Page 38 of A Manny for Christmas

Besides, I know Max and his magic hands will make it worth my while.

I turn my head to the side so he can undo the plait. I’m aware of the faintest movements as he undoes it.

‘Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘It’s got so long.’

‘I know. I should really cut it.’

‘Don’t you dare. Trims only, remember.’

He taps me lightly on the shoulder. It’s supposed to be a joke, but it feels poignant. Heavy with memories.

Then his hands are moving through my hair right at the back of my neck, his fingers running through it, combing it out as he tugs it over the back of the sofa. I wish I could see us from above. Me, lying like a wannabe Pre-Raphaelite maiden on the sofa. This man bent over me. My blonde hair undoubtedly strewn all over his thighs.

I don’t know why, but it’s a tableau I’d like to see.

I’m aware of his sharp exhale as his hands move through my hair.

‘Shit. It’s as beautiful as ever,’ he tells me.

‘Thanks.’ I shift uncomfortably.

He sinks his fingers into my hair. They press into the base of my skull and massage, and I sigh with pleasure as they find a rhythm. Circling my skull. Digging into my neck. My shoulders. Rotating through my hair. Tugging at it gently. The relief I’ve been trying to find all day through painkillers and shoulder rolls surfaces. This is heaven. Heaven.

Max’s fingers ease over my temples before returning to my scalp. Why does the sensation of someone tugging at my hair feel so positively orgasmic? If I wasn’t so ill, I’d be getting turned on. As it is, I lie there in as close to pure happiness as I’m capable of, given my illness. He’s massaging the pain right out of my body.

From his rhythmic breathing and the confident way his hands move over my skin, I’d say he’s hit his stride, shed any weirdness he may have felt over putting his hands on me after so many years.

I exhale. ‘God, this feels amazing,’ I tell him.

‘Good,’ he says gruffly. I flutter my eyelids open as his fingers comb through my hair and his thumbs knead my scalp. He’s looking at my hair, but his gaze flicks to my face.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

‘Definitely better. The pressure’s fading.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ His thumbs rub against my sore skull in the most pleasurable way. ‘God, we passed a lot of time like this back in the day, didn’t we?’

I smile ruefully. ‘Unfortunately, yes. I was lucky to have you. You were so good at it—areso good at it.’

‘Did your husband use to do this for you?’ he asks. I have an upside-down view of his face, but I swear his jaw has clenched.

‘Not so much,’ I say, and then feel bad at short-selling Felix. He was very devoted, until he wasn’t. ‘He was great at foot rubs, though.’

‘Hmm,’ he says, unconvinced. ‘And painting, clearly.’ He glances up at the chimney breast. ‘I can’t get over that painting. It’s fucking incredible.’

‘He’s extremely talented,’ I agree.

‘He had excellent material to work with.’

His fingernails scratch along my scalp lightly, and I shiver with pleasure.

‘Your hands are honestly magic.’

Our eyes meet, and I instantly regret saying that.

‘I meant—’

‘I know what you meant. Don’t worry. I won’t get any ideas. When I’m done here,’—strong fingers work at the tight muscles of my neck—‘I’ll run you a bath, okay? I’ll give the kids their tea.’

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