Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Marilyn Baxter

  He could only speculate the sweats came from memories reactivated by Jillian’s work with his injuries. The hard-on? He had no doubts about the source of his arousal.

  At least she hadn’t come looking for him this morning with her angry scowl. Jillian was far prettier when she smiled, especially when the smile was directed at him.

  When he entered Eucalyptus, the manager sat behind the desk, her attention focused on a computer screen.

  “I know,” he confessed before she could reprimand him. “I’m late. I didn’t sleep well last night and didn’t hear the alarm.”

  Jocelyn Palmer never looked up from the screen. “Jillian is waiting for you in Room Three.” She waved in the general direction of the treatment rooms. The band on her left hand clearly indicated her marital status. Though she wasn’t his type, Sam considered her husband a lucky man indeed.

  “Tell her about your sleep issues. She can have housekeeping put an essential oil diffuser in your villa. You’ll sleep like a baby.”

  Ah. Here came the voodoo. Sam grumbled under his breath.

  Jocelyn looked up from her work and gave him a bemused smile. “I scoffed at it too, but she’s made a real believer out of me. Just try it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right? And it can’t hurt you.”

  “I’ll just do that,” he lied, shouldering open the door leading to the massage rooms.

  The door to Room Three was open and Jillian stood at a corner counter, which held something resembling a mini fridge. He rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited for her response.

  She turned to face him and a frown turned down the corners of her full mouth. “You didn’t sleep well, did you?”

  “How—”

  “Even in this light I can see the bags under your eyes. An airline would charge you extra for those.”

  “Not if I carry them on and stow them in the overhead bin,” he retorted. Then the corners of her mouth tilted upward. Much better, Sam thought.

  “Your shoulders are closed in, too.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice. “And they had opened up so nicely over the past two days. Let me get out of here so you can get on the table. Let’s start face up. I’m going to use hot towels on you today.”

  Sam stripped once she left, all the while thinking that he’d have no problem baring all in front of her. Twelve years in the Army had eradicated any shyness he might have about his body. On the other hand, after last night’s dream, stripping in front of her might not be a great idea. Hell, he was already worried about turning the sheet into a pup tent once she began to work on him. She always smelled faintly of citrus and spice – so different from other women he’d dated. They often reeked of too-strong flowery scents that made his eyes water.

  He slipped onto the table, face up, and pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. Then remembering his tenting concern, he folded the sheet down to his waist so his mid-section was covered by several layers of cloth. Perhaps he should have left his boxer briefs on. He started to flip back the sheet and retrieve them when she knocked and entered.

  Man up, Sam.

  Aw, hell. He was afraid of doing exactly that.

  The device on the counter turned out to be a hot towel cabinet. After sliding a pillow under his knees for comfort, she withdrew a towel, draped it over his left shoulder and covered it with a dry one. She repeated the process on his right side. Sam had kept his eyes open, something he had never done in their previous sessions. Jillian worked efficiently, every movement serving a purpose. She moved to the head of the table, leaned over him and pressed against both shoulders simultaneously.

  He was face-to-boobs with her, and he couldn’t stop his tongue from licking his lower lip. Even fully clothed he could tell she was amply endowed. Not too big, but enough for a handful. Or a mouthful.

  His dick reacted. He was his own worst enemy.

  “How’d you get into this line of work?” he asked, hoping the energy required to hold a conversation would divert blood away from his crotch.

  “I’ve always liked helping people, and this serves that purpose.” She pressed against his shoulders more firmly, which positioned her chest even closer to his face.

  “You could have become a nurse. Or a doctor.” Conversation had become more difficult. He let his eyelids drift shut, hoping to regain some control.

  “Too much blood for me,” she replied.

  “Especially if you practice in a war zone.” Memories of blood and moans and the stench of death sobered him.

  Jillian didn’t respond. She pulled the wet towels from his shoulders and used the dry ones to wipe away any moisture.

  “We live in an impersonal society where we’re almost deprived of touch as adults. Touch is vital to human well-being. I had a few massages when I was in college, and I always felt better when I got off the table than when I got on it. Those experiences touched me. I wanted other people to feel that way, too. I wanted to be the best hour in a person’s day.”

  “You can get a college degree in massage?” Sam asked.

  “No,” she said, gently manipulating his shoulder. “I went to community college and got an associate business degree, and then I went to massage school for a year after that.”

  “I never made it to college. I had planned to go after my first enlistment was up, but then I stayed in and decided to become career Army. They taught me about computers and network security, but I don’t have a diploma and letters to put behind my name.”

  “The letters don’t mean much. I know plenty of people with big degrees who make no meaningful contribution to the world. I like to think that’s what is most important – helping others in some way. Making sure their lives are a little more pleasurable.”

  Twitch.

  “Are you from around here?” he asked in a continued effort to control his uncooperative lower half.

  “I grew up on the island but left for a while.” Why did he have a sudden interest in her life and career? Jillian wondered. The man had hardly said a dozen words to her after their initial encounter on the beach. Her life was no secret. She had nothing to hide. But she didn’t need to get cozy with clients, especially not this one.

  “I grew up in North Carolina,” he said. “In the mountains. It’s very different from here. The geography, of course. But the attitudes are different, too.”

  “Island living is quite unique for sure. The mainland is just across the causeway, but it’s like another world. Busier, more hectic. Most of the locals hate to leave the island. Of course, once I got older, I couldn’t wait to get away. I wanted to escape, and lived in Arizona until recently.”

  “I couldn’t wait to make my big escape from that little mountain town, too. I figured the Army would give me the opportunity to see the world.” He paused, then continued in a more sober tone. “Only problem was I saw parts I didn’t much care for.”

  She gently traced the scar hear his eyebrow. “Is this from those parts?”

  “Yeah.” The single word seemed to catch in his throat.

  Jillian decided to change directions, so she moved down the table and lifted the sheet from his leg, then tucked it underneath. His leg muscles tightened. She mentally ran through his chart trying to remember any mention of leg injury. There was none unless he’d omitted it.

  She squirted massage cream on one palm and rubbed her hands together before massaging long strokes from thigh to ankle. Despite her efforts on both legs, he refused to relax. His sudden tension confused her. Unless…. Many men feared having a sexual reaction during a massage. Maybe it was time to try something new.

  “Sam, will you allow me to give you Reiki?” she asked as she covered his legs with the sheet.

  He released a tired sigh. “I guess so. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he said, repeating what the spa manager had told him. “Anything special I need to do?”

  “Just lie there. I’m going to put something over your eyes, though, to help block out distraction.”

  “Whatever.”

>   Sam’s skepticism rolled off him in waves. Jillian straightened the sheet, covering him from the neck down. She also asked him to place his arms beside his body and to keep his legs straight. Then she placed an eye pillow across his eyes.

  “Smells good,” he said.

  “It’s lavender, like I used before. For relaxation.”

  She pressed her palms together for a few moments, her eyes closed and head bowed as if in prayer. Next she held her hands flat several inches over his left shoulder and waited.

  Sam lay motionless, his breathing slow and even. Jillian wondered if he was asleep given his restlessness the night before. Just as she was ready to move her hands to his other shoulder, he spoke.

  “Did you put a heating pad on my shoulder? It feels good.”

  Jillian pulled the eye pillow off with one hand, leaving the other in place over him.

  “Look at your shoulder,” she said. “I’m not touching you and there’s nothing there.”

  His expression grew wary. “You might not be touching me, but I felt, I mean, I feel heat. Where’s the heating pad?”

  “Look around, Sam. Where would I have hidden one so quickly? It’s the energy I told you about.”

  Sam snorted. “Voodoo.”

  “Call it what you will, but you felt it, Sam. You said so.”

  She pivoted to walk away and Sam grasped her by the elbow, then ran his finger down her arm to the wrist. Jillian squirmed and pulled her arm away.

  “Remember that professional line I mentioned?” she warned.

  “Am I crossing it?”

  “You are.” Her answer was short and curt. “And I’m finished here. It’s almost time for lunch anyway. Why don’t you eat, then change into swim trunks and meet me at the main pool at two o’clock? We’ll do some aquatic work.”

  He sat up, and the sheet fell to his waist. “My villa has a pool. A nice private one. I’ve gone skinny dipping every night.”

  Jillian fought unsuccessfully against the vision of Sam’s naked body gliding through the crystal clear water.

  “I think it’s best if we work at the resort pool.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” One dark eyebrow lifted slightly.

  Jillian planted her hands on her hips and sent him a pointed look of frustration.

  He slid his legs off the table and stood, wrapping the sheet around him and tucking the ends to hold it in place. Jillian took a step back.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked with a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Am I afraid of you?” She choked out the words.

  “Answering a question with a question. That’s very telling, Jilly.”

  She bristled both at the nickname he used and at his boldness.

  “I’m not afraid.” She hoped her erect posture convinced him of her statement because she wasn’t at all sure he didn’t terrify her just a little bit.

  “I’m not either,” he said, advancing toward her. “I like you. A lot. Even when you make me hurt on that damn table.” He winked and Jillian’s heart thumped in her chest.

  He continued to walk toward her, and she inched back until she could move no further. Sam placed his hands on the wall, his muscular arms on either side of her, trapping her in place. His head lowered toward her face, his lips parted.

  Was he going to kiss her? She wasn’t sure she could resist if he did. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to resist. She hadn’t dated at all in the short time she had been back on Mimosa Key. Her job and all the responsibilities on the home front had swallowed her time. What could one kiss hurt, anyway? Sam would be leaving in a week, and she wouldn’t let things go any further than this kiss.

  Jillian let her head drop back and her eyelids drifted shut. His breath was hot against her cheek and then….

  Sam brushed his fingers against her temple. Down her cheek. Along her jaw. Her skin burned where his fingers touched her. He traced the pulsing vein in her neck down to the V of her uniform top and then stepped away from her. A whimper caught in her throat and heat pooled deep in her belly.

  “I hope that didn’t cross your line too much.” His voice was a throaty whisper.

  If she didn’t need this job so badly, she would have straddled him right there on the massage table. Reality brought her to her senses. She had too much at stake – the shop, the house, her sister.

  “I think I’ll give your massages in one of the beach cabanas from now on. The salt air has marvelous healing properties.”

  Sam snorted cynically. “Yeah, right. A little more of your voodoo,” he said before turning his back to her.

  He dropped the sheet. Heaven help her, but she couldn’t stop herself from staring at his bare ass as he strode to the chair and pulled on his shorts and t-shirt. “Is that the only reason? I know you felt something just now. I sure as hell did. Or is it because I crossed your precious line, Jillian?”

  What was the reason? She wasn’t really sure. And why did it bother her so much that he’d actually used her real name?

  Chapter Five

  The tail on the black retro cat clock ticked off the seconds as Jillian jiggled the plug on her mother’s ancient percolator and made a mental note to order a one-cup coffee maker and a supply of decent coffee. Her morning dose of caffeine was the one bad habit she hadn’t been able – or even willing – to give up. Though as habits went, coffee was relatively benign. She could only hope that dreaming about Sam Hartman didn’t become a habit, too. She could ill afford too many nights like last night.

  After coaxing the reluctant appliance into action, Jillian showered while the coffee perked. She was meeting with Jocelyn in a little over an hour regarding Sam’s progress, and she needed to be awake and alert for it. When she emerged from the tiny 1960’s era master bathroom with its pink sink, toilet and tub, the aroma of dark roast permeated the small three-bedroom beach cottage she had always called home.

  Jillian dressed quickly in her uniform, and instead of taking the time to braid her hair, she pulled it into a ponytail. She glanced around the small bedroom that had been her parents’ and then her mother’s. The bed still had the same spread her mother had ordered from a catalog as a Christmas gift to herself after the divorce. The pink and beige cabbage rose print with matching curtains left no doubt this was a woman’s bedroom. Althea had been determined to make the room her very own and eliminate as many traces of her ex-husband as possible.

  Jillian tried to imagine how four people had managed to co-exist in such a small dwelling. Even after her father left his family behind, there never seemed to be enough room.

  Maybe it wasn’t so much the square footage as her outlook at the time. Daryl Logan had walked out because he said he’d had enough after six years of dealing with Becca’s cerebral palsy. Enough of what? Jillian hardly remembered him ever helping with Becca. Thankfully by the time he left, her mother had opened Mimosa Memories in the storefront that had previously housed Logan Realty, Logan Insurance, Logan Island Tours, Logan Imports and Logan Bike Rentals. All of her father’s businesses had failed and somehow, Daryl always blamed his younger daughter. Her therapy took too much of his time or the cost of her leg braces ate into his working capital.

  His excuses were as flimsy as the spider web in the corner of the bedroom. She made another mental note to ask someone at the resort for an exterminator referral. Just one more thing to add to her already too-long To Do list.

  Althea’s best friend Daphne was already working at the souvenir shop when Daryl filed for divorce and moved to Tallahassee. The last time Althea had been able to track him down to try and collect child support, he had been in Daytona Beach selling time shares and claiming to be broke. Eventually her mother gave up since family law attorneys didn’t work on contingency.

  Even as ditzy as she was, Daphne had provided stability for Althea and her two daughters. And after Jillian moved to Arizona, Daphne had moved into the house, taking Jillian’s old bedroom.

  On her way back to the kitchen, she passed Daphne’s
room with its eclectic mixture of interior design – island tropics with a dash of Moroccan and a pinch of arts and crafts. Next she paused at the door to Becca’s room, the only room with décor dating from the twenty-first century. The pink princess theme that had still been in place when Jillian moved out had been replaced. A blue and white striped quilt covered the bed and white plantation shutters provided relief from the relentless Florida sun. The teen idol posters were gone and pastel watercolors of island scenes hung in their place.

  Shame crashed over her like a tidal wave. After her father left, Jillian had waffled between resentment that Becca had broken up the family and needed even more of their mother’s time and guilt over having those negative feelings. She also carried unrealistic guilt about having been born healthy. That self-reproach and the eventual release of it were some of the other reasons Jillian had studied massage therapy. In Sedona she had volunteered at a children’s clinic and gave massages and Reiki for free. Sometimes she volunteered at Red Rocks House, a facility with home-like accommodations for parents of hospitalized kids. There she worked on weary parents who were often so stressed they could barely function. She considered the clinic work her penance for her ill-directed blame.

  The iPad she had given Becca for her eighteenth birthday had allowed them to video chat from time to time. She should have paid more attention, though. To Becca. To her mother.

  Jillian had vowed that once Becca returned from camp, all that would change. They would talk, eat meals together and do the things sisters do. With Daphne leaving, it would be just the two of them, and Jillian would make sure her sister’s life was the best it could be in spite of the issues her cerebral palsy raised.

  Back in the kitchen, Jillian poured coffee into a travel mug, added sugar and milk and screwed on the lid. She had fifteen minutes to drive from the house to Casa Blanca. Fifteen minutes was just enough time for the coffee to kick in and jolt her brain cells into high gear. Now if she could just find something to erase the memory of Sam’s touch, she would be in perfect shape.