by Vivian Arend
Her golden brown eyes widen as she backs up toward the door. “You wouldn’t.”
I drink in the anticipation.
She stares back at me. “It’s just a friend request.”
“Pussy,” I say.
She covers her ears with both hands and runs out before I can drop the nuclear word again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thursday morning, Rory phones me before I leave for work.
“I’m sorry for meddling,” she says.
“I accept your apology, and I’m sorry for saying the p-word.”
“Good. Did you get any messages from your new friend?”
“No. Nothing. And Luca’s profile is weirdly bare. It looks like he only uses the account for business. He’s posted a bit about preparing for the garage’s grand re-opening, but not much else.”
“How did you say you met him?”
“He was buying flowers for someone. I assume it was for his girlfriend. He said it was a woman, and she was mad at him because he did some sort of thing he always does.”
There’s a pause. “I don’t know if I can talk about this.”
I gasp. “You think it was a sex thing? Like he was in bed with her, and did some sort of thing that offended her? I can’t even imagine. Actually, I can imagine. I’m imagining a lot of things.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
I hold the phone away from my ear and see that the screen is black. Rory probably hung up at the word sex.
I send her a text message apologizing, and then go to work.
Thursday goes by like a typical Thursday.
Friday is no more interesting. I keep hoping Luca will stop in, or post something on Facebook, like a sudden change in relationship status. His profile currently has it set to private, so I can’t even see.
On Friday night, I’ve been thinking about Luca Lowell so much that he comes to visit me in my dreams.
They’re very good dreams.
Saturday morning, my alarm clock goes off early. I don’t have to work today, but I do have to hit the road.
Today is the beginning of my weekend getaway at a hot springs resort.
Rory won the package through a contest, and was generous enough to take me with her. I pick her up in my car, and I pay for the gas and snacks to get us there.
We check in at the resort before noon, and go straight for lunch. She’ll go into the hot springs after we eat, but she won’t use the spa packages.
Rory isn’t just squeamish about people talking about sex. Her other issue is she can’t stand people touching her. She has to cut her own hair, and she takes Valium before dentist appointments.
Since she won’t partake in the treatments, that means double the massages for me, which I don’t mind.
The rest of Saturday passes in a fog of bliss.
I sleep like a log—a log who dreams about a tall, muscular, gruff-looking man with blue eyes.
At brunch on Sunday, I keep my vivid dreams to myself.
In the afternoon, I go to my next treatment while Rory visits the steam room.
In the treatment room, I’m given my choice of massage therapists.
I make a joke, saying, “I’ll take the one with the biggest hands.”
The attendant taps at her tablet. “He will be with you in a moment. Please make yourself comfortable on the table.”
She gives me a funny little smile, like she thinks I might be requesting a guy on purpose. My brain badgers me with worries.
Tina, now you’ve done it! This spa chick thinks you want a happy ending. Why’d you ask for someone with big hands? Aren’t the sex dreams more than enough for you? What if the spa puts you on some sort of registered pervert list?
I look at the door and think about making an excuse and running out.
But I don’t run out.
I’m curious about this massage therapist with the big hands. What would that even feel like? Every guy I’ve dated has had hands not much bigger than mine. I’m five foot nine, and my boyfriends haven’t been tall.
I get onto the table, face down, and cover my butt with the sheet. Minutes pass.
I imagine this mystery guy getting ready, washing his big hands and complaining to his coworkers about having to give yet another happy ending to a horny spa guest.
Unfortunately, now I’m thinking about happy endings.
Even though it’s a joke, my body starts to hum with excitement. My body does not understand the difference between a fantasy and a horrifying worst-case scenario.
I’d be mad at my body, but it’s been well over a year since I was touched, and my body is game for anything.
The door to the treatment room squeaks open, and someone slips in quietly. I lift my head to take a peek. The man looks like an Olympic skier from Norway. His square jaw and blue eyes remind me of Luca.
I put my face down and give myself a lecture:
Tina, do not moan. This man is a professional, and he’s going to give you a professional massage. Keep your mouth shut and keep your happy sounds to yourself. Do you hear me, Tina’s body? No wiggling around under his touch.
“My name is Daniel,” he says. “Are you enjoying your stay?”
“Yes. I’m here with my girlfriend.”
He chuckles. “Girlfriend, hmm?”
I pull my face up from the pads and turn to face Daniel. “Yes, my girlfriend. She’s very jealous. That’s why I can’t get a massage from a girl. That’s the only reason I requested a guy.”
“Very smart,” he says. He gathers up some bottles of oil and sets them on a rolling tray next to the massage table.
Then he gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe a word of what I’m saying.
I return my face to the oval-shaped padding and try to relax.
Tina, do not sigh, and do not think about Luca Lowell. Do not imagine those are his big, paint-speckled manly hands on your lower back.
Daniel gets to work, softly explaining each part of the massage as he goes.
“You have some areas of tension,” he says.
“Oh?” My voice is muffled in the padding.
“You’re going to put me through my paces. Hang on, you’re going for a ride.”
Hang on? Hang on to what? What ride?
Something whirrs, and the table lowers, moving about a foot closer to the ground.
“Much better,” he says. “Now I can really get in there.”
I scrunch my eyes shut. There’s no way this guy has been through formal training. They would have taught him not to say things like get in there.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs.
His hands are on my shoulders, and I know what he means, but still. If I’m not allowed to moan, he’s not allowed to say I’m so tight.
“Feel free to vocalize,” he says.
“Very good work,” I say quickly. “Yes, I’m enjoying this massage exactly how it’s going, thank you.”
He chuckles and keeps working.
His fingers knead the muscles between my shoulders. Just when the pressure starts to become too much, he moves down. His hands on my spine are a revelation.
My whole body tingles with happiness. My skin feels like it’s glowing.
He moves back up to my shoulders, then my upper arms. When his long fingers wrap around my biceps, his hands feel bigger than ever.
Images of Luca come to mind. He’s fixing a bike, and there’s dark oil on his hands. He looks up when I walk in. I’m wearing a tight shirt and sexy black leather pants, like former good girl Sandy in the end of the movie Grease.
This is all happening in my imagination, where I don’t look at all ridiculous in my leather pants. Luca stands and crosses to the sink to wash his hands. I tell him not to bother washing up, because I can’t wait. And I want to feel dirty. So dirty.
“You look good,” he growls.
“Tell me about it, stud.”
His upper lip curling up, he grabs a loose rag and gives his palms a quick wi
pe as he walks toward me. His hands are magically clean. He reaches down and grabs my ass. My ass feels like a million bucks in my tight leather pants.
He groans near my ear, “Your ass feels like a million bucks.”
“I know.”
I jump up and wrap my legs around him. He catches me with perfect timing. We start kissing, and he carries me over to the wall. He keeps kissing me, but he’s also looking over at the calendar on the wall next to us.
I get mad at him for looking at one of his pin-up girls. He laughs and pulls the calendar off the wall to show me. It’s not some model, but a picture of me. I totally forgot how I hired a boudoir photographer and made that calendar for him!
He tosses the calendar aside and returns to kissing my lips and neck, all the while grinding into me against the wall. Magically, our pants disappear. The pants are gone. And then…
“Are you asleep?” a male voice asks.
My eyes fly open, taking in a limited view of the slate tile floor. I can see the massage guy’s feet. He’s wearing socks with sandals. Total turn-off.
“I think you were asleep just now,” he says.
I moan groggily. “Maybe I did drift off.”
“You sounded like you were having a good dream. You were moaning.”
I lift my head up to give him a stern look. “I dreamed I was eating pancakes.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, quirking his eyebrows. “I won’t tell your girlfriend.”
“She was in the dream, too.”
Grinning, he walks over to the sink and starts washing his hands. The massage is finished. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he says.
I shoo him away with one hand. “You’ve done more than enough, Mr. Big Hands,” I mutter under my breath.
After he leaves, I sit up and wait a minute for my sinuses to clear. Humans weren’t made to lie face-down.
I grab my robe and head to the changing room.
That was absolutely the best massage I’ve ever had in my life, but now I’m miserable.
I’m miserable because I can’t afford two hundred dollars to get touched like that every week. Even if I did have the money… yuck. Just yuck. Paying Mr. Big Hands to touch me is just wrong.
I get dressed, doing some mental math.
Technically, I could afford this about once a month, if I cut back on shopping.
Dressed again, I walk out to the cafe, where Rory is already seated for high tea.
“Your face is weird.” She pours me some cinnamon-scented tea.
I rub my forehead. “These lines will disappear after I drink some water. I’m probably dehydrated.”
“No, I mean you’ve got a goofy look on your face. It’s a look I haven’t seen in a long time.”
I use the silver tongs to transfer a tiny cucumber sandwich from the tray to my plate. “Okay,” I say, barely paying attention.
The food looks good, and I’m starving. I could eat a hundred of these tiny sandwiches. I could grab them by the fistful and stuff them all into my mouth, Godzilla style.
Rory leans in and whispers, “Did that massage guy… touch you?”
“Yes, Rory. That’s pretty much the definition of a massage. They have to touch you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, he didn’t touch my p-word.”
Rory makes a gagging face, then drops the subject.
We finish our tea, pack up our suitcases, and check out again.
The sun is setting as we start the drive back home.
I feel tired, but also rejuvenated. Rory’s skin looks great from the sauna.
“Thanks for bringing me with you,” I say once we’re on the highway. “You know you could have sold the prize for cash, but I really appreciate you bringing me.”
She’s quiet, and I pull my eyes off the road to look at her.
Rory is crying silently, tears glistening on her cheeks.
My throat tightens. Rory almost never cries.
“What’s wrong?” I return to facing the road, giving her some privacy.
She sniffs. “I didn’t win the getaway. I bought it to cheer you up, because you always get so sad this time of year.”
My eyes burn, and now I’m on the verge of crying.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say softly.
We drive for a while in silence. The sun is gone, and the sky is cool blue, and getting darker.
After a while, I say, “Thank you for this weekend, Rory. You know I love you, right? You’re my boo.”
She sniffs again.
“I’m holding you back,” she says.
“Don’t be silly.”
“You should have a boyfriend. You’re pretty and smart and funny. And you don’t have some major psychological issue that prevents you from kissing or holding hands. All our other friends are moving on, getting married, having kids. The only reason you’re still single is me.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s the only reason.”
She turns and climbs over the seats to get the tissue box from the back window. She returns and blows her nose.
We drive in silence. The inside of the car feels cozy compared to the midnight blue around us.
“I should let you go,” she says.
I laugh nervously. “Rory, are you breaking up with me?”
“We should take some time apart.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve been single for a year, and I’m still getting dumped. Life isn’t fair.
She sniffs again. “Or you could go on some dates,” she says. “Maybe once a week. Then I’ll know I’m not holding you back.”
I stare at the dotted yellow line on the highway, thinking over what she’s said.
“I love this song,” she says, turning up the radio.
It’s a woman singing a cover of Fields of Gold, by Sting.
The lyrics are about someone asking to be remembered when they’re gone.
The song reminds me of my first love, who died two months after graduation. But that’s because every sad song reminds me of him.
Whatever’s holding me back, I don’t think it’s Rory.
CHAPTER SIX
It’s been two weeks since my massage at the resort. I’ve been thinking about Mr. Big Hands. A lot.
Monday morning, I’m lost in my head, walking down Baker Street on my way to open the store. A sign in a window catches my eye:
Massage Therapist On Duty Monday-Friday
There’s a massage therapist working at the chiropractor’s office. Of course there is. I wouldn’t need to drive out to the hot springs to get a massage.
I linger at the window, trying to get a peek inside. I wonder if the therapist is a guy or a girl.
There’s a brochure-holder box near the front door, full of brochures and business cards. A bunch of the shops around here set out material like this, for the people who come by the restaurants in the evening.
I’m reaching for a card when I hear a deep male voice.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I jerk back my hand guiltily and turn to see Luca Lowell. He’s wearing biker boots, jeans, and a plain gray shirt that’s straining to contain all his muscles. There’s something different about his handsome face. His hair’s a bit longer, letting its waves show, but he’s less scruffy today. He’s clean shaven, with kissable smooth cheeks.
One thing hasn’t changed. Those bright blue eyes of his are once again taking my breath away.
I stammer,“Wha-what am I doing? Nothing. Just walking to work.”
He lowers his head and gives me a chiding look. “You don’t seem to be in any hurry. That explains why I’ve been out in front of your shop for the last ten minutes, waiting for you to open.”
“The hours posted on the door are more like guidelines. That’s why there’s a little star-shaped symbol next to all the times. The hours are flexible.”
He gives me a sideways look. “Are you going to get over there and help me out, or not?”
/>
I jump into walking again. “Right this way, sir.”
He walks beside me to the end of the block, and we wait for the light to change before crossing the street. It’s a gorgeous spring day. The morning sun hits the planes of Luca’s face, turning it into a masterpiece.
“What have you been up to?” he asks as we cross the street.
I press my lips together.
Tina, do not tell him about your new daydreams. Don’t tell him about your plan of paying a massage therapist to rub your back while you imagine having dirty garage sex with Luca. Don’t think about putting on sexy clothes and posing like a pin-up model for a custom calendar. Don’t even say the words model, calendar, or massage. Don’t say anything.
“Do you like massages?” I ask.
“Are you offering?”
“Sure. We’ve got a promotion, where you get a massage after your tenth flower purchase.” I laugh at what is probably the stupidest joke any human has ever made.
Luca gives me a pity chuckle.
We’ve reached the door to the flower shop. I pull out my keys and pretend I don’t notice the flirty look he’s giving me.
I push open the door, and Luca follows me into the cool interior.
“Chilly,” he says.
I start laughing.
“What?” He looks at me like I’m very strange. He’s not wrong, I guess. I did offer him a massage. And I’ve already planned six of the twelve pin-up photos I’d take for his imaginary calendar.
“It’s just funny to hear a big, tough guy like you say the word chilly.”
We walk in past the ferns, which tickle my bare arms. I’m wearing a flower-print sundress today, and gladiator-style sandals.
He says, “I’ll have to watch what I say around you. I’ll stick to big-tough-guy words, like bullets, and barbed wire, and battleships.”
I flick on the lights and pivot to face him.
“Bullets, barbed wire, and battleships? You could put those three things together and make a great tattoo.”
He laughs. “That’s a good idea, but I don’t believe in tattoos.”
“What are you talking about?” I laugh and reach out to squeeze his forearm. “How can you not believe in tattoos?”
He looks down at my hand on his arm.
Tina, you’re touching his arm. You asked him if he likes massages, and now you’re forcing one on him. Bad Tina! Let go of his arm. Stop squeezing his muscle. It’s real, it’s spectacular, and it’s not yours to squeeze.