She went still, thinking it over. Then: “I don’t think it would hurt to try.”
My stomach lurched as I reached, careful and slow, my hand hovering before making contact. “Here?”
“Lower.”
A minefield.
A line I wasn’t going to cross—not tonight.
But I slid my hand down just enough, stopping above the curve of her back.
My palm moved in measured circles through the thin fabric of her shirt, pausing now and then to press lightly into the knots along her spine. Each twitch that left her body felt like proof I hadn’t made things worse.
She eased against me, her breath evening out.
“Is it helping?”
“I think so.” Wonder eased the edges of her voice.
“Good.” I watched the towel unravel from her head, curls escaping one by one.
She reached for it, then gasped when another jolt of pain lifted the hair on her arms. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” I eased the towel from her head. Hair spilled into my lap in half-dry spirals. Against my better judgment, I reached for one—twirling it gently around my finger. She went still. So did I. My hand froze where it rested against her.
The show droned on in the background, someone on screen complaining about backsplash choices.
“I hate those cabinets,” she muttered.
“What?” I blinked.
She repeated it. Relaxing again.
“Yeah,” I echoed, pretending I wasn’t dizzy from how warm her hair felt against my hand.
We stayed like that until the clock inched past ten.
“We still have work tomorrow,” she sighed, pulling the moment back to reality.
“Unfortunately.” I looked down at her—hair now dry against my lap, the tension in her spine finally eased. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.” Quick. Certain.
She drew her hair out of my hands, fingers slipping through the soft strands as she straightened. Her face pinched for a moment—bracing for it—but then smoothed.
A genuine smile broke through. “It helped a lot.” Disbelief colored her voice. “I might just hire you as my personal masseuse,” she teased, still running her hands over her skin.
“I’d love that.” The words escaped before I could stop them.
She laughed, tossing her head back, the smooth line of her throat catching the light. “I’m sure you would.” Her eyes were bright with humor.
I sucked in a breath; the hair on my arms prickled at the sound.
I tugged at the fly of my jeans—one last, ridiculous verification that everything was contained and in order—then rose to stand and look down at her. She met me with those big, beautiful eyes, and for a stupid, brilliant second the world narrowed to nothing else.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” I asked, hope bleeding into every word.
“Absolutely.”
