Page 34 of Return To You

He shoves the cup in my hands, and thankfully, our fingers don’t touch, because that would have led to disaster. “And I had her use two cups because her sleeves are shit.”

Her sleeves are shit. “She has insulated cups…” I start saying, stupidly, and stop myself. She sells insulated cups (real cute ones, for what it’s worth). What am I doing? “Thanks,” I say, looking up to meet his gaze.

Mistake.

My lady parts applaud.

Big mistake.

I take a sip of the tea. It’s divine—everything Millie sells is divine—and it’s my favorite. I wonder if he asked her what I liked? Did he mention me? Or did he just say, “Hey, get me something hot. Not coffee ’cause it’s too late.” Or something like that.

I wonder.

I take another sip of tea because it helps me focus on staying sane, and not asking him silly questions like How did you know this was my favorite? But mainly because it explains why I’m not looking at him when I’m dying to and when I still feel his eyes on me.

God he feels good.

I store that feeling for a later time, when I’ll need it.

And again that day, the massage comes and goes without a hitch, and I get home and do what I need to do, and I’m back the next day.

This time, I don’t know why—I swear, I didn’t plan it—I’m early. Just a little bit. Like maybe fifteen minutes. “Don’t you want to go out there and watch the training?” Suzy Parker asks me.

I can’t decently say, No, watching Ethan King on the ice coaching kids with care and attention is not something I should do. “I guess I should check how Tracy is doing.”

See? That’s why I’m early. To see how my client is faring. What I’ll need to pay attention to during the massage.

I place myself away from the entrance, so I’m not in the danger zone when practice ends, the red zone of Ethan coming out, the zone where my body parts start betraying me.

I sit off to the side and try to focus only on my client. I force myself to keep my eyes off Ethan as he glides on the ice. Tracy leans into a power turn, and I notice the trembling in her thigh. She’ll need effleurage and petrissage, as well as passive stretching.

Good, I’m doing good.

Ethan’s voice guiding his team makes it hard to forget he’s here, though, so when he leaves the ice—it’s hard not to notice—I breathe easier. This is what it’s supposed to be. A private gig at the end of the day. Another way to spread the word. To build my business.

Not a full-on assault on my sanity.

Then Ethan comes back, holding something in his hand. I strive not to look, and mostly, I succeed.

He glides effortlessly across the rink. Shouts a few instructions to the kids. Then locks eyes with me (okay, I might have cheated a little and taken a peek at him) and before you know it, he’s jumping off the ice, into the bleachers, standing in front of me handing me an insulated mug from Easy Monday.

The ones you buy.

Not just any mug either, but Millie’s cutest one. Light pink with gold bears and dark green trees. I was admiring it just the other day.

“Harvest Hug. That’s what it’s called. You like it, right?” That killer smile again. That dimple.

I grab the mug and hold onto it for dear life. “Oh gosh. I… you didn’t need to do that.” I take a deep breath to say thank you, but he’s already gone, sliding on the ice, rallying the kids around him, a magnet for them too.

Eyes glued to him, I sip my tea.

Then I give Tracy her massage.

Before I leave, he swipes the mug from me. “For tomorrow,” he says. Our eyes lock briefly, his gaze tender.

But he doesn’t even wait for me to say anything. Just like that, he’s gone. Poof.

Why doesn’t he even try to talk to me? What happened to wanting to have coffee together?

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