He shrugged. “Tougher than most. Had an emergency come in just as I was getting ready to leave for the day. Eight-year-old boy, both legs shattered in an ATV accident. He was too young to be riding the four-wheeler at all, of course, but at least he was wearing a helmet, which probably saved his life. We were in the O.R. for three hours. And that was after an already long day of procedures, one of which had complications that made it take longer than it should have.”
“So you’ve been on your feet all day?”
Crunching a carrot stick, he nodded. “I’m usually on my feet,” he said after swallowing. “This was just a longer day than most.”
“Let me get you some more tea.” She jumped up to fetch the pitcher because he seemed to be very thirsty. He’d already almost drained his glass.
Pushing the empty plate aside a few minutes later, he leaned back against the cushions again with a light sigh. “That was good. Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No, really. I had plenty, thank you.”
She turned on the couch to look at him. “The little boy who was hurt? Will he be okay?”
“He has a long recuperation ahead of him, but he’ll get there. Kids are pretty resilient.”
Not always, she thought with a ripple of sadness she didn’t want him to see.
But Mitch seemed to be getting better at reading her. He must have followed the direction her thoughts had taken. “Jacqui?” he asked after a pause. “Do you mind if I ask how you lost your sister?”
She felt her chest tighten but answered evenly. “In a car accident twelve years ago. The surgeons worked very hard to save her, but she died on the table.”
“Younger or older sister?”
“Younger.”
“I’m very sorry.”
She nodded. “It’s difficult for me to talk about it.”
“I won’t press you, then. Just know that if you ever need to talk, I’m a good listener.”
“Thank you.”
Sipping the last of his second glass of tea, he reached up with his free hand to squeeze the back of his neck. The gesture seemed to be automatic, as if he were hardly aware that he was even doing it.
Her awareness of the reason for his discomfort—a long operation on an injured eight-year-old boy—over-came her hesitation. “If your neck is stiff, I’d be happy to give you a quick massage. I’ve been told I’m pretty good at it.”
He dropped his hand, looking first surprised then intrigued by her offer. “My neck is a little sore.”
Because he was so much taller, she moved to stand behind him as he leaned back against the couch cushions. The back of the couch was low enough that she had full access to his neck and shoulders, especially when he lowered his chin a little. Focusing strictly on finding and alleviating the knots in his muscles, she tried without much success to ignore the warmth and strength of him beneath her palms, even through his thin-knit shirt. When she worked on his nape, his thick hair tickled her fingers, tempting her to
bury her hands in it.
A particularly stubborn knot just above his right shoulder blade required both her thumbs to work out. His low groan of pained pleasure signified the massage was working. The deep rumble vibrated through her, stirring something deep inside her. Her fingers tightened for a moment, causing him to flinch just a little. Murmuring an apology, she lightened her touch, carefully working the knotted muscle into relaxation.
After another few moments, she rested her hands on his shoulders. “Better?”
He reached up to lay his hands over hers, holding her in position. “Much better. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Twisting his neck, he smiled up at her, still holding her hands. “You were told correctly, by the way. You are very good at that.”
“Um, thanks.” She was held captive as much by his gaze as by his hands on hers. She found herself unable to look away from the expression in his darkening blue eyes.
His smile faded. “Jacqui.”