Page 35 of Ship Happens

“Begin with long, sweeping strokes from the lower back to the shoulders,” Celeste instructs. “Connect with your partner’s body, feel the areas of tension.”

Ethan’s hands move as directed, applying perfect pressure as they travel up my spine. I close my eyes, surrendering to the relaxation.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, thumbs working a tight knot between my shoulder blades.

“Occupational hazard of hunching over research papers, and dealing with annoying billionaires.” I manage, trying to ignore how good his hands feel on my skin.

“Hmm, and here I thought it might be the stress of pretending to date someone you claim to hate.”

I’m about to retort when his thumb hits a sensitive spot, drawing a soft groan from me instead. I can sense his smug smile without seeing it.

“Now, partners, pay special attention to the neck and base of the skull,” Celeste continues. “This area holds our emotional tension as well as physical.”

Ethan’s fingers work their way up my neck, applying gentle pressure at the base of my skull. It feels divine—intimate yet therapeutic. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s very good at this.

“Where did you learn to massage like this?” I ask quietly.

“A retreat in Thailand. Three weeks of daily practice.”

“Of course,” I murmur. “Billionaire things.”

He chuckles, his breath warm near my ear. “If it makes you feel better, I was terrible at first. My instructor said I approached human bodies like engineering problems.”

“Don’t you?”

His thumbs trace small circles at the tender junction where my neck meets my shoulders. “Not yours.”

The simple statement, delivered in that low, intimate voice, sends a shiver down my spine.

The instruction continues, moving to arms and hands, then legs and feet. By the time Celeste announces it’s time to switch positions, I feel like I’ve melted into the table.

I sit up, careful to keep my tank top in place. Ethan looks very pleased with himself.

“Your turn,” I say, trying to sound more composed than I feel.

We switch positions, Ethan lying face down on the table. As he settles, he pulls his shirt off, revealing the tanned muscles of his back. I’ve seen it before—felt it beneath my hands just last night—but in the clinical light of the spa room, I can appreciate the defined muscles and smooth skin.

“Begin as before,” Celeste instructs. “Warm the oil between your palms and start with long strokes to warm the muscles.”

I’m nervous, my usual confidence wavering. This is Ethan Cole, and despite what happened last night, despite our lunch today, touching him like this feels like I’m crossing another line.

“Whenever you’re ready, Dr. Bennett,” Ethan says, his voice muffled by the face rest but unmistakably amused. “Unless you need a demonstration first.”

The challenge in his voice snaps me back to reality. I warm the oil between my palms and place my hands on his shoulders with more confidence than I have.

“I think I can manage,” I reply, beginning the long strokes down his back as instructed.

His skin is warm beneath my hands, muscles relaxing under my touch. As I continue the massage, following Celeste’s instructions, I get more comfortable, more focused on the task rather than who I’m touching.

“You’re good at this,” Ethan murmurs as I work on a knot in his shoulder.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I assumed scientists would be more analytical than intuitive with this stuff.”

I dig my thumb into a tight spot, drawing a satisfying groan from him. “The human body is just another system to understand, Cole. Action and reaction. Pressure and release. Cause and effect.”

“Is that how you approach everything?” His voice has dropped lower. “Analytically?”

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