“You didn’t, though.”
His voice wavers the tiniest bit. “But I did. We were supposed to go together, and I flaked out on you.”
I tip my head back and meet his sad gaze. “People make mistakes, Declan. It could have gone a lot of ways. Please don’t beat yourself up over this. I’m going to be fine, slightly bionic, but fine. I’ve been through worse and come out the other side, and so have you. I’m sorry I blew up at you. All I need is a little forgiveness and then we can move past it.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” He bows forward and presses his warm lips against my forehead. They linger there for several seconds.
He exhales a ragged breath and straightens, clearing his throat before he says, “I’m hungry. Want a grilled peanut butter sandwich?”
“Um, sure.”
He’s already heading for the kitchen.
He gets me a glass of water and makes me a sandwich. Once the food is handled, he scooches me forward so he can sit behind me and make good on that back rub.
“I thought you were giving me lip service and you’d call it quits at the sandwich,” I tease.
“Pfft. As if I’d dangle a carrot like that and then back out.” He pushes my nightshirt up and reaches for the jar of coconut oil.
“What’re you doing?”
“It’s easier to massage with oil.” He opens the jar one-handed—a skill I need to learn—and digs out a clump with his fingers.
“Ew! Why didn’t you use a spoon?”
“I just finished making you a sandwich. My hands are clean.”
“But I cook with that!”
“I touched your sandwich and you don’t seem to be complaining about that.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I’m not going to lick my fingers and dip them back in,” he reminds me.
I take a bite of my sandwich and shut my mouth, because he’s about to do something nice for me. I make a mental note to get new coconut oil when I’m back in cooking mode, though.
The movie plays in the background, and I’m only partially paying attention to it while I eat my sandwich and Declan works the knots out of my back.
I slump forward on the pile of pillows. “You really are great at this.” I rest my chin on the pillow, groaning my contentment as he works on a particularly tight spot between my shoulder blades. His hands are sure and the pressure steady.
“I took a two-day massage course back in college.”
“Really? Why?”
“Honestly?” His thumbs smooth up either side of my spine and back down again. “It seemed like a solid lead into foreplay.”
I bark out a laugh and then cough and groan because it makes my ribs hurt. “Only you would take a massage course so you could seduce women. It’s not like you need the help; you’re plenty good at it without all the bonus stuff.”
“Yeah, but I figure since I can’t give the women I take out anything of substance, I might as well give them the kind of good time they’ll remember, you know?” His tone is somewhat teasing, but underneath it there’s a layer of hardness, and if I dig even further, sadness too.
“You’re not incapable of substance,” I mutter, eyes at half-mast, lulled by the way Declan’s hands move over my back. “We’ve been friends for years; you’re insanely loyal.”
“It’s not the same as a relationship, though. Sex can become a weapon, and my parents used it on each other for years. I never want to put anyone else through that or have someone I care about disappoint me in such an extreme way. Sex is great as long as there aren’t any feelings tied to it, then it’s dangerous and complicated.”
I don’t think he means it as a warning, but part of me interprets it that way. Especially when I consider how much closer we’ve become recently. Couple that with the forced physical proximity and how well Declan has been taking care of me, and I can see how easy it would be to cross the lines of friendship. I clear my throat and make my response purposefully light. “Well, if one day you decide it’s okay for feelings and sex to mix, you’ll make some woman a great boyfriend. You grill a mean steak, you clean, you give massages, and you watch rom-coms. You’re like the ideal boyfriend candidate.”
I want to slap myself for the last part, especially when Declan pulls my nightshirt back down. But then he leans forward, and his warm, bare chest is suddenly pressed against my back, like earlier in the shower. And just like before, he wraps his arms gently around me, and that warmth courses through my veins.
I breathe in the scent of his aftershave and his deodorant. The clean laundry detergent smell mingles with my shampoo and body wash. I have to remind myself that he’s my best friend. That whatever I’m feeling is probably related to my lack of ability to manage my own needs.