Quinn chuckles. “Hungry?”
“Apparently,” I reply, realizing I skipped lunch to accommodate back-to-back clients.
“I’m your last appointment, right?”
“Yeah,” I assure him. “I’ll grab something to eat after your appointment.”
I don’t know how I finish his massage, but I manage. Between the hunger and the other hunger I’m feeling since I saw him standing in the room in a pair of tight boxer briefs, I do my best to focus on my own breathing. I close my eyes when I can close them or zero in on his tattoos when I need them open. But honestly, I can do a massage with my eyes closed almost from start to finish, not that I would. Sometimes, I need to see their facial expressions to gauge pressure or pain just as much as I rely on the muscles themselves to speak to me.
“All done,” I say softly, stepping back from the table and desperately needing to create space.
“That was amazing,” he mutters, his eyes closed and a soft grin on his lips.
“I’ll step out and give you time to dress. No rush. Be careful getting up from the table. Sometimes you can be a little lightheaded, spacey, or sore.” With that, I exit the room like my ass is on fire.
I lean against the door and take a few deep calming breaths. I’ve spent years around Quinn, but for some reason, today is packing a punch. I can’t seem to stop thinking about him in ways I shouldnotbe thinking about him, which just makes me mad. I’m a damn professional.
The salon is silent now that it’s closed, and thanks to a soundproof room for my business, I don’t hear Quinn moving around. When I signed my lease with Jenn almost seven years ago, we spent extra time and money soundproofing the room so the salon noises couldn’t permeate the space. No one wants to be enjoying a nice, soothing massage and listen to a blow-dryer in the background.
I move to the counter and pull out my phone, ignoring the incoming text messages for now and pulling up my schedule. I’m off on Mondays and usually work afternoons and early evenings the rest of the week. I always try to leave myself breaks, to give my body a chance to rest.
Tuesday’s schedule isn’t too bad. Two afternoon appointments and two evening appointments, all hour-long massages. As it stands now, I’ll have a three-hour break between the two, which will be a good time to make sure I’m caught up on laundry and cleaning, both at the studio and at my condo.
I take a lot of laundry home with me. For every client, there is a fresh bottom sheet, top sheet, and thin blanket. We have a stackable unit in the back here, but I try not to monopolize the machine with as much as I’d need to use it. The main use is fortowels for the salon, and while my lease includes some use of it, I prefer to take home the majority of my laundry each day.
I’m fiddling with my phone when the door opens to my room. Quinn exits, looking relaxed and refreshed. “All good?” I ask, grabbing a small bottle of water and holding it out for him.
“Feeling amazing,” he assures, twisting the top off the bottle and chugging the contents.
“You know all the post-massage instructions, right? I’m sureSelenawent through what to do and not to do?”
He smiles widely. “Your massage therapist jealousy is showing, Charlotte.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m not jealous.”
“No? That’s good, because you couldn’t possibly take care of every client who needs a massage,” he reasons.
It’s annoying.
I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”
“So, dinner?”
His swift change of subject catches me completely off guard. “What?”
Glancing at his watch, he adds, “Well, early dinner. Or late lunch, depending on how you see it.”
My mouth drops open and I seem lost for words, which is wild, because that never happens. I always have something to say. “I’m not going to lunchordinner with you.”
“Why?” he asks. His one-word question speaks of open curiosity. I don’t catch a lick of the argumentative nature we generally embark in, nor an ounce of irritation, which usually follows the argument.
“I—I don’t know, because I’m busy.”
I’m not.
“Doing?”
I huff out a deep breath and cross my arms over my chest. “Laundry,” I state, jutting up my chin.
