Drew came back into the living room and clapped his hands once. “Turn over.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“On your stomach.”
“Absolutely not.”
He pointed at my leg. “Hamstring.”
“You cannot just order women onto their stomachs in your living room.”
“I can when they’re injured and pretending the heating pad fixed everything.”
“It helped.”
“It warmed it up. Now I’ll work it out.”
I stared at him. “You’ll what?”
He was already going to a cabinet near the hallway. He came back with a bottle of massage oil.
I looked from the bottle to him.
“Is that baby oil?”
“Massage oil.”
“Why do you own massage oil?”
“I play football.”
“That did not answer my question.”
He set the bottle on the coffee table. “You want your leg to feel better or do you want to interrogate my wellness supplies?”
“Both.”
“Turn over, Texas.”
I should have argued harder.
I did not.
Mostly because my hamstring did hurt.
Also because some reckless part of me wanted to know what Drew’s hands felt like when they were not pulling me against him on a beach.
I turned carefully onto my stomach, folding my arms under my head. His jersey rode up the back of my thighs, and I immediately regretted every life choice that had brought me here.
“Do not make it weird,” I said into the pillow.
Drew made a sound behind me. “Baby, I’m the one trying to be professional.”
“That has never been true.”
The couch dipped as he knelt beside my legs.
The cap of the bottle clicked open.
