Page 10 of Free Me

4

Stef

Ibringmycarto a stop and double check the address jotted in my notes against the number on the brick pillar, and choke out a shocked laugh when I realize that, yes, I’m at the correct house. ‘House’ being used in the loosest of terms. Holy crap, this place is so much more than that. The wrought iron gate at the front is a freaking work of art, and from what I can see, it guards a long brick driveway that wraps around a fountain in front of the huge two story wood-framed house.

I roll down my window, press the intercom on the security gate, and wait. Moments later, a rich baritone comes through the speaker. “Hello?”

Oh,hellosexy voice. I sit up taller, though as far as I can tell there isn’t a camera around, and respond in my most professional tone. “Hello, it’s Stefan Evans. I have an appointment with Blake McCarthy.”

“Hold on, I’ll open the gate. Park anywhere in front of the house.” A tiny shiver of anticipation runs up my spine, though I’m not sure if it’s because I want to see more of this house, or get a look at the person attached to the delicious voice. I still can’t shake the feeling that I know his name from somewhere, but for the life of me, I can’t place it. Maybe if I see his face, it’ll ring a bell.

The gate swings open and I pull down the long drive, trying not to gawk at the beautiful fountain in the front circle, or the surrounding lush, perfectly landscaped vegetation leading up to the modern but elegant home. I park off to the side where I’m not blocking the driveway, and grab my bag, taking a moment to compose myself before popping out of the car and hurrying toward the house. Before I make it past the fountain, the door swings wide and I almost stumble to a stop. It has nothing to do with clumsiness or my footwear. It’s a workday and I’m wearing incredibly sensible shoes, thank you very much. It’s also a he/him day, but that’s irrelevant to my work outfit choice. Not all my clients are open-minded, and some wouldn’t appreciate me showing up dressed in a way not clearly masc. It’s a shame because I own some very cute sandals with kitten heels that would look fab with yoga pants and short sleeved tops. But wearing track pants and basic T-shirts to my physio clients is safest.

No need to worry about this particular client, though. Standing in the doorway, as devastatingly handsome in jeans and a short-sleeved polo as he was in his Tom Ford suit, is my hookup from Club Cake.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since that night, and I don’t know whether this is the most incredible instance of serendipity or the absolute worst case of bad luck. Hookups, by design, are meant to be one-and-dones. This could make things incredibly awkward if he recognizes me, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility. My hair is short and my makeup is nowhere near the levels I wear to the club, but I still have the same face, height, and body build. Oh well. Only time will tell if he knows it’s me.

I put on a smile and hurry across the remaining distance between us, my hand held out. “Hi, I’m Stefan Evans, but please call me Stef. It’s good to meet you.” I only add the ‘again’ in my head. I’d like to build a professional rapport with him if we’re going to be working together. Unless he recognizes me and changes his mind about working together.

“I’m Blake McCarthy.” He takes my hand and shakes it firmly. A shiver of excitement races through me as I recall leading him through the dark club, and how good his hand felt in mine. Blake narrows his eyes, his intense gaze scanning my face and hair. Has he figured it out? If so, he doesn’t mention it. Stepping back, he gestures me into the house. “It’s nice to meet you, Stef. Come on in. We can set up in the living room. I’m not sure how much space you need, but let me know if we should pick a different location or if you need anything else.”

His business-like tone makes it easier to relax and I cautiously look around, curious what the house has to say about the handsome man who owns it. We walk from the foyer through an ultra-modern kitchen and into a spacious living room decorated with contemporary art and minimalist furniture. It’s attractive and expensive, but not at all the vibe I get from Blake. He strikes me as more of an English pub person, not this performative decor vibe. Then again, how much of a decorating impression can you get from a club hookup? I don’t really know anything about him.

Refocusing my attention, I step into the enormous living room and gawp at the floor-to-ceiling windows that let in lots of light and give the feeling of actually being outside. “Oh, this is perfect.” The energy in this room is wonderful, even if the art and furnishings are questionable. I turn in a slow circle and nod. “We can use this free space in the middle for our stretching and guided meditation.”

“Great. Should I sit, or…”

I give his outfit a once-over. “You’ll probably be more comfortable if you change into something that allows you more movement.” Not that I mind his jeans or the way they hug his glutes and thighs, but they’re not the best option for twisting and bending. And they definitely won’t be comfortable for meditation. He looks delish in them, though.

Blake’s brown eyes darken like he knows what I’m thinking. We stand unmoving for a long few seconds, the tension between us building. Just as things are about to get awkward, there’s a buzzing from his pocket. His attention is immediately on his phone. He swipes the screen and reads, fires off a response, shoves the phone back in his pocket, then jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go change. Be right back.”

Without waiting for a response, Blake pivots and jogs back through the kitchen. Since I have a few minutes, I let my curiosity draw me to the picture windows and the spectacular view. To the left is a vibrant green lawn that slopes down to the edge of Lake Washington, and, if this were my house, I’d be stretching and meditating on that beautiful grass every day the weather allowed. To the right is a terracotta tiled patio, covered in tasteful, wrought iron deck furniture with brown and tan polka dot cushions, a ridiculously huge gas grill, a large hot tub big enough for at least eight people, and a gorgeous two-lane lap pool. It’s the pool that tugs at something in my brain. I haven’t heard of many people with a lap pool in their backyard. Like a slap to the back of my head, all the pieces fit together, and the universe has a ginormous laugh at my expense.

“I hope this is alright.” I whirl around, still dazed by my discovery, and am struck speechless. Blake has changed out of his jeans and into what can only be described as thoroughly well-loved gray sweatpants that ride low on his hips and leavenothingto the imagination. And sweet Suzy Snowflake, he’s switched his polo for a white, skin-tight T-shirt. The entire ensemble, including his now bare feet, is giving relaxed and sexy, and I have to swallow several times. Cripes, I’m salivating like Pavlov’s dog. Blakemustuse his pool to work out. That’s where he gets those broad shoulders and narrow hips. The same pool that my friend Tadhg has told me about at least a million times. The pool he uses frequently at his brother’s house.That’swhy I know Blake’s name. He’s Tadhg’s older stepbrother. Sweet magnolia, I’m so screwed.

Blake walks toward me, eyes searching my face, and my heartbeat hammers in my chest. Does he know who I am? Is he going to say something about it?

I smile and try to calm myself, switching into business-mode. “So, in our email exchanges, I laid out the general program I envisioned to help you de-stress and keep calm in difficult situations. Now that you’ve had some time to consider it, do you have any questions or concerns?”

There’s a slight pause, and then he shakes his head. “No. You’re going to help me with guided meditation and some relaxation stretching. Right?”

I nod and try not to get distracted by how good his arms look in his T-shirt. “That’s the plan. And after this test-session, you can decide if you want to continue with the eight-week program or say it’s not for you.” Do I want him to continue with the program? On one hand, I do. I really believe it will help him improve his stress levels and lead to a better quality of life. It would also give me an excuse to see him again. But it might be easier if he didn’t. Working with a hookup could have disastrous results for both of us.

“Per my email, we can modify things to your fitness level and make tweaks as we go, but I believe what I’ve designed will accomplish what you were asking for. It’s not going to happen overnight, and it’ll require you to practice on your own for fifteen minutes a day in between our sessions, but with some mindful attention, you should be able to see results soon.” He nods, giving me his full attention. And being the sole focus of those dark brown eyes is just as powerful as it was that night at the club. It’s intoxicating and unnerving and makes my stomach swoop. I clear my throat and smile. “If, after today’s session, you decide to continue meeting, I’ll send you a link to an mp3 you can download. It’s my voice leading you through the guided meditation we’ll do today.”

“That sounds good.” Blake shoves his hands in his pockets and waits, a little unsure.

I rush to put him at ease, gesturing to the free space in the middle of the room. “Let’s start over here with a nice warm-up. We’ll begin with an upward stretch.” I wait for Blake to join me, then demonstrate the movement. “Keep your weight evenly distributed, and imagine head over shoulders, shoulders over hips, hips over knees, knees over feet, all being pulled up toward the ceiling.” Once he’s in position, I step beside him, then hesitate. Regardless of whether Blake remembers me or not, I have to treat him like a brand-new client. I need to keep this professional. “Is it okay if I touch you to adjust your pose?”

He nods, and I place my hands on his shoulders, squaring them. Then I grip his hips and draw my palms up his sides, encouraging him to lengthen his torso. Good gods, this is pure torture, but in the best way. I remember how his body felt pressed against me. Touching him now brings all of that back. Add in the spicy scent of his cologne and, gods, I want to do wonderfully dirty things to him.

With great effort, I force my thoughts away from all of those wonderful images, back to the present and the reason we’re here. I’m supposed to help him improve his stress levels, not get into his pants. If I’m not careful, he’ll think I’m some kind of creeper.

I move back to my original position in front of him. “I’ll do the stretches with you, and correct your posture where needed. If you have good balance, and it helps you concentrate, you can close your eyes.”

I bring my arms up, stretching them above my head. “Raise your arms and make yourself even taller.” His muscles flex and stretch as he moves, and I bite back a soft whimper as his shirt rides up, revealing a dark happy trail. Holy crap. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on my breathing. We end up holding the position longer than necessary while I struggle not to imagine brushing my fingertips through all that fur. In my defense, it looks so soft. “Bend forward from your hips, and try to touch your toes, but don’t force the muscles.”

Blake folds himself in half, more flexible than I imagined he’d be. I walk behind him so I can help with the stretch, but then I get an eyeful of his glutes, barely covered by the flimsy fabric of his sweatpants, and holy hatpins, it’s breathtaking. My adrenaline spikes as I place a hand on Blake’s lower back, encouraging him to flatten it. How can touching someone so innocently be so addicting? I want to smooth my hands over every part of him. But professional physiotherapists donotfondle the clients.

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