Page 13 of Deceiving Grier

“There’s nothingwrongwith me. I just don’t want to clean up after you as if I’m your maid.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got that. But that’s not what I meant. Why are you squinting?”

Until Sawyer pointed it out, I hadn’t realized I had been squinting, but I wasn’t surprised. My head was killing me, and even the soft glow from the lamp next to his bed was aggravating it. “I have a headache I can’t get rid of.”

“I bet,” he muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed to the rug next to his bed. “Sit.”

“Excuse me?” Had I heard him right? Had he just ordered me to sit on the floor like a dog?

“I can help,” he said, turning away from the door, crossing the room and dropping onto the edge of his bed. He pointed to the rug on the floor in front of him again. “Sit.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Strangle you and stash your body under the floor,” he deadpanned. When I just stared without responding, he rolled his eyes. “Just come here and sit down. I can help you.”

Under normal circumstances, I would have turned and walked away without a backward glance, but right then, my head was aching, and I had hours of work ahead of me. I was desperate enough to try almost anything—even this.

I sank down on the flattened rug between Sawyer’s spread legs, my back to him. “When’s the last time you vacuumed?”

He snorted. “I should have guessed you’d be a neat-freak.”

“I’m a neat-freak because I don’t want to live in squalor?” I snapped, my tone waspish even to my own ears.

“Relax,” he said at the same time his hands fell to my shoulders, big and warm. I started before I could stop myself. “God, you’re wound so tight.”

His thumbs expertly dug into the muscle across my shoulders, down the line of my spine and back up again, working out the knots beneath my skin. Almost instantly, the tension gripping me loosened. I closed my eyes and let my head fall forward while his fingers worked their way up the back of my neck and into my scalp.

“Holy shit,” I muttered, before I could stop myself. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“Last year, I dated a guy going to massage therapy school. He used to practice on me.”

“You’re not with him anymore? I think I would have married him.”

He chuckled. “Awe, Miller, isthisyour way of proposing?”

“Shut up,” I said, with no real heat. I felt like melted wax under his touch, and the sharp pulse gripping my skull finally started to dull. “Why did you break up?”

“He wanted to get serious, and I didn’t.”

I wished suddenly, that I could see his face. “Why not?”

It wasn’t my business, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had told me so. Instead, his fingers continued to rub small circles behind my ears and along my hairline.

“There didn’t seem to be much of a point. We’re only here for school—me… four years, him… much shorter, then we move on. I’m sure you get that. Besides, you’ll be back home, running your family’s business in a few months.”

I got it all right, well, at least part of it. After all, in the years I’d been here at the school, I hadn’t really dated anyone. Still, if I could figure out a way to stop time and keep from having to go back to Wisconsin, I would. I hated to think about it, so I changed the subject.

“Thanks for this,” I said.

“I don’t mind. You need to relax more. Honestly, the way you work yourself, I’m not sure how you haven’t collapsed from exhaustion.”

I wasn’t either, if I was honest.

Sawyer eased his fingers from my scalp, dragging his thumbs down the back of my neck so my toes curled in my sneakers.

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