Page 19 of Rookie Recovery

I had to stop letting him get to me. Keep it professional. I could do that. Keep working his lithe shoulders and back until those muscles were putty under my fingers.

And. Keep. It. Professional. “So, Bowman. Where you from?”

He turned his head to flash me that shit-eating grin. “Isn’t it obvious? The accent?”

“I mean, specifically, where? UK, but where?”

My hands kneaded. He relaxed down on the table. “Little village. Nobody’s heard of it.”

“How can they hear about it if you don’t tell them?”

“It’s called Bruton Willesbury. Heard of it?”

“Well, now I have.” I dug into the muscle around his spine, and he let out a satisfied little moan that I tried to ignore. “You miss it?”

Naturally, he flipped the question right back. “You miss your hometown?”

“I’m from Boston. It’s like five hours.” My thumbs kneaded into that soft skin and hard flesh. “But I’d consider Bringham my home now.”

“So, do you miss Boston?” His tone was roughed by the press and pull of my hands, preventing me from determining whether he was earnest. Or he was still deflecting my attempts at normal human interaction—and distraction.

“Sometimes. How about you?”

I didn’t expect an actual answer, so the low word that escaped surprised me so much I almost stopped massaging.

“Yeah,” he said and the way he softened, voice going light, muscles smoothing under my touch, I knew he was giving me the first glimpse of something real I’d seen off the ice. “Yeah, I miss it.”

Fuck. Why did that hit me somewhere in the chest? Made me think there was someone else under that cocky playboy attitude—that maybe it was a facade?

“Bringham’s a good city, though.” I chewed my lip. A good city, but still probably a shock to a small-town kid. “Once you get used to the traffic. And the people.”

He snorted. “And the size of the fucking cars. And the sirens. All the damn time.”

“And that. Guess it’s kinda loud.”

“America is fucking loud.” He grunted as my hands swooped lower down his ribs. “And your portions are too big.”

That got a reluctant laugh out of me. “Yeah, we hate cooking and love leftovers.”

“I’ve realized.”

“But wait til you see Bringham in winter.” My hands had reached the hard muscle of his lower back, and I lingered, working through the knots. “Ice everywhere. Hockey everywhere.”

The kind of shit a kid from Boston dreamed of. Maybe one from Britain, too. “Sounds nice.”

“You get ice in the UK?”

“Eh, sorta? The fields behind my parents’ house flood a lot, freeze if it gets cold enough.” He groaned again as my fingers worked their way into a knot. I felt him softening under my hands, and his words softened, too. Giving me more bits and pieces of the real Bowie, the man beneath the mask. “I’d have killed for some big ponds, though. Without a million cow shits sticking out.”

“The guys’ll get you some pond hockey this year. Promise.” I’d reached the end of the road—well, his back, anyway. And we both knew it.

His head tilted the slightest bit as my fingers stalled out. “Aren’t you going to massage my ass?”

“After you sexually harassed me?” A smile crawled over my face. Yeah, like I’d minded him pretending to come on to me. Like anyone under the age of thirty-five bothered to look at me anymore. “Don’t think so, kid.”

I worked my hands slowly back up his spine and ribs, searching out any lingering areas of tension, and to my surprise, he didn’t press the matter. Even softened a bit more when I reached his broad shoulders.

“You do have magic fingers.” His voice was almost a sigh. Yeah, I knew how to give a good massage. “I feel like melted butter.”

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