Page 14

CHAPTER 14

MONROE

I slowly shift around my massage table, getting another pump of lotion as I instruct my client to breathe deeply.

“Okay, let it out,” I say softly while gliding my hands over her back, triple-checking that the two knots I spent thirty minutes on have finally broken. “Good,” I say, happy with where her muscles now stand.

I move, carefully shifting the sheet to properly hide my client's body as I tell her to turn over, moving on to the last portion of our session where I'll focus on her neck and head.

“And it's like so crazy,” my client continues as if there's been no pause in our conversation while I've been working on her. “Just pick a flavor, that's all I'm asking him to do, but it's like him coming with me to the cake shop is the same as trying to get him to make a decision on a venue.”

One of my regular off-season clients, Lana, is a delightful woman my age, and recently engaged. Our last four sessions have focused on easing tension that is clearly being caused by stress. Like many of my other clients, she uses the opportunity to treat me sort of like a bartender—unloading grievances and stresses that she likely doesn't even realize she's confessing to.

It sort of comes with the territory of my job, releasing physical tension can be a trigger for the emotional as well. I move her long black hair out of the way, working my fingers into the tense muscles in her neck.

“At least you two have finally set a date.” I do my best to focus on the positive.

I walk a fine line with my profession—I can be a healer for their body, but I don't have a degree in psychology, so I don't presume to have the answers about the emotional stuff. The best I can do is give them an ear to listen and encouragement that’s healthy yet professional.

“You are so right,” she says, eyes closed, a deep sigh falling from her lips as I move to the base of her skull. “In the beginning, it was hard for him to set a date, so maybe it's the same thing with all these other decisions. Maybe I'm putting too much pressure on the wedding itself. But I can't help it, I'm excited. I've been dreaming about this moment since I was a little girl. You get where I’m coming from, right?”

I take a moment, focusing more on the tense muscles in the base of her skull than I need to. This is one of those fine lines.

“I'm afraid I'm not super helpful in this subject,” I say, choosing to go with honesty.

Lana opens her eyes, looking up at me. “Wait. You're telling me you didn't dream about your wedding day when you were a little girl?”

I furrow my brow, continuing my work. “Not really,” I say. “Maybe when I was young enough to not understand what my mom's profession was.”

“That's right,” she says, recognition dawning in her eyes before she closes them again. “I remember you telling me about her. She's a powerhouse right? Like the best divorce lawyer in the country or something?”

I chuckle, nodding even though her eyes are closed. “One of them,” I answer, working my way higher up her head.

“I guess I get why you wouldn't be dreaming about your wedding then,” she says. “You probably heard all kinds of wild stories growing up.”

“I have,” I admit. “Once I was old enough, I asked questions about my mom’s cases. She never lied to me about them and it sort of made me look at marriage in a different way. Which is not to say it's bad,” I hurry to continue. “I think it's more like I've seen behind the curtain a little too much. The reality of it made me view marriage in a different way. And it's all quite ironic, since my parents have been happily married for like a billion years.”

Lana chuckles softly, sighing again as I run my fingers through her hair, working on her temples in soothing circles. “That's encouraging,” she says. “I mean that your mom can see so many marriages falling apart and still believe in her own. It must be true love.”

I nod again. “She’s one of the most dedicated believers in love that I know, actually. I think something about seeing so many divorces has given her almost like a master's degree in reverse engineering the situation. But either way, that's why I'm not too helpful on this subject.”

“I get that,” she says. “I know I ramble about this a lot. Trust me, when our wedding is far behind us, I'm sure I'll have a lot more random things to talk to you about. I swear there's some kind of magic in your hands that has me spilling every intrusive thought I have to you.”

I laugh. “You're not alone,” I assure her and not for the first time. “There's a deep intrinsic connection between muscle tension and emotional tension. Trust me, your secrets are safe.”

“I love you,” she says as we wrap up our session and I head toward my door to give her privacy to get dressed. “Seriously, maybe I should just ask you to marry me instead of John.”

“You would be my third proposal of the day,” I laugh from where my hand lingers on the doorknob. “Also another side effect of the trade.”

Lana laughs from where she still lays on my table. “Have you accepted any of them yet? I'm sure you’d help me pick a cake flavor.”

I laugh again. “No, I haven't. And yes, I would. I'm going to go get you some water, take your time getting dressed.”

I head down the stairs, giving her the privacy she needs while walking into the kitchen and wash my hands. I grab one of the water bottles I stock in the fridge for my clients, before setting it on the counter.

I wait patiently for Lana, thoughts spiraling to our conversation throughout the entire session. It's been all about preparations for the wedding and how excited she is about the dress and the flowers and the food and the people she's going to invite.

I know she loves John. I’ve worked on them both in previous off-seasons, but she barely mentioned him today unless she was complaining about something he didn't do for the wedding. I can see how it would be an overwhelming situation, with the amount of planning and careful decisions it takes to throw an event such as that.

And love is something I believe should be celebrated, but I hate that I can’t offer her any more advice than I did, especially because I view the institution of marriage as something between a prison sentence and a bomb just waiting to be detonated. I know that sounds ridiculous with how happy my parents are, but I’ve watched my mom with so many different clients who looked completely broken during their divorces. People who looked like shells, purple under their eyes and tear tracks on their cheeks. People who’d once been like Lana, eagerly planning a wedding only for it to be ripped away from them later.

Why risk that?

Why risk getting hurt so deeply when the odds aren’t in your favor to begin with?

I can’t stop my thoughts from spinning right to Paxton, putting him in the situation that Lana brought up earlier.

I can see it clearly in my mind, knowing he'd be right there with me if we were at a cake tasting or a wine tasting or venue hunting. We'd laugh and joke and tease each other just like we normally did. In fact, I don't think there’s one thing I could do with Paxton where I wouldn't have a blast.

That thought spins right into another image, one of me in a white dress and him in a nice tux, diamond and gold bands between us?—

“You are a goddess,” Lana says, shaking me from my thoughts as she meets me in the kitchen. “Seriously, I feel better than I have in weeks.” She takes the water bottle, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. “Same time in three weeks?” she asks after swallowing the mouthfuls.

“Actually, I'm going to have to bump you up to two weeks. After that, the official season will start and I won't be able to work on private clients until the off-season again.”

“Wow, is it already time to play again?” she asks, shaking her head. “I didn't realize.”

“And just think, after this season you'll be a married woman.” I smile at her.

Lana practically glows. “That’s something to look forward to. You'll have to forgive me when I ask you to call me Mrs. Anderson for our first few sessions.”

We both laugh at that. “I’ll be happy to,” I say as she heads toward the front door. I hold it open for her. “Make sure you drink plenty of water tonight,” I say as she steps through it.

She shakes the half-drunk water bottle at me. “Yes, ma'am,” she says smiling and waving at me as she walks to her car.

I shut the door behind her, making my way back up to my room to wash my sheets and restock my lotions, all the while doing my best to ignore that image that’s planted in my brain before she came downstairs.

The one of Paxton and me and forever stretching out before us.

The idea no longer terrifies me as much as it used to. In fact, it seems downright appealing, this warmth in my heart a constant welcoming feeling.

But how can I be so sure? We've only been exploring this new avenue between us for a little over six weeks. What if my inherent opposition to serious relationships and marriage somehow ruins what's between us? What if everything I thought I believed about relationships is wrong? What if I don't figure out my shit in time and end up losing my best friend?

What if I simply stopped lying to myself and be honest about the way I’ve felt about Paxton for far longer than I’ve ever admitted?

What if I be honest with him?

What if…

I'm really starting to hate those two words?—

Paxton walks through the door, effectively stopping my spiral. He’s freshly showered, looking incredible in his post-practice sweats and T-shirt. All my worries compound into this sense of urgency the second he sees me, his smile stretching in this perfect way.

God, I love this man.

And I’m a coward who can’t tell him.

Instinct takes over. One second, I’m spiraling in his kitchen, and the next, I’m racing toward him, throwing my arms around his neck and pressing my lips against his.

He drops his gear bag, catching me easily, wrapping his arms around me as he kisses me back.

I pull back, my heart racing, the three words rising on the tip of my tongue.

I love you.

“I missed you,” I say on a rushed breath.

His grin deepens. “I missed you too,” he says, his lips grazing mine.

Adrenaline pulses in my veins, my fight or flight instinct kicking in. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to flight. I just want to tell this man I love him.

I kiss him, hard and fast and needy.

I’m terrified I’ll lose him. Fuck me, I can’t say it.

I’ll show him instead.

I smirk, slipping into a solid course of action that I can fully fall into. My hand drags down his chest as I gently push him against the closed entryway door. I don’t even bother trying to lead him into another room, too tangled up in the well of emotions threating to drown me.

“Fuck, Monroe,” Paxton growls as I kiss down his neck, then lower myself to my knees, dragging his athletic pants and boxer briefs down with me.

“I really, really missed you,” I say as I glance up to him, fisting his hard length in my hand. I massage his thigh with the other, flicking my tongue over his thick head.

His cock twitches from the action, and I grin as he groans. “Goddamn,” he says as I suck him entirely into my mouth.

I take him in as much as I possibly can, moving up and down on him in sure strokes. Each clench of his muscles, each moan and rough breath from his lips, drives me on. I may not be able to tell him exactly what I’m thinking right now, but at least, like this, I can show him. I’m on my knees for him, devouring him in quick movements that have his fingers sliding in my hair, gripping it gently.

“Monroe,” he growls. “I’m going to come.”

A bolt of lightning strikes my center at the sound of those words. Everything narrows to that knowledge, and I don’t dare move. I don’t stop either. I keep going, relishing the hot, heady taste of him in my mouth.

“ Fuck ,” he growls, his entire body flexing as he spills into my mouth.

I swallow him down, wiping beneath my eyes where they’d watered. I hurry to drag his boxer briefs and pants back up, standing with a satisfied smile on my face.

“So, are we ordering in tonight or should I cook?” I ask.

Paxton’s eyes flare as he shakes his head. “I can’t think straight right now.”

I laugh, happiness rushing through me. I reach up on my tiptoes, planting a quick kiss against his lips. He holds me against him, grinning down at me.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve that,” he says, dragging his nose over mine. “But I’m one lucky man.”

“I’m the lucky one,” I argue, resting my head against his chest as he holds me.

“Let’s order,” he says after a few moments. “After.”

“After what?” I ask, glancing up at him.

He smirks. “My turn.”

Heat blazes beneath my skin as he picks me up, cradling me to his chest as he makes a beeline for his bedroom.

Definitely the lucky one.