Page 3 of The Couch Where It Happens

In that final year with her grandmother, Hank had come over weekly, gardened alongside Emma, and eaten whatever Obaachan offered. Her grandmother had loved to make a simple box of Golden Curry with chicken, carrots, and potatoes and watch Hank feast on the entire pot. The rest of their friends had come in a distant third for a long time, but now that Emma was alone, she’d switched to working at a waffle place because it offered a daytime schedule, leaving her evenings free to rebuild friendships or work on the house. For all that time, she and Hank had shared the same friends, a small group that either had never left their college town after graduation or strayed only as far as Portland, but they'd never dated.

Maybe they should have.

She didn’t look directly at him, more like a half-rotation of her head paired with a sideways glance disguised as a shoulder stretch, but she watched him.

He finished his drink.

“Back hurting?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “I think after rollering ceilings with my arms raised and then the weird grip on the couch, my spine must be all wonky.”

“I can help. Turn around.”

They looked at the railing at the same time.

“We should step away from the edge,” he said.

“I can’t afford to rebuild it.” She sighed. “Maybe I need to paint a yellow ‘do not cross’ line on the floor.”

“Guests won’t be that stupid.”

She snorted and moved toward the couch. “You optimist, you. All your players must have shown up today.” Summer workouts had started last week.

“An optimist? Me?” His gaze flicked sideways to look at her. “Sure, why not.”

They circled the couch from different directions and met again in the middle, almost like dance choreography. An odd bubble filled her chest. She’d been alone with Hank dozens or even hundreds of times, hours and hours of working side by side, eating, watching movies, even running to Home Depot together, but tonight felt different from other nights. Like Hank was a stranger and she was trying to make a good impression. Maybe if she locked eyes with him again, she wouldn’t be able to speak.

Stop freaking the fuck out. This is Hank.

Before she could ask him where she should stand or what to do, and if he was really going to give her a massage, he took her bottle and waved his hand to indicate she should lean forward and brace herself on the back of the couch.

“Sure.” The top of the cushions hit her across the pelvis, and she dug her fingertips into the padding on either side of her hips. The upholstery was a pristine, slightly nubby orange fabric that encapsulated the happy palette she’d chosen for the house refresh.

The small jangle of Hank setting the can and bottle on the floor made her oddly jumpy, so she hunted for conversation. “I guess I’m going to need a side table up here.”

She tried not to audibly inhale when his hands found the tight band of muscle circling above her waist, but the weight and heat of those palms and fingers felt good.

“Uh-huh.” He talked a lot less than she did, which had never bothered her before, but tonight, it was making her anxious enough that she was, of course, talking more.

“And coasters for drinks. People still use those, right?” Each time he dug his thumbs into her tight muscles, the force pushed her into the supporting couch. “I wonder if I should get custom ones made with photos? Or a logo? That would be nice.” Nicewas Hank’s hands. In her back. Digging at the bands of tension. Like, really fucking nice. The push-and-release rhythm of his hands was making it a challenge to keep her eyes open.

“Emma.”

“What?” The reply came out breathier than she’d expected.

“You don’t have to be on.”

Her mouth closed, lips stuck together as if with glue. She suddenly felt like an annoyingly talky cartoon sidekick, Donkey to Hank’s Shrek. The force he put into her back thrust her against the couch with each dig, and she had to push back to prevent flopping over. He was big. And quiet. A hero to help her. Hank was like Shrek, if Shrek had been making Donkey feel all squishy inside. She might not be able to remain standing for much longer; possibly, her knees would buckle as he worked on her back. Or maybe he was more like The Rock’s character inMoana. Shit, that might make her the stupid chicken and shit, shit, shit, her thoughts were a mess. A fucking mess.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that would throttle her racing brain.

The Rock’s character talked a lot, so Hank was definitely Shrek.

“You’re tight.”

Her breath caught. Hank didn’t speak much, but what he said,fuuuuck.

Chapter 2

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