Page 67 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

I've seen the way he scowls at me, and I don't know, I just don't want to deal with the confrontation. Which really means, I don’t want to live through the embarrassment of that particular rejection again.

I'm being a pussy and I know that. No matter how many times I remind myself that he is in the very capable hands of my tech, Natalie, I’m still annoyed with myself.

Natalie is very competent and I have plenty of patients for whom she does most of the work. So I’m not being derelict in my duties. However, if any other patient had his injuries, had lost his leg from just below the knee and recently had to learn to walk all over again, I would be much more hands on.

But “hands on” has always been my default mode with Wade. If I let my hands make the decision, they’d be all over him, all the time, and they’d be tempted to stray away from the professional. If I let my emotions make the decision, my hands might stray in a different way … straight up to his neck where they’d try to choke the life out of him. Which is also not professional. So, you can see that I’m attempting to walk a very narrow line of professionalism here.

Still, I know he needs my help. I need to put on my big girl panties and be a professional and go out there and help him.

So, when Natalie comes in to tell me that he's having a massive muscle spasm in his bad leg, I instruct her to bring him into the massage room, I summon my most professional big girl panties, and head in there to do my damn job.

We have a few private rooms in my clinic, one of which is reserved for deep tissue work. I have a massage therapist who works here a couple days a week, but today is not one of those days.

So the task of working out his leg cramp falls to me. I can do this. I know how to handle these particular things. I will take care of him because I can be professional about this.

Ten minutes later, I go in. Thankfully, the lights are dimmed except for the glow of a few Himalayan salt lamps strategically set on shelves. Spa music plays lightly in the background and is accented by the sporadic cry of … whales? Is that supposed to be relaxing? Whatever.

I don't know what spas are supposed to smell like because I've never been able to have a massage. I don't trust anybody else to put their hands on me. It was hard enough getting through school and having my fellow classmates practice on me. In any case the light scent of lemongrass and something sweet wafts through the air.

He’s practically growling when I get in there and find him awkwardly half-sitting, half-leaning on the massage table. His face is a mask of pain until he sees me and then he shoots a glare at me.

“Natalie told me you had a muscle spasm.” I elevate part of the table so he can mostly lean back and settle a pillow behind him. “I can work that out for you. But I’m going to need you to lean back and relax. Let me take care of it.”

“Like you've been taking care of me the whole time?”

I totally deserve that, but I sure as fuck am not going to admit that to him. “Not that I owe you an explanation because I do not. But I've been really busy.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Are you questioning your quality of care? Because I can assure you, my plan is on point for you and Natalie has excellent training and credentials.”

He winces and grabs his left thigh.

“How about you quit bitching at me, lay back, close your eyes and relax. Let me take care of this for you.”

He blows out a breath, but finally leans all the way back.

I pull up the hem of his shorts and tuck them into his underwear right near the crease of his groin.

“Just try to relax as much as you can. I'm gonna have to get in there and do some deep work. So, I'm gonna try not to hurt you. Deep breaths.” I start working, starting my pressure light to gauge the extent of the spasm.

“Sometimes it helps to think of, you know, the ocean or butterflies or whatever relaxes you.”

He winces again when I dig in on a pressure point. “Really?” he asks. “Do butterflies relax you?”

“Not particularly but I've heard they're relaxing. For some people.” I lift my shoulders in a shrug.

“What does relax you?”

“Mexican martinis, preferably with top shelf tequila and lots of salt, a little olive brine and three fat jalapeño stuffed olives inside the glass.”

“That’s quite specific.”

“I know what I like.” I work quietly for a few breaths, then ask, “Do you want me to work on the other thigh as well or just this one?”

“Both would be good,” he says, his deep voice rumbly and gritty. It’s like sandpaper grazing my senses, but it’s not painful. It wakes me up, sloughing away the emotional layers I’ve wrapped myself in since the divorce. Since Mitch’s betrayal.

This time, he pulls the other side of his shorts up. I get to work on that thigh as well. I get into the rhythm and we're silent. Just the sound of the whales and the waves and whatever other weird noises Natalie put on when she set the room up earlier today.

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