“You were perfectly fine.” It’s only sort of a lie. He was nice to me until Kristi got in the way and made it clear she was interested in a lot more than conversation.
He watches me for a few long seconds, and I know he’s assessing whether I’m telling the truth. “I probably wasn’t if I don’t remember you. I must’ve been fucking wasted, so however I acted, with you and your friends, I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.” I adjust a few of the papers on the desk to have something to do with my hands. I could say something. Maybe I even should, but I clam right up instead, too caught up in my own embarrassing memories.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket again and hits a few buttons on the screen, mumbling something I don’t catch. “Can I get your number?”
When I just stare at him, likely with that blank look store mannequins can pull off effortlessly, he’s quick to correct my stupid assumption that he’s asking me out. Because that would just be crazy.
“So I can call you for massages. Do you do home visits?”
“Pardon?”
“Like, have table, will travel? You do that, right?”
I don’t even know what to do with that question. “You want me to come to your house?” I can’t tell if this is some sort of weird proposition, and whether I want to be flattered or affronted.
Lance runs his jagged nails through his hair and drops his head, his jaw working. When he raises his head, there’s a hint of panic behind his pale green eyes. “I’ll come see you again here if that’s the only way I can do this, but it’d be good if you could come to me…if there’s, like, an emergency situation or something.”
“Emergency massage?” This is the worst pick up in the history of the world. Except, as I observe his mannerisms and expression, I don’t think he’s trying to pick me up at all.
“Sometimes I get into fights on the ice.”
“So you want me to be your on-call massage therapist? What about the team therapist?” I can’t treat him on a regular basis. Well, I can, but I’m not sure I should. I might have successfully managed myself around him so far, but I’m not sure if that’s going to last. Not with the way I feel right now, and how upside down this all seems.
“I—I don’t really like it when people touch me. It makes me…uncomfortable. But it wasn’t like that with you today. So it’d be good if you were the person I saw when things like this happen.” He gestures to his face. “If that’s okay with you.” He bites his split lip, staring intently at me while he waits for a response.
What does he mean he doesn’t like to be touched?
While rumors are typically embellished, based on the many accounts of Lance’s exploits and what happened with Kristi that night at his house, I find that hard to believe—at least when it comes to sex. But I keep this to myself. Beyond it not being an appropriate observation to voice, it’s really none of my business.
“It’s more expensive for me to do home visits,” I tell him. “I have to factor in things like transportation time.”
His panic flares. “Is it about the inconvenience? What if I can come to you?”
“I don’t know—”
“Please, Poppy? Whether you come to me or I come to you is irrelevant. I just want to know that it’s going to be your hands on me.”
Based on his expression and his pleading tone, I don’t think he’s playing games. Or maybe I just don’t want him to be.
“My trainer’s gonna make me do this again, and if it’s you I’ll feel a lot better about it. Please?”
Eventually I give in. I’d like to say it’s because he needs the treatment, which he does, but I’d also like to see him again. “Okay, fine. But this needs to be cleared with your trainer. I took you as a favor today, but only certain therapists are covered for team treatment, so it’s up to you to make sure this arrangement is okay.”
“That’s cool. Even if it’s not covered, I want you.” He passes me his phone. “Maybe you can give me your cell, so if I need you, I can text or whatever works best.”
Giving Lance my cell number isn’t a smart move. I know this. But I type it in anyway, clearing him to contact me outside of work hours, which is probably the worst idea I’ve ever had.
I tell myself this doesn’t mean I’m actually going to hear from him. Or answer his calls. But I can’t imagine ignoring Lance if he messages me.
Which is exactly what he does as soon as I pass him back his phone. I hear mine chime in my purse.
I go to the message and add him as a contact while he fiddles around with his phone some more.
“We’re all set?” he asks.
“All set,” I echo.
“You didn’t reply.”
I pull up the message from him, add a smiley face and a thumbs up emoji, and hit send. His phone vibrates, and the smile he gives me reminds me of the boy I met when we were just kids. I wish he’d been like this at the bar last year.
“Better?” I ask, maybe a little snidely.
“Much. I’m gonna let you go home now. Maybe I can walk you to your car?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he was nervous. Except this is Lance “Romance” Romero, and I can’t imagine he gets nervous about much—except massages apparently.
“Umm, I guess that’s okay.”
“I promise I’m not going to kidnap you or anything.” He makes a face and crinkles his nose. “That wasn’t very reassuring, was it?”
“Not really. As soon as you say you’re not going to do it, that kind of makes me think it’s part of your plan.”
He takes a step back from the desk. “I can just go, if that’s better.”
“Yeah, but then I’ll find you hiding between cars in the dark with a rag soaked in chloroform. Better to keep an eye on you until I’m safely locked away inside my vehicle.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Besides, there are video cameras in the parking lot. If you steal me, people will know.”
Lance arches his split brow. “Wow, this got macabre pretty damn fast.”
“Sorry, my sense of humor is a little off sometimes. I think it’s from all the crime drama marathons.” I cringe at how stupid that sounds, but he doesn’t look at me like I’m an idiot, so I feel a little less ridiculous.
I shove all my things in my purse, make sure the computer is shut down, and gather the keys to the clinic and my car.
My stomach does all sorts of spins and twists and turns as Lance opens the door for me and waits while I lock up. He’s hulking behind me. I can see him in the reflection in the glass. He absolutely dwarfs me. It makes my skin hot.
When I turn around, he’s right there. I take a step back so I don’t accidentally slam into him. He puts his hand on my elbow, as if to steady me. He’s wearing the oddest expression, as if he’s expecting me to burst into flames, which is entirely possible with how hot my face feels.
He drops his hand and stuffs it back in his pocket. “Sorry.”
“Trying to get close enough to get high from sniffing me?” I ask.
His white teeth flash. “That was fucking awful, wasn’t it?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard it.” He said exactly the same thing once before, all those years ago.
“I swear I’m not always an asshole.”
“I know,” I whisper, and when he looks confused, I realize my mistake and shake my head. “I mean, I believe you. My car’s just there.” I point across the lot, where a bright light shines. I know better than to park at the back. This might be a decent part of town, but it’s late, and I’m not very imposing, so I try not to take risks. Usually when I do, it backfires. The case in point is walking beside me.
I also drive a car that matches my size. Beside my Mini is a massive, ostentatious Hummer in lime green. I snort. “I bet some five-foot-nothing bald guy drives that thing.”
“Why do you think that?” Lance checks out the beast of a vehicle.
“Oh, come on, you know what they say about guys who drive big trucks.” When all I get is a look of confusion I continue. “That they must be compensating for something?”