Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
“Sure, let’s go with that,” I smile. "Let’s… talk about why you’re here. I don’t see that I have any upcoming appointments for you?”
With a casual glance around the shop, taking his time to linger on me, he shrugs. “I would like to talk about the possibility of making an appointment.”
Oh, it is possible.
“Sure thing,” I say as professionally as possible even while trying not to imagine what he’d feel like under my hands. “What do you have in mind?”
Taking a step toward me, he shrugs, as he casually puts his hands in his pockets. Something about him, though – something intense that I can feel, vibrates right beneath his relaxed veneer. There’s absolutely nothing casual about this man. When he leans against the counter, I get a whiff of his scent. Manly. Virile. My female instincts hum in anticipation.
Yes.
I swallow.
“Do you allow walk-in appointments?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “I do. Yes, yes, of course. You want a massage, then.”
Do I seem too eager? Too desperate? Not just for a client, but for this client? I have to reel this back.
My heart does a somersault when he gives me the barest trace of a smile, his eyes crinkling around the edges. Turning to the front of the store, he cranes his neck. “I…didn’t know you offered any other services?”
“I can make you tea or coffee,” I blurt out, and immediately feel my cheeks flush pink. I clear my throat again and bring myself back to professionalism. “We can talk about your goal with a massage. To relieve tension, perhaps?”
I feel the sigh he releases deep in my bones. It’s the sigh of someone who’s bone-tired, world-weary.
God do I know what that’s like.
“Coffee,” he says with a nod. “Please.”
Five minutes later, we’re sitting in the tiny lobby – me, nestling a cup laced with cream and sugar, him, sipping a cup of straight black.
“It’s a slow day,” I say with a laugh, and don’t tell him that every day’s a slow day. “So I have some time. Do you want to talk a little bit about what’s making you tense? It can help to relax you, which means you’ll benefit more fully from the massage.”
I take a sip of my coffee, grateful for something to do.
“Work’s been wearing on me,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his brow. “You know. Home life. Responsibilities. Things like that.”
Home life. I glance as casually as I can toward his left hand laying on the table in front of us.
No ring. Doesn’t mean he’s not married, but…
Does it matter if he’s married? You’re only going to give him a massage.
“I know exactly what you mean about work and home life. This job is only one of mine, a recent side gig. And it seems like the more I dig myself out of what needs to be done, the deeper the ditch can get.”
His chuckle makes my belly swoop. “Exactly. So you do take walk-ins? Because the more I talk to you, the more I’m ready to get that massage.”
A part of me feels guilty for wanting this, for rejoicing that I finally get a little thrill in my life when my husband’s only been gone for a few months. I quickly silence that thought and focus on what’s next.
He was gone long, long before that.
I realize I’m staring at him when he shifts and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I—”
I’ve lost my ability to speak.
I clear my throat and give myself the pep talk Sarah would give me if she were here.
You are not unable to speak. You are not unable to do anything. You’ve built this business from the ground up. You’re raising a child as a single mom and doing a damn good job with it. You’re not taking someone’s sloppy seconds anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I say seriously. “It’s waiting list only.” I gesture at the empty room. “As you can see, we’re booked up all day long.”
“I’ll pay triple what he’s paying,” he says, going right along with my ruse and gesturing at the empty seats. Under his breath, he mutters, “Asshole’s not worth your time anyway.”
A little thrill courses through me at the casual glimpse of roughness, the hint of aggression. Raw masculine energy that makes my nerves tingle.
“Deal,” I say, standing tall and pulling my shoulders back. I slide into my professional persona, where I’m comfortable and in charge of shit. “What kind of massage are you looking for, sir? I can give you a menu.”
A shadow crosses his features so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
This man’s entrance fills the studio with an energy I can't ignore, and a thrill races down my spine. Our eyes meet, and an unspoken connection pulls me in—a force I have to steady myself against.
"I'm Dani," I offer, my voice steady despite the butterflies swirling within.