Trouble

Eight hours later, I’m standing outside the pristine white door of the executive suite, my breath a tight ball in my throat. Holding my fist up, I close my eyes as I rap firmly.

“Can’t you read?” Spencer snaps angrily from inside. “Assuming you can’t, I’ll read it for you. It says, ‘Do not disturb.’”

Slipping the tag off the doorknob, I use the extra key Daisy gave me to let myself in his room. It’s elaborately elegant, much like his apartment in Columbia. Plush, white carpet covers the dark laminate floor, and a velvet armchair is beside a matching, dark wood table.

I walk further into the dim-lit space, past the bed to where Spencer is lying on his stomach on a divan facing the open balcony. A light breeze drifts in from the spectacular view of the ocean, and the shush of the waves drifts up to us.

He’s not wearing a shirt, and his muscled torso is on full display. One hand is fisted under his cheek, and his eyes are closed. I take a moment to study his square jaw, his forehead slightly lined in what I assume is pain. A bucket of ice is on the floor beside him.

“It does not.” I’m quiet and playfully firm. “It’s much more polite. It says, ‘Please do not disturb.’”

His eyes pop open, and his body tenses as he lifts slightly. Just as fast he halts with a grimace of pain. “Joselyn,” he groans. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re hurt.” I go to him, dropping to my knees beside the long couch. “Why didn’t you say something? Why are you such a stubborn old mule?”

“I’m hardly old. I’m thirty-two.” His dark brow furrows.

“It’s a good thing.” Reaching for his shoulder, I pull him forward onto his stomach again. “You’re far more likely to heal faster at your age than if you were older.”

“If I were younger, I wouldn’t be lying here at all.”

“Spilled milk. You saved my life and the entire gala, and now you’re lying up here suffering for it, and you won’t let anybody help you. It’s ridiculous and prideful. I brought my bag, and I’m going to work out that injury. Right now.”

He turns his head, resting his cheek on his hand, and squints up at me. “Is that so? Who died and made you queen? How did you get in this room anyway?”

“Daisy gave me your extra key. Now you’re going to be still and let me help you.”

He hesitates a moment, studying me, but I don’t budge. My hands are on my hips, and my expression is as serious as my resolve—despite how delicious he looks in only his lounge pants.

His hazel eyes darken, and heat filters across my lower belly. I know that look, and I know where it leads, how good it feels.

Nope. I’m not even going there. His pig head told me how he felt, and I have no interest in violating his sacred rules—as if he’s in any shape for it.

Still, I have to help him. When he never came back after the fall, I knew I had to come up here. I couldn’t let him miss the gala or worse, be seriously hurt on account of saving my life. I had to do what I’m trained to do best.

“Just relax and stop fighting.” My voice is gentler.

“What are you going to do?” His voice is gruff, even if it’s muffled in the pillow.

Taking out a bottle of scented oil, I pour it on my hands and rub them together. “Lucky for you, I’m actually very good at treating sports injuries.”

My lips press together, and my breath stills in my stomach as my hands hover above his body. He’s an amazing specimen of a man. His broad shoulders are dimpled with muscles, and the line in his back is deep and luscious. Right at the base of his spine are two hollows just above what I remember is the most divine ass.

“I’m going to put my hands on your back.” I shift into professional mode, speaking softly. “Now, I’m just going to work out the tension. I’ll slowly apply more pressure. If it’s too intense, let me know, and I’ll ease up. Okay?”

He grunts his consent, and I’m ready. My fingers hum like the electricity is growing the closer I get to his skin. Closing my eyes, I exhale slowly and begin.

Usually, I don’t talk to my clients when I’m massaging them. I simply do what needs to be done and let the music play, let them sleep or zone out, whatever they prefer. This time, I feel like I need to keep him apprised of what I’m doing… If only so he doesn’t get the wrong idea and think I’ve forgotten his rules.

“I think the strain is located in your gluteus medius. That’s the muscle that wraps around your left hip. Is it okay if I get closer there? I’ll need to manipulate the top of your butt—”

“You have permission to touch my ass.” Heat flushes my cheeks, and I almost laugh nervously.

Almost.

I maintain my professionalism and my dignity, luxuriating in sliding my hands over his strong muscles. Even if it’s only to ease his pain, I can still enjoy it. He lets out a groan when I go deeper into the injured area, and I slide my hand higher to his mid-back.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”