“Nah.” He chuckles. “I know better than to do that.”
We smile fondly at each other, no doubt both remembering the time I mistakenly dipped a roll in his dish of soy sauce and promptly spat the food right back out when my mouth caught on fire.
“Dig in. I think I remembered all your favourites.” He says it so casually. As if remembering so much of what I like and dislike, after all this time, is normal. But it can’t be, can it? This easy way we’ve fallen back into each other, the deep sense of knowing and comfort that exists. It can’t be normal.
We eat, and soon, all that’s left on the table are empty containers. “I still can’t believe how much food you pack away,” I tease as I stand, picking up our plates and carrying them to the kitchen. “It defies the laws of…of something.”
Kai laughs, following me with the containers that he rinses and puts in a bin to be recycled. “I’d say I’m a growing boy, but that’s a lie.”
We move to the living room and sit down side by side on the couch. For a moment, neither one of us says anything. Then Kai shifts, turning his body to face me and lifting his arm up, I assume to place it along the back of the couch. Only he doesn’t get there before wincing, pain etched across his features.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, leaning forward.
He rotates the shoulder slowly, moving back to face forward. “Nothing bad, I promise. Just a little tight from the last few games. The trainers are taking care of it.”
I chew on my lip, suddenly flooded with worry. It’s his pitching arm that’s hurting, and that’s not a good thing. Not at all.
“Do you want me to massage it?” I ask quietly.
His gaze flashes up to meet mine. “Iz, you don’t have to.”
But I saw the relief in his eyes at my offer. And I’m already moving into place on the back of the couch, behind him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Let me help.”
He watches me for a second longer before giving me a grateful smile. “That would be fucking incredible. You always gave the best massages.”
I snort as he moves into position. “You’re just saying that because it would lead to sex.” I wince as soon as I say it. So much for letting him take the lead. Why did I say that?
“Listen. Those happy endings were awesome and all, but no. Your hands just, I dunno, felt better than anyone else’s.”
It’s a good thing he can’t see my expression, sitting in front of me the way he is. Because I’m certain I’m bright red, and all the emotions I’ve been trying to ignore are likely written across my face.
Instead, I turn my attention to his muscular shoulders. He’s bigger than I remember. Stronger, but still so familiar. As I start to dig my thumbs in, immediately finding the knots that lie beneath his skin, I think about the last time I did this for him. The night before my flight to Italy. He’d just played a game and was exhausted, but insisted on coming over and spending the night so he could drive me to the airport early the next morning.
The shoulder massage definitely had a happy ending that night. More than one, if I remember right.
“Oh damn, Iz,” he groans, dropping his head forward as I smooth my hands over his deltoid. “So good.”
The sounds he makes go straight through me, blazing a path of heat and longing down my spine. The sexual attraction between us is alive and well, and doesn’t give a damn about eight years of pain and heartache.
Heated tension thrums in the air. I won’t make the first move. I can’t. I’m too scared of getting in too deep, and then both ofus being hurt when I leave again. But the pull toward him is undeniable. And irresistible.
“Will you take your shirt off?” I murmur, running my hands down his spine to the hem. He stills, then nods before yanking it off, revealing all that expanse of smooth, pale skin.
“I’ve got some oil in the bathroom,” he says hoarsely.
I don’t want to think about why he has massage oil. About who might have been using it on him instead of me. But it’s as if Kai can read my mind.
“Evie gave it to me for Christmas. It’s got muscle-relaxing essential oils in it. I’ve never opened it.”
“Okay,” I whisper, sliding my hands off his shoulders. He stands up and moves quickly to the bathroom. But on his way back, he comes to a stop in the entry to the living room. He stares at me intently, indecision warring on his face.
When he returns and sits in front of me, wordlessly handing me the bottle and a towel that I drape on my lap, I’m curious but I don’t dare ask what he was debating.
Opening the oil, I pour a small amount into my hands and get back to work.
It’s just a massage, Isabelle. Just. A. Massage.
“Fuck,” he grunts when I hit one particular spot. Then he moans as I feel the knot melt under my touch.
