Page 4 of Climb Me Maybe
I push open the door and freeze.
Recognition hits me like a felled tree.
It’s her.
The little sprite from yesterday—all cotton-candy hair and dark eyes and the soft‘oh’when my hands gripped her shoulders to steady her.The woman who’s been haunting my periphery for hours, smirking at me.
She's sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, wearing ripped jeans and an oversized T-shirt that's sliding off one sexy shoulder.Her pink hair is cropped short except for the bangs that flop into her eyes when she looks up.
“Oh geez, it’s you.”She closes the laptop and uncurls from the couch in one fluid motion.“The guy from yesterday.The one I made a complete ass out of myself in front of."Then her cheeks turn as pink as her hair."And you're Brady."
"Yeah."My voice comes out rougher than intended."And you're the massage therapist.”I take a deep breath.“You know, I should probably go.I think this is a mistake."
"Wait," she says, and I stop despite every instinct telling me to go."Why?Because we bumped into each other?Surely we can get past that.”
I rub the back of my neck, trying to find words that don't make me sound like a basket case."It's just...complicated."
"How so?"She tilts her head, studying me with the kind of attention that makes my skin feel too tight."Is it me?Am I not what you expected in a massage therapist?”
"No," I say quickly."Nothing like that.Not really."
“Then what's complicated about a consultation?We're just talking."She gestures to the chairs by the window."Come on.I may be clumsy, but I don’t bite."
I swallow that image down, stepping inside.
The cabin’s all soft lighting and linen sheets, earthy and feminine.She gestures to a chair.“Sit.Stand.Whatever’s comfy.This isn’t a dental exam.”
I stand.Military stance.Shoulders back.
She tilts her head.“You’re comfy like that?”
“Yes,” I lie.As comfortable as I can be right now.
She shrugs."So you're the mysterious high-rigger Teagan mentioned," she says, settling into one of the arm chairs."The one who's too stubborn to admit he needs help."
My mouth twitches.“I’m here, aren’t I?”
She accepts that."Tell me about your back issues."
There's something about the way she asks: direct but not pushy, that makes it easier to talk than I expected.“Think I pulled something yesterday during a demonstration.Lower back.It's happened before."
She circles me slowly, and I swear I feel her gaze like sunlight through leaves—warm and persistent.“Which side do you favor when it acts up?”
“Left.”
“Any numbness?Tingling?”
“No.”
"How long have you been climbing?"
"Twenty-three years professionally.Longer if you count growing up around the family business."
Her eyebrows raise."That's a lot of repetitive stress on your back.Do you do any regular maintenance?Stretching, strength training, bodywork?"
"Of course…some stretching, weight-lifting, calisthenics."I shift on my feet."Look, I know you probably think I'm being ridiculous with being hesitant about the whole massage thing."
"Actually, I think you're being smart," she interrupts."Therapeutic touch is intimate, even when it's professional.You should be comfortable with whoever's working on you."
