Feels So Right
Isabel Sharpe
“I’m ready.”
Demi went in the therapy room, almost used to the sight of Colin’s incredible physique all laid out for her to touch. Almost.
Candles lit, music on, hands oiled, she started with the sweeping motions that would improve circulation to his muscles. He was so much looser than when they started three weeks before. Unfortunately it was even more of a pleasure to touch him, and stupidly she gave in, allowing herself sensual enjoyment.
For some reason, as she worked, instead of loosening, his body stayed tight; his breathing picked up.
“You’re not relaxing.”
“I’m … a little uncomfortable.” His voice was low.
“How can I help?”
“I could tell you exactly how.” His tone was humorous. “But I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t like the idea.”
Demi’s hands stilled. Oh. He was aroused.
Because she was touching him? No, no, he could be enjoying her massage and fantasizing about anyone. Except, this was the first time she’d been so flustered.
And so tempted …
Dear Reader,
It’s always bittersweet when a miniseries ends. I get so fond of the characters, and even though I take care to send each couple off into the world’s most romantic sunset, I do miss them. The Friends with Benefits quintet were particular favorites.
Feels So Right is physical therapist Demi Anderson’s story. She was a bit of a mystery in the first two books (Just One Kiss and Light Me Up) and it was great fun for me to explore her more deeply. Having been a painfully shy kid myself, I know how hard it is to navigate certain social situations, even as an outwardly confident adult.
In injured Ironman triathlete Colin Russo, Demi finds a personal and professional challenge—like how to keep her hands off him when it’s her job to touch him everywhere!—but he also helps her feel comfortable in her own skin. True love should always bring out one’s better self.
I hope you have enjoyed this miniseries!
Cheers,
Isabel Sharpe
www.IsabelSharpe.com
About the Author
ISABEL SHARPE was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work to stay home with her firstborn son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than twenty novels for Mills & Boon—along with another son—Isabel is more than happy with her choice these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.isabelsharpe.com.
Feels So Right
Isabel Sharpe
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Dad, who would have read this one, too
1
ARGH, THE PHONE. Wasn’t that always the way? After a long day at her physical-therapy practice, followed by a good hard run and a quick dinner, Demi was just settling in for a short relax-break with her knitting and an audiobook of a suspense novel. Her business line had been quiet for hours, but of course the second her butt hit her overstuffed, supercomfortable chair …
Local caller. She didn’t recognize the number. “Demi Anderson.”
“Yeah, hi.” A deep male voice, familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “This is Colin Russo. You treated me back in August.”
Demi sat up straight, heart accelerating. Well, well. The cranky triathlete was back. After a few sessions for ruptured disc pain, and her confirmation of his doctor’s bad news that he wouldn’t be competing in any more Ironman triathlons, Colin had exploded with anger and frustration, and stalked out of her studio in search of a practitioner who’d tell him what he wanted to hear.
Yeah, good luck with that.
“Hi, Colin. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see you.”
“Sure. Let me look at my schedule.” She pulled up her calendar, wondering what had made him come back. Elite athletes took the longest to accept new limitations. If Colin had changed his attitude she could do him some good. Otherwise …
“On Thursday I have—”
“Anything sooner?” He was speaking in a clipped manner that suggested he was either angry or hurting. Probably both.
“You’re in pain.” She made sure she spoke matter-of-factly. Sympathy didn’t go over well with these types.
“Yup.” The syllable was abrupt.
“How about …” She ran over the next day’s schedule. Busy, but she could give up her lunch hour. “Noon tomorrow?”
“Good.”
“Okay, see you then.” She hung up the phone and sat for a few quiet seconds, annoyed at the way her pulse was still racing, then jumped up and crossed to her window. She looked out at the street below, Olive Way where it intersected with Broadway in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. A few cars, headlights on. Not much traffic for a Monday evening. Maple leaves turning color, a light rain typical for October.
Colin Russo.
He’d been a challenge on multiple levels. Demi worked with and treated many athletes, had seen plenty of people hurting, plenty upset at having to confront lifestyle changes after an injury. Like other professionals in the medical field, she had to balance appropriate levels of caring and involvement with enough distance to keep clients’ problems from taking her over. Colin had so bravely tried not to show his physical or emotional pain that his rage had touched her, though she’d been taken aback by the suddenness and intensity of the blowout. Humans who felt helpless often turned fear into anger.
Then there was that other problem, one Demi didn’t like admitting. She’d found herself reacting physically to touching Colin’s body, was too aware of his smooth skin, his remarkable athletic build, his masculine aftershave-and-soap smell. Found herself reacting emotionally to the way he betrayed discomfort only by tightness around his mouth or the occasional quicker-than-most breath. To the sleep-deprivation circles under his eyes, the low, sad set of his brows.
Demi prided herself on treating not only the injured part, but the whole person. Part of her job with Colin, as it had been with so many others, was to make him understand that injury didn’t mean the end of his life. Eventually he would be able to compete in triathlons again—though substantially shorter ones. He’d be able to work, marry, have kids—all things vital to being human. This was a message she’d had to deliver many times to many people. She’d just never before pictured herself doing it with her body curled around the client to comfort him.
Part of her had been relieved when Colin disappeared. With any luck when she saw him this time, the unwelcome feelings would have disappeared, too. Luckily painful childhood shyness had made hiding herself second nature. Colin would never know she considered him hot enough to boil water.
A glance at her watch told her a meeting of the five Come to Your Senses building residents started soon. She just had time to call her friend and former client, Wesley, for his inevitable told-you-so. After Colin’s dramatic exit in early September, Wesley had predicted with absolute certainty that he’d be back. Demi had been equally sure pride wouldn’t let him return. The stakes had been the usual: coffee or a beer at their favorite café, Joe Bar on Roy Street.
She dialed, grinning. “Hey, Wesley. Good news for you. Colin Russo just called. Wants to come in tomorrow. You win.”
“Ha!” Wesley’s voice was jubilant. Demi had won the last two bets: whether a mom at Angela’s bakery downstairs, where they were having coffee, would give in to her screaming toddler and buy him a cupcake—she didn’t—and whether Wesley’s ex-girlfriend would wear black to a mutual friend’s wedding—she had. “I knew I’d win this one. He wasn’t going to find hands like yours anywhere else.”
“I don’t know about that.” She felt herself blushing and was very glad Wesley wasn’t in the room. Something about Colin …
“Did he say why he was coming back?”
“Just that he was in pain and needed to see me. Must have been bad. He sounded as if he were talking through his teeth.”
“Furious he had to crawl back to you.”
“Could be.” She immediately had to banish an image of Colin, shirtless, on his knees … “I can’t talk long, got a Come to Your Senses meeting in a few. Just wanted to let you gloat.”
“I’m gloating, I’m gloating. When do I get my drink at Joe Bar?”
“Whenever you want it.” Like all introverts, she was protective of her alone time, but she always made the effort to see Wesley, a former marathoner. His running career had ended with a car accident—much worse than Colin’s fall from his bike—and head injury that ensured he’d never run again, though he credited Demi with helping him relearn how to walk. For a brief time, maybe two weeks after his therapy ended, they’d tried dating, but it had never felt right and they’d happily gone back to being friends.
“What’s tomorrow, Tuesday?” he asked. “I have a date. How about Wednesday?”
“Wednesday’s fine. You seeing Cathy again?”
“Yup. See if she can fall in love with a guy who shuffles instead of walks.”
Demi grimaced in sympathy. Wesley had been remarkably free of self-pity during his recovery, but it must be agony as a former athlete to walk as if he’d just learned how. Which he had in a way. “If she can’t handle a good shuffle, she doesn’t deserve you.”
“You’re a good person, Demi. Remind me why we’re not dating?”
“I think it was the lack of desperate need to jump each other.”
“Oh, right. That. We’re not quite old enough to settle for peaceful companionship, huh.”
Demi snorted. “I’m never going to be that old.”
Wesley burst out laughing. “That’s my sex fiend. Okay, go meet with your business partners. And don’t let that Bonnie woman get to you.”
“I promise.” Demi grinned. Wesley was always watching out for her. Whoever he landed would be one lucky woman. She hoped Cathy had brains enough to see that. “Bonnie isn’t terrible, she just doesn’t know what to make of me. The woman is totally out there, and I’m totally in here.”
“No excuse. She gives you any more trouble, let me know.”
“See you Wednesday.” She disconnected the call, put aside her knitting—a short-sleeved cotton sweater in an easy zigzag pattern for spring—and went in search of her shoes, which she found in her room, one on the floor, one on the bed where she’d kicked them off.
Ready. Sighing, she exited her second-floor apartment and headed down the hall. Bonnie had painted the walls with twining rose vines and, for Jack and Seth, who’d been disgusted by the girlie touch, a line of tanks along the baseboard. At the end of the hall was the apartment the five of them shared as a common area, though Demi didn’t spend much time there.
Jack, Seth, Angela and Bonnie had been four of the original five University of Washington alumni who bought and renovated the building, naming it Come to Your Senses when they realized their five businesses represented the five senses. On the first floor was Angela’s bakery, A Taste for All Pleasures. Across from that, Bonnie’s flower shop, Bonnie Blooms, smelling wonderful. Farther down the hall, Jack Shea represented sight with his photography studio, and Demi’s physical-therapy practice was all about touch. She’d bought the space from Caroline, one of the original five investors, who’d moved out of town to get married. Upstairs, Seth Blackstone—representing sound—lived and composed music in the largest of the apartments.
The other four residents were already seated in the spacious living room, drinking soda and/or beer from the refrigerator they all chipped in to keep stocked. Likewise they’d each donated old or unwanted chairs and tables to furnish the place. Feeling out of place and nervous as she always did around her building-mates, Demi grabbed a Sprite from the refrigerator and plunked down on the room’s newest and ugliest piece, a black-and-white, futuristic leather love seat she’d gotten from one of her sister Carrie’s I’m-bored-with-my-furniture remodeling fits.
Seth, Jack, Angela and Bonnie had been close friends for six years; they shared a boatload of history, in-jokes, stories—it was hard not to feel like an intruder. Given that Demi’s shyness made her feel like an intruder in pretty much every social situation anyway, this one was particularly difficult. Angela had been sweet to her, as had Jack and occasionally Seth. Bonnie would be the toughest to melt, but Demi hadn’t given up yet.
“Hey, Demi, how’s it going?”
“Fine.” She nodded stiffly at Angela; the chestnut-haired beauty was sitting on the beaten-up rocker in the corner of the room. The question always made Demi feel she should come up with thrilling new daily developments. The truth was, her life was pretty simple and pretty fulfilling—except in the romance department. It just didn’t make good press.
Jack grinned at her from his signature overstuffed wreck of a chair. He’d always been friendly, but was much more relaxed and outgoing since he met and fell in love with a woman named Melissa. He’d been photographing her without her knowledge at Cal Anderson Park for weeks before she walked into his shop, saw pictures of herself and freaked out. Happily, he’d quickly gained her trust and eventually her heart. “How’s things in the physical-therapy world?”
“Okay. Thanks.” She felt herself blushing, hating the stilted way she spoke, hating the awkwardness that had risen inside her since she was a child, which made the easy banter others took for granted so impossible for her. Once she was comfortable with people, once she trusted them, she was fine. But with Bonnie all but rolling her eyes at Demi’s presence in the room, she couldn’t unbend enough to sound like a normal person. Which of course made Bonnie’s scorn worse. “People keep getting hurt. Keep needing me.”
“Have you seen that gorgeous guy again?” Angela was all ears. “If he’s been around lately I’ve missed him.”
“Colin?” Demi felt a funny jolt of adrenaline. How weird that Angela would bring him up today. “I’m seeing him at noon tomorrow.”
“Ooh!” Angela waggled her eyebrows. “Bonnie, we’re going to have to line up in the hallway and watch this one go by.”
“I have to take a rain check.” Bonnie shook her head regretfully, glancing at Seth, who sat next to her on the old green couch. “I have a lunch date tomorrow.”
“Yeah? What’s this one? Garbage man? Prison guard?” Seth tried to look casually interested, but was clearly wary, or at least it seemed that way to Demi. Seth and Bonnie—some romantic history there, Demi was sure of it. Sparks and intimacy flew between them, and whenever they were together they were either fighting or laughing, never indifferent. But with Bonnie signed up on Seattledates.com, they must be on the outs.
“His name is Don.” Bonnie lifted her chin, smoothing folds of her bright, outrageously patterned top. “He’s a lawyer.”
“A lawyer.” Jack rolled his eyes. “That’ll be fascinating conversation.”
“Maybe he’ll show you his briefs,” Seth added.
“Oh, that is just the most clever line I’ve ever heard a million times.” Bonnie sighed.
“Yeah, it was lame.” Seth hoisted himself off the couch, stretching his over-six-foot lean frame. “I must need another beer. You want anything, Bon?”
“No. Thanks, Seth.” Bonnie glanced tenderly at his back; she was clearly capable of deep loyalty and affection—just not for Demi.
“Good luck, Bonnie,” Jack said. “You certainly deserve a normal experience.”
“No kidding.” She rolled her green eyes. “It’s been one disaster after another.”
A snort from Seth, who was at the refrigerator. “Anyone else need anything?”
“No, thanks.” Angela opened a folder on her lap. “But I have an idea I want to share with you guys. Actually Melissa got me thinking about it.”
“Uh-oh.” Jack’s dark eyes turned warm. He was totally hot anyway, and looked even hotter when he thought about Melissa. Demi wouldn’t mind some guy turning liquid on her behalf. She’d had one long-term boyfriend in college, one a few years after, then some casual dating but nothing for a while. At twenty-eight, she was starting to wonder about settling down, having babies, the whole deal. Too bad she couldn’t just snap her fingers and find the perfect mate. That’s what her older brother and sister had done, once again demonstrating their ability to sail effortlessly through life. She had no idea how they did it. Everything she accomplished seemed to require superhuman effort.
“Last summer Melissa had that idea about making Come to Your Senses a one-stop bridal-pampering place, remember?”
“I loved the idea.” Bonnie nodded enthusiastically. “Flowers from me, cake or pastry from Angela, a portrait by Jack and music from Seth, our very own YouTube sensation.”
And …? Demi sat silent, not able to tell if the omission was deliberate, unsure whether pointing it out would make things better or worse.
“And a massage from Demi,” Angela prompted gently.
“Right.” Bonnie thwacked her forehead. “Sorry, Demi. I forgot you.”
“’S’okay.” Demi kept her eyes down. The closest she and Bonnie had gotten to friendliness was when Angela and Bonnie bumped into her on their way to go dancing one evening last summer and had dragged her along. It had been one of the most fun nights Demi’d had in a while. She loved to dance. That night alcohol and circumstances had made Bonnie actually pleasant, a start Demi had hoped they could build on afterward.
Not so much.
“So, anyway.” Angela broke the awkward silence. “I was thinking we could take the same package idea, but have it available as a holiday special from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day. We can charge a flat rate and sell certificates people can buy for themselves or as a gift. What do you think?”
“Wow. I love that idea!” Bonnie grinned, eyes alight, and looked at Seth and Jack for their reactions.
“Same here,” Jack said. “Get us new business and reward our existing customers. Win-win.”
“I was talking with Daniel about it last night as a wedding package and whining that we’d missed the summer bridal rush and then it came to me … the holidays!”
“I love the idea, Angela.” Demi smiled at her. She looked so amazingly happy these days. Last spring she’d fallen for a guy who’d come into her bakery for white cupcakes to commemorate his late fiancée’s birthday. Angela had sneaked in a chocolate cupcake to cheer Daniel up, and ended up doing a lot more than that. On her right hand she wore his diamond promise ring. “It’s brilliant.”
“I’ve got the perfect jingle.” Seth got a faraway look in his narrow gray eyes, then cleared his throat and started a jazzy tune. “Spend holiday money on your sweetest honey. The cash you’ve paid will ensure you get lai—”
“Stop!” Angela and Bonnie yelled at the same time, then tried to restrain their giggles.
“What? What did I do?” Seth dropped his innocent look for a grin and squeezed Bonnie’s shoulder. “Okay, maybe it needs work.”
“We should plan this out.” Angela started counting on her fingers. “Make posters, work on a jingle for a radio spot—G-rated, thank you, Seth. I also think it’s time to bite the bullet and come up with a communal website. Right now we each have our own. What do you think?”
There was general assent, lots of joking, lots of constructive brainstorming and thorough planning. Demi was, as always, impressed by the quartet she’d signed on with. They worked hard and had all done well, though she wasn’t sure about Bonnie, who always went oddly quiet when the others discussed their good fortune. She’d also dropped quite a bit of weight in the last six months or so and never seemed terribly busy in her shop. Demi hoped she was just angsting about her romantic life. Maybe she’d fall in love with a nice rich guy. Demi’s sister had done that. Boy had she. And didn’t let anyone forget it for more than twenty seconds.
The meeting broke up; Demi left the four of them still chatting. She was tired, anxious to get to bed, a little flustered at the idea of seeing Colin again the next day. Often she’d dream about whatever she concentrated on at night, powerful dreams that affected her the whole next day. Tonight before she went to bed, she’d imagine him toothless with bugs crawling all over him. That way she might be able to turn him into an object of disgust.
Yeah, and if that worked, she’d try walking on water next.
Half an hour later, she was snuggled in bed, listening to the October rain tap on the window, concentrating on Colin, not the way he was, but the way she wanted to dream about him.
Big brown eyes—make those piggy, puffy red ones. His fabulous male scent—now eau de skunky hangover. His rare smile—brown and broken. His build—flabtastic. Plaid pants, platform shoes. Flowered shirt unbuttoned to his waist.
Gold chains …
She gave a huge yawn and nestled deeper under the covers, smiling faintly.
Long, greasy hair.
Another yawn. Take that, Colin …
Morning already? Couldn’t be. Somehow Demi was in her office suite without getting out of bed. Her waiting room, normally a cool, refreshing blue-green color, had been repainted violet with rainbows and pictures of clowns. She glanced at her watch, not the gold one she’d bought for herself, but pink glowing plastic with a picture of Barbie on it. Noon! Colin was about to show up.
A knock on the door. She tried to say, “Come in,” but couldn’t make a sound. The door opened. Colin! Except he was about four foot five, wearing a clown costume—white with huge red dots and yellow ruffles, floppy black shoes, giant red nose.
This must be her dream. Perfect.
Lie down, she told him without sound. I’ll work on you.
“Sure.” His voice emerged without problem, deep, resonant, very sexy. Oops, she’d forgotten to change that to an appropriately girlie squeak.
You can keep your clown suit on.
“No.” He moved his hands to the back of his suit.
She tried to say yes, but couldn’t make herself understood, and frowned at him instead, frantically gesturing that he should stop.
Wait, was he growing taller? He was, no! Taller than she was, up to his real height, just over six feet.
Bad clown, bad.
The silly suit melted off. Instead of proper clown underwear, he was wearing boxer briefs that molded to a decidedly not flabby body. The violet walls changed to trees, and suddenly Demi and Colin were lying in a meadow on a blanket, picnic basket nearby, holding glasses of champagne.
Uh-oh.
Then the champagne was gone and he was kissing her tenderly, his body warm and solid against the length of hers … which no longer had any clothes on it. And his briefs were gone, too.
Oh, no.
His mouth tasted hers languidly—upper lip, bottom lip, this corner, that. Then he pulled back and gazed at her from under his brows, causing her blood to race, her body to arch toward his.
Oh, yes.
He rolled over her, the width of his shoulders making her feel protected, surrounded. She felt him hard between her legs, opened hers wide to welcome him inside.
Then he was pushing into her, filling, stretching, setting her nerve endings on fire. She clasped him around the back, lifted her knees high and wide to bring him in deeper.
He said her name over and over, increasing the pressure and pace until she was gasping, reaching for her climax, reaching, reaching, feeling it start to grow, to burn through—
“Demi, I love you.”
Say what?
Demi Woke With a jerk, staring with wide eyes up at the ceiling, breath coming fast, body still hot with arousal. Instinctively, her hand went between her legs, and then she stopped herself.
No.
There was no way she could get herself off right now. Because if she did, she’d be imagining Colin making her completely crazy with lust, and when he showed up for real in—she blinked at the clock—six hours, there would be no way she could look him in the eye. And no way she could put her hands on his back and think of anything but the way she’d clasped that same back while he was hot and hard inside her.
Bad, bad clown.
COLIN WOKE WITH a jerk, staring with wide eyes up at his ceiling, breath coming fast.
A dream. Damn it all to hell. He’d been on the last leg of the Ironman World Championship triathlon in Hawaii. He’d already sailed through the two-point-four-mile swim, powered through the one-hundred-twelve-mile bike ride and was approaching the finish line after the twenty-six-mile marathon barely out of breath, legs still strong, in first place by a hundred feet.
What a high. What a feeling. His body ultrafit, lean and strong. All those hours, all those years of training, coming down to this one explosive sprint to victory that would make him world champion. Just him, on top of the field, the dense crowd at the finish line already cheering for him. Stephanie was there, too, long blond hair swept back in a ponytail, blue eyes glowing, beaming with pride. Her man was number one and she was crazy about him.
Then he’d woken up, not on a triumphant path to victory, but in bed, back muscles contorting in agony, pain shooting down his right leg.
From king of fitness to short-term disability after falling off his bike like a six-year-old just learning to ride.
They said he was done. They said his back was too messed up ever to be able to ride long hours bent over his handlebars. They said disc injuries like his could be controlled but not healed.
Bull. Maybe some people could hear “no” and accept it, but Colin wasn’t one of them. “No” just meant he’d have to work harder, train harder. Fine by him. He was no stranger to hard work.
But he shouldn’t have tried to get back to training so soon. Demi had been right, damn it. He’d left her in exasperation last summer, disgusted that an athlete of his caliber should be doing exercises a couch potato could do without effort. Infuriated by her insistence he’d have to cut his recovery expectations to a more “realistic” level. Frustrated that she didn’t understand why his level of fitness couldn’t be compromised, not now, not this year, not when he had so much to accomplish. So he’d left. Tried another therapist, then another, both of whom had babied him even worse than Demi had. Finally he’d decided he could manage his own damn recovery. Who knew his body better than he did?
Pain shot through him, and he tried like hell to breathe through it, not to tense into the spasms, which made them worse.
Yeah, guess what, managing his own recovery had been a bad idea. Everything sounded like a bad idea these days. Including going back to see Demi.
Because there was another reason he’d left her. By the last of—what was it, three, four appointments? maybe five?—he’d spent the entire session desperately trying to keep from having an erection. He had no idea what she did to him, but it was hell. Demi couldn’t hold a candle to his ex-girlfriend Stephanie’s fresh California-girl beauty. Demi was dark; he preferred blondes. And she was withdrawn, where he liked a woman with spirit. She was decently attractive, but not beautiful, with wide eyes and a faint cleft in her chin. She had style and grace to burn, and she exuded peace that both stirred and soothed him.
And her hands …
Not going to think about that. The only thing on his mind in her studio today would be multiplication tables and baseball statistics. Unless the crazy attraction had run its course and he’d react more normally this time. That would be good.
He waited for the attack of pain to subside, then drew one knee up slowly toward his chest to stretch, barely able to get it halfway. His flexibility was crap. He couldn’t work. Couldn’t train.
This sucked.
Yeah, he was being a big poor-me baby, so sue him. He had good reason.
His cell rang. The act of twisting his head to locate his phone on the bedside table caused another spasm, this time in his neck and upper back.
Thirty-four years old and he was falling apart.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he picked up the phone. Nick. His erstwhile training partner, and the other half of the collision that had pitched Colin off his bike. Nick had skinned his knees. Not that Colin would ever wish this injury on anyone else, but sometimes life was damn unfair.
He took a deep breath, willing his voice to sound normal. “Hey, man.”
“How’s it going?”
“Not bad.” He didn’t dare use long sentences in case he had to break off and groan in agony.
“John and I are going to run some hills. Wondered if you’d like to meet up for lunch after.”
Yeah, he’d love to. Sit there, the sad cripple, while they exulted in how well their training was going.
“Can’t today. Got an appointment.”
“Yeah? You back at work?”
“Nah. Physical therapy.”
“Dude, you’re doing that again?”
“Yup.” He didn’t feel like explaining.
“Okay. So, uh …” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You heard from Stephanie lately?”
“Nope.” This conversation was not making him feel any better. His girlfriend of four years had gotten sick of his bad attitude and his misery and dumped him on his ass, ironically just as he was seriously considering giving her what she wanted: a proposal.
Stephanie was a marathoner and they’d done a lot of training together. Colin should have noticed how hard it was on her that he was suffering, but he’d been a selfish jerk for quite a few months now. He figured it was only a matter of time before Stephanie came back to him. No doubt in his mind that he could make things right when she cooled off. She loved him. He loved her. They liked the same things, shared friends—at least they had before the breakup. What more did they need? Maybe the relationship had gotten a little stale, but the initial excitement never lasted. He needed to settle down if he wanted kids, which he did, and Stephanie would make a good mom and a solid partner.
One thing at a time. “Have a good lunch, Nick. Maybe I’ll be up for it next time.”
“Sure. Sure.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t holding his breath. “Nice talking to you.”
“Same.” No, it hadn’t been nice for Nick. It wasn’t nice for anyone to talk to Colin lately. His mom had told him he needed to see a shrink. Dad, predictably, told him to suck it up and be a man.
Yeah, well, he’d never been the kind of man Dad wanted him to be, so why start now?
He closed his eyes, smiling grimly. His level of cranky misery was even disgusting him.
After a few more careful stretches he’d loosened his muscles to the point where he could just manage to get out of bed. A stunning victory, one that lifted his spirits at least a little. The visit to Demi, if she could help him, would do more of the same.
For the past decade Colin’s pursuit of physical power and endurance had dominated his life. He’d been something of a missionary about the miracle of fitness, becoming a personal trainer to help others find the same high of good health and solid self-esteem he’d been able to achieve through working his body.
Now what he could reclaim of his old life rested in the talented hands of a woman he’d sworn never to cross paths with again.
2
DEMI GLANCED AT the clock on the wall of her office, embarrassed to be so jittery. Two more minutes until Colin arrived. Stay cool, girlfriend. He was just another client, a man in pain, one of the many she’d treated, one she’d be able to help. For today she’d ignore her whole-client philosophy and concentrate on seeing his body as a collection of muscles, tendons and bones. There would be time for worrying about his brain later—if he stuck with the therapy.
Mysterious, this upset to her system. Demi knew what kind of guy attracted her, and the überjock was definitely not it. Besides, Colin had a serious girlfriend. Sharon or Tiffany or something. A marathoner. Not that he’d look at a woman like Demi twice anyway, especially after she’d pissed him off so badly last time by gently trying to get him to face the truth about his recovery—or lack thereof.
Another glance at the clock. One more minute. Would he be out in her waiting area already? Her studio space, originally a two-bedroom apartment, had been renovated into a waiting room, office, one small room for examination and massage and a larger one for exercising, with a gym mat, treadmill, stationary bike, and the free weights, balls and other tools of her trade.
The minute hand of the clock joined the hour hand at twelve. She gave up her rather lame attempt at updating her previous client’s file and stood. Ready, set, go. Reminding herself of Colin’s anger and poorly hidden contempt at their last meeting, she lifted her chin and opened the door to the waiting room.
Her body went on an immediate adrenaline fizz.
Yeah, he was there. And he was still gorgeous.
At least she’d prepared herself. The first time she’d opened this same door to him back in August, she’d been so flustered by the intensity of his brown eyes and the sheer beautiful size and shape of him, she’d blushed, dropped her gaze and mumbled like a complete geekazoid.
“Colin, hi, come on in.” She smiled and gestured toward her massage room, this time blushless, in control and professional.
He nodded and stood slowly, hitches in the motion indicating muscles lashing out at him.
“Uh-oh.” Demi’s smile faded when she saw what the movement cost him. “You don’t look so good. Bad pain?”
“It’s—” His response was cut short by what must have been a killer spasm. “Not the greatest.”
Translation for a normal human: nearly unbearable. When it came to pain, elite athletes spoke a different language.
“I’ll work on that today—should be able to give you some relief.” She followed him into the small room where she did her massages. Decorwise, she’d worked to achieve a balance between clinical and luxurious. Half examining room, half spa, with softer lighting than one would expect from a medical office, and nice touches like fresh flowers courtesy of Bonnie Blooms, a CD player for music and a light scent she sprayed on the bedding, floral for women, spice for men. “You know the routine. As many clothes off as you’re comfortable with, under the sheet on your stomach. If you need help getting on the table, yell and I’ll come in.”
“Right.”
She smiled and left the room, waiting outside the door, knowing he wouldn’t call even if he was in agony. Honestly. What an ego. Risking serious injury to avoid asking for help? Crazy. But he wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. She’d gotten used to people’s peculiarities. Women who hated being touched, men who liked it way too much …
“Ready,” he called. Sooner than she’d expected.
She waited three beats and went in. Colin lay with the sheet down to his waist, shoulders as broad as the table, looking like a sexual invitation—or he would if his body wasn’t stiff with pain. She eased a cushion under his hips to relieve pressure on his back, opened her heated cabinet and took out a blanket, pulled the sheet up to his neck and draped the warm cover over him. She was glad to hide him from view while she collected herself, cranky that this difficult man provoked such a strong reaction and that she couldn’t seem to control it.
Heading for the hand sanitizer she abruptly rechanneled her brain when she found herself wondering how much Colin was still wearing under the sheet. “How have you been?”
“Fabulous,” he growled.
Ah. Still Mr. Sunshine. Okay, then. She’d stick with his physical problems today, give him some relief and worry about the rest of him another time if he gave her that chance. “Can you describe your pain? Any particular location?”
“Down my right leg. Neck. Shoulders. Back.”
“Doesn’t leave much, does it.” She suppressed a very tempting told-you-so and turned on her CD player, which filled the room with a bland but relaxing tune she’d heard so many times it barely registered. “The leg pain is from nerves pinched by the disc bulging in your spine. The rest is sympathetic reaction from other muscles, which—”
“I know where the pain comes from.”
Grrr. Demi sent him a poisoned glance he couldn’t see. Lovely, lovely man. Just as well. If he had an appealing personality to go with those looks and that body, he’d be much too dangerous to have around. Not fair for one person to have that much going for him, anyway. “I’ll see what I can do today about loosening you up.”
“That would be good.” His voice was softer.
Well. Not exactly charming, but better. Demi pulled her bottle of peppermint-scented oil from its warming stand and poured some onto her hands, concentrating on the familiar routine. “I’ll start with a light massage, then we’ll go deeper. You let me know when it’s too much.”
As if he would. She could probably light matches and stick them under his fingernails and he’d pretend not to notice.
“Okay.” His voice was strained now.
Hands oiled, she had no further excuse to avoid touching him.
So.
This was about his back. Just a back. She’d seen many beautiful backs before, athletic and otherwise. This was nothing different.
Demi laid her hands on him gently, started light sweeping motions following the muscles, encouraging blood flow and warmth, forcing her mind to register only the muscular system beneath her fingers. Trapezius. Latissimus dorsi. Deltoid. Teres major and minor.
So far so good, but she was keeping her movements brisk and mechanical, something she generally avoided. Slow stroking did a lot to bring comfort and pleasure to people in pain. Colin was a client like any other, and Demi wanted to bring him that pleasure.
Uh. She should not have phrased it that way.
Lips determinedly tight, she slowed her movements, traced his muscles more sensually. Colin needed as much TLC as anyone, maybe more, since the macho guys seldom knew they needed it and even fewer knew how to ask for it.
Her fingers relaxed into the slow pace of the music. She dipped them again in the peppermint-scented oil and moved up into his neck, appalled at the tension. This guy was suffering.
Back and neck warmed up, she moved downward to his gluteal muscles, blocking out the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything but skin under the sheet, blocking out any picture in her brain but those suitable for an anatomy class, because otherwise her thoughts would go down an entirely different path.
They did anyway. Colin let out a groan of pleasure, and Demi had the absurd urge to lean down and press her lips to the small of his back, let her hair sweep over his—
For heaven’s sake.
Gluteus maximus. Largest of the butt muscles, supporting the pelvis, vital in maintaining an erect—
Torso, Demi. Torso.
Moving on, probably sooner than she should have, she swept over the long muscles in the backs of his thighs, the biceps femoris. He seemed to be lying easier now, already more relaxed.
“Better?” She moved up toward his back again. “I’m going to go deeper now, put strong pressure on the spasming muscles. It won’t feel good while I’m doing it, but you’ll heal faster in the long run.”
“I can take it.”
Demi rolled her eyes. Of course he could. She could drop an anvil on his head and he’d insist it was a mild bruise. Guys like him reminded her of the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, one of Wesley’s favorite movies, in which a battling knight with amputated limbs insisted he was suffering only a flesh wound.
The next part would be a lot easier on her nerves. Neuromuscular therapy was substantially less sensual than the stroking involved in Swedish, and she had hard work to do, going for the most problematic muscles with fingers, fist or elbow, holding strong pressure until they relaxed and gave. Slowly, carefully, she worked on him, finding the process deeply satisfying. Time flew, and she managed to keep her thoughts strictly G-rated.
Well … maybe PG. One PG-13 when she was working on his butt the second time.
“Okay.” She trailed light fingers over his back, then laid a firm hand between his shoulder blades before she lifted it off. Done. It was over. She’d survived. “You’ll be sore tomorrow, maybe the next day, but after that you should start feeling looser.”
He lifted his head, turned it experimentally, pushed cautiously up onto his elbows. She covered his body immediately with the sheet and blanket. “Feels better already.”
“Good.” Ooh, he’d said nearly a whole sentence. “We’ll do this again, then get you to where you can start on some exercises.”
“Gee, really?” He rolled cautiously onto his side. “Ten whole minutes on a stationary bike? Two or three sets of leg lifts?”
Grrr. “Gotta start somewhere, Colin.”
“I know, I know.” He lowered his head back down to the table. “Sorry.”
The word came out as if it hurt worse than his back, but it did come out, and made him human enough for Demi to experience a quick pang of empathy. “In the shape you’re in, you’ll come back fast, Colin. Sprint triathlons are a sure thing, I’m betting within the year.”
He grunted and managed to sit up, keeping the sheet safely tucked around his lower half.
Unfortunately, this gave her a superb view of his impressive chest. She spun around and busied herself arranging the scent bottles on her counter, which were already neatly arranged. Sprint triathlons were a hell of a comedown for someone hoping to qualify for the Ironman World Championship. A quarter-mile swim, twelve-to-fifteen-mile bike ride and three-mile run. He could do that in his sleep.
“I know. Doesn’t seem much of a challenge. But it’s better than being out of the circuit entirely.”
“Whatever.”
Demi should have known better. Colin was still grieving hard over his loss; he wasn’t ready to see any of the positives yet.
“You should be able to whip a couple of old ladies your first time out.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. You think I’m just trying to build your hopes up, but I’m not kidding.”
Astoundingly, she heard the beginning of a chuckle. “Don’t even talk to me.”
Demi handed him a bottle of cold water, grinning. “Come into my office when you’re dressed.”
“Right.”
She left the room and strode into her office, congratulating herself. Excellent job, Demi Anderson. A whole hour and she hadn’t once sexually harassed him. A fine day’s work. She should call Wesley or her friend Julie and go out for a celebratory drink. Guess what? I had Colin Russo in my office and didn’t grab his crotch! Yay!
She giggled, imagining their faces, and wrote some notes on Colin’s chart, not that she was liable to forget their session by the next appointment—if he came back.
In pain. Uncommunicative. Hotter than a blast furnace. Identifies self strongly as triathlete. Must work on emotional acceptance of injury and its fallout as well as standard treatment for L4-L5 disc rupture.
Okay, she didn’t really write the part about the blast furnace.
“I’m here.”
She looked up, still refusing to blush, and gestured Colin into the chair set in front of her desk, wishing she’d thought to move it back several feet. But at least being behind the desk gave her a feeling of safety and authority. “You’re moving easier.”
“I feel better.” He sat without as much effort as he’d used to stand, and rested his hands easily on his thighs. Demi felt as if the walls of her office had closed in a foot at least.
“You’ll want to be on anti-inflammatories the next couple of days.”
“Okay.” He held her gaze steadily, as if he expected something from her. Demi opened his file, picked up a pen, took off the cap, wrote, What the heck is he thinking? in her most professional scrawl, then put the pen down.
“Colin, maybe we should talk about why you left. Why you came back. What you want from me and this treatment and how you feel about both.”
“My feelings?” He looked disgusted. “This is physical therapy, right?”
Grrr. Demi needed to set boundaries right now or this would never end. Taking her sweet time responding, she leaned back in her chair and pretended to study his file. “You probably didn’t know this, but I’m a betting woman.”
“And …”
“And I bet I can tell you exactly how much your parents enjoyed your teenage years.”
His silence made her wonder if she’d pushed too far, if they were about to embark on Colin Russo Tantrum, Part II. But when she glanced up again, he was looking amused for the first time. The expression changed his whole demeanor, got rid of the grouchy-brows and downturned mouth, relaxed his forehead and eyes. And made him even better looking, less sulky and more vibrantly male. She could only begin to imagine his magnetism when he was operating at one hundred percent. “I was hell on wheels.”
“Not surprised.”
“I still am, I know that. This is not easy.”
“I am not suggesting it is, or that it should be.”
“But I don’t need to beat you up with it?”
She shrugged. “I think I could do you more good without that, yes.”
“Okay.”
Demi raised her eyebrows. “It’s that easy? I say ‘please play nice’ and you do?”
“I tried doing this my way, and figured out when I could barely get out of bed this morning for the fifth time this month that my way doesn’t work. My body isn’t behaving the way it has for the past thirty-four years. The rules have changed. I have to get to know a new person but it’s still me.”
“It won’t always be this bad. But yes, it’s tough for athletes. You have such intimate knowledge of bodies—your bodies.” Oh, geez. Did she have to phrase it that way? He looked mildly surprised, still amused, his deep brown eyes intently focused on her. Demi was so flustered she had to look back down at his file. “Now that has changed, you’ll have to form a different kind of intimate … relationship.”
Stop. Just stop right now. Except he wasn’t saying anything and she couldn’t stand silence.
“I know you can do it.” She closed his file, folded her hands on top of it and determinedly met his eyes again—then wished she hadn’t when she found them full of mischief. Her brain mushed on her. “Your discipline is already there. It’s just a change. You won’t be able to stay training … to keep so hard anymore. Hard on yourself.”
Okay, her face was officially on fire. All pretense at cool was gone.
“I give up.” She lifted her hands, let them smack down on her desk. “You’re hurting but it will get better. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
He was chuckling for real now, his face relaxing further. “I think it was funnier when you were telling me I’d have trouble staying hard again.”
“No, no.” She shook her head, hands up and out. “That is not my expertise. If you’d like me to help with your pain and the management of your injury, I can. But only if you are realistic about what we can accomplish and how far you can come back. That’s going to be much more difficult than the rest of it.”
His expression turned grim again. “So I’m discovering.”
“Now.” Demi composed herself, relieved they were back on familiar ground. “You’re a personal trainer and health-club manager.”
“Was.” His jaw set again. “Will be again.”
“You enjoy it?”
“When I can do it, yeah.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “The first thing we need to focus on is getting you out of this rut of only thinking about things you can’t do. To all my clients I preach the gospel trinity. Positive thinking, can-do attitudes and silver linings. These are the only ways your life can become better after a big change like this.”
“Right.”
She expected the cynical reaction. “Any hobbies?”
“Swimming, biking and running.”
“Uh-huh.” Somehow she kept from gritting her teeth. “Anything you did before you took up triathlons? Something you’d enjoy rediscovering?”
His eyes lit for a brief moment before he could resolutely shut down into misery again. Aha. There was something. Good thing, because he definitely needed a jump start back into feeling productive.
“I used to play alto sax.” He laughed without humor and shrugged. “I was pretty bad.”
“Doesn’t matter. If you still have the instrument, bring it by in a week or so when you’re standing easier. What else?”
His eyes narrowed. “Bring it here?”
She returned his gaze calmly. Was he going to fight her on everything? “How much does an alto sax weigh, about ten pounds?”
“Not quite.”
“Heavy enough. I want to watch you play to make sure you’re handling the instrument in a way that isn’t going to sabotage your progress. What else?”
His expression grew darker; clearly he thought her questions a waste of time. She had to remind herself to focus on that glimmer of mischief and good humor that had transformed him. She wanted to bring that man back, healed, whole and happy. Because if he stayed like this, she was going to have to medicate herself to be anywhere near him.
“I used to have another hobby.”
“Yes …?”
“I made knives.”
“Knives.” She wasn’t sure what to think about that. “Tell me more.”
“More?” He shrugged. “I made knives.”
Grrr. Just talk to me. “What kind?”
“Kitchen, hunting, whatever.”
“You make them from scratch? Blade and everything?”
“Everything.” A glint of pride. “Handle, blade … yes.”
“How cool.” She let the silence go a few seconds. “Why did you stop?”
“Ran out of time.”
“Would you say making knives brought you some of the same satisfaction as—”
“Here we go again.” He sent her a mocking look. “Is this physical therapy or—”
“Okay, okay.” She waved his question away. “My point is—”
“That my life isn’t over. I have plenty to live for, and though it might seem bleak right now it’s always darkest before the dawn and the world is my oyster.”
“Colin.” She looked at him disapprovingly. “You forgot every cloud has a silver lining and when God closes a door He opens a window.”
He actually grinned at that, making him even more irresistible. “I guess I did.”
“All joking aside, positive thinking, can-do attitudes and looking for silver linings are the tenets my practice is built on, so you can expect to hear about them until you’re ready to scream. When do you want to come back?” She pulled her calendar up on her iPhone before he could make fun of her again. “Next week I’ve got Wednesday open at two o’clock.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Good.” She stood. “We’ll make progress. Just please don’t push between now and then. Once the pain is gone, and I mean gone, not bearable, you can ride your bike ten or fifteen minutes, easy, sitting up straight. If that goes well, we’ll increase. Also, once the pain is gone, do a few, just a few, core exercises to keep those muscles from deteriorating too far. We need them strong to keep the pressure off your spine.”
“Right.”
“No cheating. No superhuman stuff. Baby steps at the beginning until the swelling is down.”
“Right.” He walked to the door, obviously in a hurry to escape her lecture, which, perversely, made her talk faster.
“Heat if you’re stiff. Ice if the pain seems new.”
“Right.”
“Colin.” Instead of kicking him in the gluteals, which she wanted to do, she gave him an encouraging smile, trying for supportive counselor and trusted medical adviser. “You’re going to be okay. Better than okay. You’re going to—”
“Right.” He opened her door and took off down the hall, still walking stiffly but looser than when he came in.
Demi strode back into her office, closed the door and slumped against it. Colin was going to be tough. She wanted to heal him and let him see enough progress that he could shake off his despair. He needed self-motivation and spirit to do the hard work of fighting back to his new normal. She hoped she could be enough coach, inspiration and taskmaster to help him—while keeping herself and her goofy crush under control.
Every part of her hoped that Colin’s recovery was smooth and quick. For his sake and hers.
Because if it wasn’t, there was a good chance one of them would lose it.
3
“HEY, BONNIE, how’s it going?”
Bonnie turned from a bucket of irises she was arranging in her shop, Bonnie Blooms, and grinned at Seth. He looked devastatingly handsome as usual in jeans and a gray shirt that matched his eyes. He could have been a model if he hadn’t wanted to be a musician. “Hey, there.”
Nothing in the world gave her as much pleasure as being able to greet Seth without feeling wistful and lovesick. Five years ago they’d broken up, after one year of dating in college that ended when Bonnie got serious and Seth got itchy. Since then, especially once they’d both moved into the Come to Your Senses building, they’d been dancing a painful and cautious circles-around-each-other minuet that had ended last August when Bonnie had finally, finally signed up for Seattledates.com.
Not only that, but now, a month and a half later, after many disasters, some comical, some cringe-worthy, most just bland, she’d finally, finally had a good date. A really good date. Extremely fun, in fact, with Don Stemper. She’d dated a few guys in the five years since she and Seth broke up, but this was the first time she had her head together and could give a new relationship one hundred percent.
“What’s happening?”
She glanced pointedly at the flowers in her hands. “I’m arranging irises. What’s happening with you?”
“I’m standing here talking to you.”
“Ha-ha.” She cut off an inch from one stem and replaced the bloom in water. Her shop was full of buckets of various flowers set at different levels, to give the shopper the impression that he or she had just walked into a carefully landscaped garden or an outdoor flower market. Bonnie was incredibly pleased with the effect. Unfortunately shoppers hadn’t exactly been showing up in droves. Wedding season, in full tilt over the summer, had tided her over, brought some of her debt under control, and she was almost current on her payments, but business had slowed again, and she was in no shape to ride out bad times.
The one downside of her life right now, which she didn’t like thinking about.
“You seen that guy again?” Seth spoke so ultracasually she knew immediately whom he meant.
“Don?”
“Yeah, whoever.” He was practically growling, eyes stormy, his short, dark hair even more disheveled than usual, as if he’d been yanking on it all morning while composing his songs—a sure sign he was upset.
Bonnie wished she could feel vindictive and triumphant at the switch—for a change, she was moving on and he was left behind. Instead, she felt tender and guilty. Guilty? Ha! As if! She had nothing to feel guilty about. Seth had ended their relationship, not her. He was the one with the issues. If he was still in love with her and wanted her, he knew how to get her back. With a big fat until-death-do-us-part commitment. Bonnie would trust nothing less. But he’d shown no signs of wanting anything more than to get all stressed out about her decision to date, though to his credit, he’d done nothing to dissuade her and seemed to understand and support her decision.
They’d had one good nostalgic tumble in August, a strangely freeing experience that had been, in effect, a goodbye.
Mmm. A damn good nostalgic tumble. She’d been bent over the arm of the couch with her legs hooked around his back and he’d been—
Oof. Better not to think about that.
“Remember Matti?”
“Matti?” Of course she did. One of those unbearably gorgeous “friends” Seth kept coming up with. This one he’d bumped into in a bar, which apparently in his world constituted friendship. Matti had been interested in renting space in Bonnie’s shop to sell perfume, which would have been incredibly helpful to Bonnie’s bottom line. She’d agreed to consider it after Seth assured her he wasn’t out for Matti’s “bottom line” himself. “Nope, never heard of her.”
“The perfume lady.”
“Ohhh.” Bonnie repositioned a group of alstroemeria in its bucket, pretending to be only half listening. For too long she’d hung on to Seth’s every word, eagerly looking for any possible sign that he was weakening, that he realized how special their relationship was, that he wanted to take it to the next level. In the past six months, he’d seemed to be making snail’s-pace progress, but she had been hurt too many times to trust any of it. “Yes, I remember now. What’s happening with her?”
“She decided not to rent space in your shop. Sorry about that.”
Bonnie rolled her eyes. “Given that it’s been over a month since you mentioned her, I’m not exactly shocked.”
“Not a month.” He looked stunned. “Has it been? I thought it was—Wait …”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Someone’s had his brain immersed in his music.”
“I guess.” He pulled a pink rose out of a nearby bucket and handed it to her. “For you.”
“Awww, thanks, Seth.” She made a big show of rolling her eyes, cursing her traitor heart for beating the tiniest bit faster when he handed her the flower.
“I was thinking …”
She snorted. “Don’t strain anything.”
“I have the perfect Christmas present for you.”
Bonnie stiffened. Oh, no. He was not going to start with this seduction crap again, was he? Not that it mattered. She had Don to think about now, to fantasize about, to talk to and confide in. His profile had said he was looking for marriage, right there in black and white, and wow, men could do that? In every way he was better for her than Seth Blackstone, no matter the size of Seth’s … trust fund.
“That idea Angela had, about the Come to Your Senses holiday promotional? I can pay your share of the group advertising.” He shrugged. “No wrapping or ribbon, but I thought you might like that.”
She put the pink rose back into its bucket, incredibly touched, and yes, feeling guilty for assuming Seth had been about to bribe her with some expensive gift. Instead, he was trying to help out, knowing she struggled to keep up with expenses others could take on without blinking. “Seth. That is so sweet. But I can’t let you—”
“Hey, this is a present.” He gave her a severe look, which made him so fiercely sexy she wanted to attack him. But, being newly-in-control Bonnie, she didn’t. “Very rude to turn it down.”
“How about a loan?”
“How about a gift?”
“How about half of the cost?”
“How about all of the cost?” He put a finger to her lips as she was about to speak again. She tried very hard not to shiver, and nearly succeeded. “Look, Bonnie, I have unfair amounts of money, you’re struggling right now, this would make me happy, and it would make it possible for you to be part of the Come to Your Senses special, which you should be because it makes brilliant business sense. So stuff the pride down your pants and say, ‘Seth, you utterly astounding man, I bow to your mind-blowing brilliance and accept.’”
Bonnie bit her lip, thinking it over. If the group did a lot of advertising, which they should, the costs would probably add up to the total of what she had in her savings account. A loan would help. An outright gift would help even more. Seth had offered financial assistance several times and she’d always turned him down, but she did desperately want to be part of the event. “How about a simple thank-you?”
“Hmm.” He pretended to consider. “So a blow job is out of the question?”
“Seth!” She cracked up, knowing he was kidding, pushing away the image of that incredibly sexy look he got on his face when she—”It is most definitely out of the question.”
“Okay, okay.” He grinned, which turned him instantly from bad boy to farm boy, a transition that never stopped amazing her. “I’m glad you’ll let me help.”
“I’m really grateful, Seth. You know I am.”
“Yeah …” He dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck, which meant he had something emotionally risky or otherwise difficult to say. “So you seeing that Don guy again?”
“I am.” Sadness started building in her chest just when she most wanted to feel happy. She turned away, moved to a bucket of gerbera daisies, unable to face him. “We’re going out to dinner tonight.”
“That’s fast. Didn’t you just have a first date with him?”
“Fast?” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You and I were in bed within a week.”
“Geez, Bon.” His voice was tight. “You’re going to sleep with him?”
Bonnie’s throat cramped. Ironic that she so hated causing him pain, since he’d caused her so damn much so many times.
“Seth.” She turned to find he’d come up behind her much closer than she expected. With buckets at her back, she couldn’t move away, had to tip her head to meet his gray eyes, which showed a flash of entirely uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I am a grown woman who has met a man I really like. If I continue to really like him then yes. Sleeping together is a natural progression.”
The second the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. No, not quite regretted. She’d spoken the truth. But this was Seth. A man she cared for … had cared for very, very much. And the way his beautiful tough-guy eyes had just gone dead and his strong jaw had turned to stone, she knew she was hurting him. But since, in his typically caveman way, he was having trouble accepting the idea of Bonnie with someone else, she might as well be blunt, even if it seemed cruel.
And frankly, she’d spent the better part of the past nearly two years since moving into this building watching Seth parade around with one stunning woman after another, so she couldn’t say she was totally dying of sympathy. Maybe now he’d start cluing into what her life had been like so many times after he left her. Not that she’d ever want to be vindictive about this. Just pay him back a little. Which was different. Sort of.
“I was wondering.” He had his hands in his pockets and was looking down at her with that magnetic gaze that used to regularly set her on fire. “If you wanted to have dinner sometime. Maybe Friday? Either out or at my place?”
She gaped at him, heat flooding her face. Never in the five years since they’d broken up had he ever issued an advance invitation like this, as if he was asking her on a formal date. In fact, not even while they were dating. Their plans were always made last-minute. Hey, let’s do this, let’s do that, here’s what I feel like, how about you?
“Wow. Seth, that is really sweet. And you are the world’s greatest cook. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why?” He put his hands on his hips, which seemed to broaden his chest, make his proximity even more intimate. “Did you and Don agree not to see other people?”
“No, no.” She laughed nervously. “A little too soon for that.”
“So you’re open to dating other men?”
“Well, yes, but, Seth—”
“Am I not a man?” He glanced down at his pants suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure I qualify.”
Did he ever. “Seth, come on. It’s different with you and me.”
“How about if it wasn’t?”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
He took a deep breath, clearly struggling. “How about if we erased everything and started over? You and me. A first date.”
She narrowed her eyes. What was this about? He’d told her a couple of months ago that he was starting therapy, to learn why he was resisting her. Had his invitation evolved from that process?
“I’m sorry, Seth, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“You afraid?” His eyebrow quirked; he was already gaining confidence, knowing how much she hated that particular taunt.
“Of you?” She threw out a loud and unconvincing “Ha!”
“Prove it. Have dinner with me.” He was too close, the pull of his body undeniable. “Upstairs, my place, Friday night.”
He was right. She was afraid. Terribly afraid. Afraid of falling for him again. Afraid of being hurt. She’d come such a long way, had worked so hard to be at peace around him. No way was she going back to vulnerability and pain. He and his therapist might like the idea of starting over, but you couldn’t chuck as much baggage as they had just by wanting to.
“Sorry, can’t.”
“You mean won’t?”
Bonnie nodded brusquely, lump the size of Cleveland in her throat, wanting to have dinner with him, hating that she did and that he was making her choose yet again. “Won’t.”
“I was planning to make shepherd’s pie. With chocolate hazelnut cheesecake for dessert.”
She glared at him. “You like to fight dirty.”
“Seven o’clock?”
“I’m not coming.”
“Think about it.”
She rolled her eyes. When he got like this, he wouldn’t let go. Probably because he sensed her hesitation, sensed her slight weakness. Seth knew her way, way too well, and having grown up extremely wealthy, he was used to getting what he wanted. Though his parents had skimped on the things that really mattered, like love and attention. “I won’t change my mind.”
She saw the triumph in his eyes. He thought he had her.
If he was talking about the chocolate hazelnut cheesecake, he might be right as far as her appetite went. The rest of her? He couldn’t have that. She was keeping that safe. Safe for a new man and for herself.
TEARS RAN DOWN Demi’s cheeks, which she bravely ignored. She and Wesley were sitting at her kitchen table shoveling in mouthfuls of the incendiary Noodles from Hell from their favorite Thai restaurant. They both adored and suffered through the dish, though they considered it a badge of honor not to wince or admit to the chili-induced agony. Demi had bought Wesley his drink at Joe Bar, and they’d come back here for dinner and dessert, in the mood for some edible torture.
“So tell me something.” Demi cheated just a little by pushing aside a particularly large chunk of red bird’s-eye chili pepper. Big difference between brave and suicidal. “Why is it that men are considered strong if they don’t show emotion? Who decided that was masculine?”
“Hmm.” Wesley stifled a gasp and poured half a beer down his throat. “If I had to answer that …”
“Which you do because I asked.”
“I’d say because children have no control over emotions and women have less control than men. Women and children are weak and need protecting—” He held up his hand to stop Demi’s outrage. “Calm down, I’m speaking biologically.”
“Okay …” She grudgingly let him continue.
“So in order to be least like women and children—in other words, the most masculine—men have to be strong and emotionless.”
“Doesn’t that seem stupid to you?”
“Extremely.” He ate another mouthful, chewing cautiously. “If it was up to me, we’d change it. But for some reason it isn’t.”
Demi frowned at him, thinking he looked better and stronger every time she saw him. “We need to put you in charge, Wesley. Of the globe. Would you mind?”
His blue eyes went wide. “Could I still have ice cream?”
“Absolutely.” She took a sip of beer and pushed her plate away, tired of her dinner giving her first-degree burns. “How did you escape the Culture of Macho?”
“I wouldn’t say I escaped.” He rubbed a hand thoughtfully through his thick, dark hair. “Though I did cry during one of our appointments.”
“I remember.” She reached to squeeze his hand. “Nearly broke my heart.”
“Softie.”
“Me? I’m hard as nails. But we were talking about you.”
“As we should be.” He smiled his easy, dynamite smile. “I had three sisters, for one. And my dad was emotional. He was also crazy about my mom and we got to see that. He cried when he was really sad, and acted as if that was completely normal.”
“Which it is.”
“He helped around the house in nontraditional ways, too.”
“My dad didn’t do squat. My sister-in-law is finding out what that’s like, too, since my brother takes after him.” She gestured to Wesley with her beer. “Your wife will be one lucky woman.”
“So will your husband.” He laughed at the sight of her startled face. “Scared you, huh.”
“Husband? Husband?” She clutched at her chest. “I’m too young. Husbands are for grown-ups.”
“In some cultures twenty-eight would make you a hopeless spinster.”
“I’d make a good one.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Demi.” His dark-lashed eyes took on a warmth that made her blush. “Too much passion in you to waste on sexual aids.”
“Oh, geez.” She made a hideous face, hiding giggles.
“So …” He spoke so casually she went on instant alert. “Demi …”
“Wesley …?”
“What brought up all this talk about the Culture of Macho and marriage?” He put a long finger to his cheek and tipped his head. “Could it have anything to do with yesterday’s visit by Colin ‘Ironman’ Russo?”
“Of course it does. Well, no, not the marriage part.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “But the guy can barely move. I worked really deeply on him and he does this whole stoic statue thing. It just seems stupid he couldn’t yell, ‘Ow, that effing hurts!’”
Wesley looked at her skeptically. “Would you do that in a professional office?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “That’s partly my point, too. It’s ridiculous for anyone to hide normal feelings of pain.”
“Your studio would get kind of noisy.”
“At times.” She twisted her mouth, pushing her unused knife back and forth on the tablecloth. “Truth is, I’m not sure what to do about him.”
“Jump him?”
She wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. “He’s not only hurting in his body.”
“I’m not surprised.” Wesley drained his beer, his handsome face shadowed. “Tough journey out of that pain.”
“He wasn’t hurt nearly as badly as you were, but like you his athletic career meant everything to him.”
“He just thinks it does.”
“Yes, he just thinks it does. That’s my point. You found coaching. I’m not sure what he’ll do.” She swirled more pasta onto her fork, mouth craving another shot of pain. “I wonder if he should meet you and hear about—”
“Ha!” Wesley was already shaking his head. “Hear about my sad story? So you can say hey, guess what? Instead of being a world champion triathlete, you could be a suburban high-school track coach. He’s not ready for that.”
“He might be.”
Wesley gave her a look.
“At some point he might be,” Demi said.
“Then at some point I’d be happy to.”
“He’ll get there. I just need to make sure I don’t push him too hard.” She laughed. “I mean emotionally. I don’t think I can push him too hard physically. He’d work until both legs dropped off and barely notice.”
“Exercise addicts are like that.”
“Exactly.” Demi stood and carried their plates to her sink, surprised at how rattled she felt by this discussion. “Want some ice cream?”
“Is there any answer possible besides yes?”
“Nope.” She opened the freezer. “Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond?”
Wesley groaned. “Do you know what it’s like having to cut back from a three-thousand-calorie diet?”
“Nope.” She pried the top off the carton. “One scoop or two?”
“Two.” He sighed resignedly and patted his flat stomach. “Already gained ten pounds, what’s a couple more?”
“Yeah, but you were down way low from running, Wesley. You look great.” She tried not to compare his lean, slender frame to the broad torso and hard muscles of her triathlete obsession. She should picture Colin hugely obese.
That didn’t work, either.
“What does this god among men do besides work out?”
Demi served him a glare along with his ice cream and a spoon. “He used to play sax and he made knives from scratch before he became a triathlon junkie. Maybe he can go back to that.”
Wesley’s silence made her look up from scooping her own ice cream. He was staring at her, shaking his head. “Strange.”
“What is?”
“I don’t ever remember you talking about a client so much.”
Blush. Inevitable. Unwelcome. Grrr. “He’s an interesting case.”
“Uh … ruptured disc? Dime a dozen.”
“No, but I mean …” What did she mean? She sat down and lost herself in her first bite of Häagen-Dazs heaven instead of trying to figure it out.
“What else could be unusual?” He pretended to count on his fingers. “Had to give up an athletic career, I think you’ve seen that before. Trouble adjusting to new reality of his body, ditto …”
“Yes. I know, but—”
“Me?” He put his counting fingers away and dived into his dessert again. “I think you’re hot for this guy.”
“No. No way. No. That is ridiculous. Completely—” She broke off, wrinkling her nose. “I’m objecting too much, aren’t I.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Okay, okay.” She licked her spoon and heaped up another bite, making sure it had plenty of chocolate-covered almonds in it. “He’s hot. So what?”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Do? I’m going to help his pain, teach him how to manage the injury, try to show him that his life isn’t over and wish him well. What did you think?”
“I don’t know, ask him out?”
“A client? Don’t think so.”
“We went out.”
“You asked me. After we finished working together.”
“Make his treatment short, then ask him out. Or I know.” He brightened. “Send him to a friend. What about whatsername, Julie, who you used to—”
“He came to me, I’m his physical therapist and I will treat him.”
“Ooh.” Wesley narrowed his eyes. “Mighty possessive, aren’t we.”
“Professional. Why are you so anxious to foist me off on this poor man?”
He reached across the table and ruffled her hair, chuckling. “Because I know you well enough to know that the more you like a guy—if the way you acted with me was any indication—the colder and more professional you become. So he probably has no idea that you’re leaving drool spots on his blanket.”
“Am not.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Okay, that one was a mistake.”
Wesley cracked up. “Okay, okay. But I’m right. So think about it.”
“Yes, master.” He was right about the way she acted around guys she was attracted to. In high school, for four long years she’d been passionately in puppy love with Brad Johnston. Time after time she’d been in situations where she could have gotten to know him. School paper. School plays. Social-activity committee meetings. But the more she adored him, the less she spoke to him. So guess what, they never went out. Someday she was going to run across him, grab him and plant on him that kiss she’d fantasized about every night. The guy would have no idea what had happened. He probably didn’t even remember her.
However, in this case, her shyness was a good thing. If Colin caught wind of her attraction he could cause unpleasantness that would damage her professional reputation.
“In any case, I’m mostly interested in helping him.”
“I know. That’s what I love about you.” Wesley let his spoon fall back into his bowl and heaved himself out of the chair, something he couldn’t have done that well even six months earlier. “I should go. This was fabulous, thanks. Need help with the dishes?”
“Nah. They all go in the dishwasher.”
She gave him a hug, congratulated him again on his successful second date with Cathy the previous evening and sent him shuffling off. His balance was much improved from when she’d started working with him two years earlier, but his gait was still not the graceful stride he must have had before the accident. She hoped Cathy fell madly in love with him. Hell, she wished she could have fallen madly in love with him. But Demi too often seemed to go for men who wouldn’t look twice at her. Sometimes she thought she was sabotaging herself. Other times she figured it was because she essentially made herself invisible around the guys she wanted.
Love and relationships were so confusing, sometimes she wished she didn’t want either one.
She carried the ice-cream bowls to the sink, rinsed and stuck all the dishes in the dishwasher, then curled up in her favorite recliner with her knitting and the audiobook she’d been making piss-poor progress on in the past few days ready to play on her iPod. Great story about a guy who thought he—
Phone.
She sighed and put down her knitting. She looked at the display and sighed again, louder. Carrie, her sister. Demi wasn’t in the mood. But if she didn’t answer now, Carrie would call back and leave increasingly hysterical messages about how she was starting to picture Demi lying dead in her apartment. Carrie never used to be that neurotic, but in the past few months she’d gotten more clingy and more intensely … herself.
“Hi, Carrie.”
“Hey, little sister. How’s everything?”
“Good.” She braced herself. Of course she’d have to ask the question back, only her sister wouldn’t be able to answer in one syllable. She’d need at least a hundred. And all her “problems” would be these amazingly impressive ones that made Demi feel like cow poo. “How about you?”
“Crazy, crazy busy. Dan got another promotion, which means he’s traveling nearly the entire week every week, and keeps missing the kids’ school stuff. Rachel got the lead in their second-grade play, and Boris started the Suzuki violin program at his preschool. I’m actually busy selling houses, which I can’t believe, considering how strange the market has been.”
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