← Back
I pushed up on my elbows. “Honestly, I’ll get dressed. I’ll rebook with someone else. No harm done.”
Something flickered across her face. Disappointment, maybe. Then she folded her arms.
“Don’t be silly. You’ve paid, you’re here, and Jenna’s fully booked. I’m a professional, Mark. I do this eight times a day.”
“Right. Of course.”
“So lie down.” She clicked the oil bottle open. “Ground rules. This is a massage. You keep the towel on, I keep my hands where they belong, and we never, ever mention it at Sunday lunch.”
“Deal.”
I lay back down. She started at my shoulders, and the first long stroke was so good I groaned into the face cradle. She went quiet for a second, then kept working.
Professional. Absolutely professional. Except her breathing was a little too careful, and every time she leaned over me I could smell her shampoo, the same one she’d used since she was twenty-two.
She worked down my back, slow and thorough. Her thumbs found the knot I’d been complaining about for a month and dug in until I hissed.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be. That’s the spot.”
“I know where your spots are.” She stopped. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
Silence. Her hands didn’t move for a long beat. I could feel the heat of her palms through the oil, resting low on my back, right at the edge of the towel.
She was nervous. Claire, who is never nervous about anything.