“You want to talk regret? I was all revved up to live vicariously through your exploits. Let an old married woman dream, ’kay?”
“Okay, but you’ll have to dream on your own. I have two more clients this afternoon and the first one just arrived.”
“More vets?”
“Dunno. I still need to look at the charts. Probably.”
“Well, good luck with that. Sempler is very happy with you.”
Sempler was the stick-up-his-ass manager of the clinic. “Really? Seems like he’s waiting for me to screw up.”
“Don’t screw up. You’re the first therapist we’ve placed there who’s lasted longer than a week.”
Not surprising. Mr. Sempler lived to criticize. But Chloe liked southern California, and, frankly, she needed the paycheck. “I won’t. ’Bye, Lynne.”
“’Bye, Unfuckable.”
Har. Chloe hung up and then stood and smoothed her formfitting, raspberry-pink sleeveless sweater over her drapey white maxi-skirt. Massage therapy involved constant standing, stretching, and extending, so, for work, she always chose comfy clothes she could move in. Too bad she didn’t get to choose everything about her work wardrobe. She lifted her lab coat from where she’d slung it over the back of the chair and shrugged it on. The coat was Sempler’s edict. Personally, she thought the white coat made some of the clients tense—which she considered counterproductive—but he was the boss. She picked up a pen and tucked it into her breast pocket and then grabbed the chart for the next client on her way to the waiting room. Hopefully this new client would demand all of her attention, because she was sick of thinking about—
Oh hell. She drew to a stop. What was up with her karma these days? There, in the waiting room, sat a tall, dark monument of testosterone otherwise known as Major Hottie. He looked up from his study of the bamboo floor at the same time she halted, and inscrutable brown eyes settled on her. She glanced at the file in her hand. Sure enough, the tab read, “McCade.” Perfect.
She ignored the nervous flutter in her stomach, and gave him her best professional smile. “Hello, Major McCade.”
“Howdy neighbor.”
Okay then, no pretending last night didn’t happen. Other than that, she had absolutely no read on him. He was a master of self-containment. She drew in a deep, fortifying breath. “Please follow me.” He stood to obey, so she led him to the treatment room at the end of the hall and gestured for him to have a seat on the padded, sheet-draped table. She sat on the rolling stool at the head of the treatment table and flipped open his chart. Her ears barely registered the tropical-rainforest soundtrack that spilled from hidden speakers and merged with the gurgle of the countertop Zen fountain. A quick read told her what she needed to know. His referring physician’s report was very detailed and included copies of his images—acute herniated lumbar disc, with resultant sciatica. Ouch. She looked at him, noticing how upright he sat and wondering, for the first time, if that had more to do with discomfort than military bearing.
“I see this is your first massage-therapy session.”
“Yep.” He frowned, and his eyes shifted to the door. She got the distinct feeling he wasn’t there by choice and wondered if her presence contributed to his reluctance.
She let out a breath. “Major, your overall comfort plays a vital role in healing. Would you prefer a different therapist?”
“Michael,” he corrected with a gently mocking smile she realized was mostly self-directed. “And no,” he looked down at his boots, “if I have to do this holistic stuff, I’d just as soon stick with you.”
She didn’t take his attitude personally. Men, especially the alpha-types, tended to think of massage as the shoulder rub they gave their girlfriend or wife as a precursor to sex. Definitely not a legitimate modality. She clicked her pen and prepared to make some notes. “Tell me, Michael, how’ve you been sleeping lately?”
The question surprised him enough to drag his attention away from the study of his bootlaces. She could read the answer well enough in his weary eyes, but she waited for him to admit it to her.
“Not great. Maybe five hours a night.” Unconsciously, he rubbed a hand over his lower back.
She mentally subtracted a couple hours from his estimate, because the tough guys never admitted the full extent of a problem. Poor man. He must be exhausted. Lucky she’d chosen this treatment room. It was the quietest, and with only one other client scheduled this afternoon, he could sleep for an hour or so after his session ended.
“Okay.” She stood and crossed to the door. “There’s a hanger over here for your clothes. Get undressed and lay on the table, under the sheet, facedown. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll get started.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Completely undressed?”
She raised hers right back. “You can leave your socks on if you’d like. Is there a problem?”
Michael stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re in charge.”
She tamped down on her smirk until she exited the room. She would be, in about ten minutes. Her attraction to massage therapy lay in the ability to bring people relief from pain and tension and provide a deep state of relaxation. After almost five years of doing bodywork, she had confidence in her skills. He’d sleep like a baby by the time she was done with him.
…
Michael eased down onto the massage table, raised the sheet up to the middle of his chest, and carefully turned onto his stomach. He waited there, head resting on his folded arms, and looked around the room. Light green walls and bamboo floors conveyed earthy tranquility. Pale, honeycomb blinds filtered the sunlight coming in from the single window on the wall to his left. A small fountain gurgled on top of a bureau on the opposite wall. Above the bureau hung a row of cabinets holding God only knew. Soft music flowed from the speakers in the corners of the room.
All the serenity made him want to go directly to the gym and punch the big bag until his knuckles swelled and rendered him unable to make a fist. He couldn’t have felt more like a chick at a day spa if Chloe had handed him a fluffy pink robe and cozy slippers.