakfast bar, pull him close, and kiss him. But I can’t. I promised to give him space. I promised to give him time. But I can’t help thinking this could be the end before we’ve even begun to see what’s possible.
I add oil to the second frying pan and warm it over low heat. The sausages need turning again, as does the bacon. I’m going to make it crispy enough to brown the fat and curl up at the edges, the way Flynn likes it.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” he asks.
“Positive. You could ring around some of the local hotels to see which have spas. They might have an opening for a massage.”
“It’s fine. I’m beginning to think you have an obsession.”
“With what?”
“Massages. Specifically, me having one.”
