Page 39 of A Manny for Christmas

I’ve surrendered too thoroughly to have the will to fight him now.

‘That would be amazing.’

‘It’s no problem. It’s nice to be able to do something. I always used to feel so helpless when you were like this.’

‘I know. But it’s making a massive difference. Not just the head massage, but having someone here to pick up some slack.’

‘It makes me feel less useless. And you know something?’ His fingers run through my hair again, lifting it, letting it fall softly behind me. He clears his throat. ‘Getting to do this to you is bringing back some pretty good memories for me, let me tell you.’

My breath hitches. ‘Seriously?’

He releases my hair and splays the fingers of both hands over my face, thumbs at my temples, fingers somehow smoothing over my aching forehead and cheekbones and jawline at the same time. My eyes drift closed in sensory bliss. I’ve missed this so much. Having a man’s hands on me.

No.

If I’m being completely honest, I’ve missed havingMax’shands on me. I loved my husband, but I’m not sure he ever touched me in this supremely assured way that Max did.

Like he could feel everything I was feeling.

Like having his hands on me meant he was home.

‘Yeah,’ he continues. His voice is so soft, I can barely hear it. ‘This is no hardship for me. No hardship at all. Getting to play with your beautiful hair… Fuck, I’ve missed your hair. Missed washing it. Feeling it slide through my fingers. Missed wrapping it around my hands.’

His hands move off my face, into my hair, smoothing it back and pulling it into a ponytail. The tug is gentle but confident, and it feels like ownership.

‘Missed being able to touch you.’ One hand grips my hair and the other presses along my jaw. He lets out a soft laugh. ‘Being here with you—it’s too much like old times. In fact, I’m going to disgrace myself when I get up off this chair.’

My eyelids shoot open.‘What?’

Oh myGod.

His smile may be upside down, but there’s no mistaking the sheepish expression on his face, as well as something else. There’s an intensity in his eyes that’s unmistakable.

‘Give me a break, Mol. It’s been a while. And having my hands on you is doing weird shit to my brain. And my dick, to be honest.’ He releases me and gets up stiffly, grabbing a cushion and stuffing it in front of his crotch. ‘I’m going to run you a bath and get my shit together. I’ll brew that ginger tea, too.’

If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d definitely sit bolt upright in some pretence of being shocked.

But who am I kidding?

If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d probably be as turned on as he is.

14

MAX

Coming clean to Molly about my body’s reaction to touching her could have been a spectacular error of judgement. As could offering to massage her in the first place. Instead, oddly, it’s flipped some kind of switch between us. My being in her home has been a head fuck for both of us, and I think we both went with the same approach, initially. Be polite. Considerate. Maintain a respectful distance. Don’t ask awkward questions or dredge up the past.

Turns out, that phonypolite strangersgig wasn’t working so well for either of us.

Like it or not, we’re two people who once knew each other inside out—both physically and emotionally. And yes, we’ve had a long time apart. But that kind of intimacy doesn’t vanish for good like you think it might. It’s like muscle memory. It lies dormant, and when the time is right, it rushes to the surface again.

It seems I’m comparing living with Molly Carter to riding a bike. I’m sure she’d love that analogy. But it’s not inaccurate.

It’s been three days since I gave her that massage, and it seems she’s come to the same conclusion I have. It’s less complex, and more enjoyable, to allow our old easy intimacy to surface to some extent.

Not, you know, to the extent that has a massage culminating in a happy ending for everyone involved. Not like the massages I used to give her all those years ago. No, they were basically all foreplay.

Come to think of it, pretty much everything we did was foreplay in those days.

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