"Not so much." I added tentatively, "What about Magnus?"
"What about him?" He got my meaning. "No, he wouldn't. He's a good guy."
We discussed other possibilities as I massaged his leg, but Forrest's voice became dreamier and soon his body relaxed into sleep. I finished his treatment gently then took up his hand again. I enjoyed complaining too much to admit it, but I liked giving him hand massages, amused by how much he loved them.
Everything I knew about Forrest, his strength and determination and pain, welled up in me and I rubbed his hand tenderly instead of clinically.
He closed his hand over mine and murmured, "Marika," then released his grip.
Released it, but locked it around my heart instead. Of course he wasn't over her. How could he be?
And why did it matter to me? He couldn't be anything but my client.
Chapter Nine
I felt awkward seeing Forrest the next afternoon, even though he didn't know about our hand-holding episode, but his slight limp pulled me into clinical mode at once. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's fine." He seemed oddly happy. "Too much skating, I guess."
"Did it hurt yesterday?"
"Not during the game. It was achy last night, so I iced it like you said. Listen, I have great news. Mom wants to see more miniatures."
Fear and delight and nausea and shock swirled through me and I stared at him.
He frowned. "I thought you'd be thrilled."
"I am," I said, even to my own ears sounding anything but. I tried again. "Of course I am. I'm just surprised. When did you ask her?"
"This morning. She's leaving tonight for three weeks in Europe."
"So that's why you skipped morning practice." I'd been confused by his early-morning text message; true, practice was optional the morning after a game, but I'd never seen Forrest let a training opportunity go by.
"Yeah. I didn't want to make you wait three weeks," he said, looking embarrassed.
"Well, thank you. It's wonderful."
I tried to hide my muddled feelings. I'd built the piece purely for myself, so I'd almost certainly shared more than I'd meant to about how I saw Forrest, with his mother of all people. I felt exposed, vulnerable. But wasn't that part of art?
A breath so deep my ribs creaked pushed away my confusion, and it began to sink in: she wanted to see my work. Jayne Smyth! "I can't believe she liked it," I said, laughing as I spoke.
Forrest grinned, clearly relieved at finally seeing the reaction he'd expected. "I can. I told you it was great." He dug around in his gym bag, coming up with several sheets of paper. "Here."
I flipped through the pages. In sharp and precise handwriting, Jayne had listed what she wanted to see. Colors, themes, materials, and even some detailed ideas. I'd play 'follow the leader' and her pieces would be easy to make. "Thanks. Did she say anything else?"
He considered. "She wanted me to say she's impressed with your massage skills." The muscle beneath his eye twitched several times before settling. "She'd pretty much thought my career was over."
I shook my head. "Why do people think saying that helps?"
He laughed, without much humor in it. "She's... straightforward, let's say. But she was happy you made me better."
"We made you better," I said, then felt cold ripple through me. "Wait, is that why she wanted to see my stuff? Because of how you're playing?"
The twitchy eye told me the answer before he said, "She did say she wanted to meet you before I showed her the piece. But she won't base her decision on that. She's a mother or a gallery owner, not both at the same time. She'll only sell them if she likes them."
I didn't want to use Forrest to get ahead, but I couldn't turn down such an opportunity either. "Okay, how many does she want to see and when?"
He eyed me for a moment. "She's back at the gallery November twenty-fifth and she'd like at least five."
I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing, before managing to say, "But today's the third. Five new ones?" I'd spent three weeks making just the one she'd already seen.
He nodded. "I told her how long the first one took, but she wants to see what you can do."
I tried to smile. "Going to be busy, aren't I?"
His gaze dropped to the massage table and he began fiddling with the blanket's corner. "Yeah, and there's something else."
"There are only five days in a week?"
He ignored my pathetic attempt at humor. "We have an away game a week from Thursday, in Denver."
"Okay," I said slowly, wondering why he was telling me. My sister Pam lived in Denver, but he didn't know that, and Filmore had said I wouldn't be attending away games.
A frown wrinkled his forehead, but it faded at once. "Oh, yeah, you wouldn't know. The fans in Denver weren't impressed when I left, because they thought the team had a chance at the playoffs with me there. I'd had a no-trade clause in my contract but I let the team trade me then so they'd get those other two good guys for me, but the fans felt I was deserting them."
He raised his head and his eyes, full of drive and fear, searched my face. "They'll boo me, no question, but I have to ignore it and play well." He looked past me, only fear in his eyes now. "Not well, perfectly. I need you there, Tess. I'm... I don't think I can handle their reaction alone."
I felt for him, but I felt for me too. I'd lose two full days, with the traveling. A shudder swept me as I remembered Sunday was the second-last swim meet before the championship, my second-last chance to qualify. Another day gone.
But Forrest needed me. He'd opened up and admitted his vulnerability. And massaging him was my job. I wanted art to be my job, but it wasn't yet. If he needed me, I had to be there. But how would I finish the pieces in time?
I rubbed my temples, torn.
Forrest's face took on the cold neutrality I hadn't seen for weeks. "Forget it. I'll be fine. Forget today, too." He picked up his bag. "Go home and work instead."
I'd create a schedule, plan my days down to the second. I could do it if I pushed myself. Jayne was opening the door for me. I would walk through. But I couldn't leave Forrest behind.
I shook my head. "No way. I'm sorry, I was wrong. I'll go to Denver."
He faced me, his eyes devoid of emotion. "You don't have to."
I held his gaze and let the words out as they swelled inside me. "I want to. I want to be there for you." And I did. Yes, I needed the art ready for his mother, but Forrest needed and deserved to be cared for, and I wanted to stand beside him.
He studied me. "You sure?"
I nodded. "Absolutely."
His shoulders dropped away from his ears and he smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
"You're welcome," I said, loving the warmth in his tone and eyes after the cold and blankness. I was doing the right thing, I knew it. But, three weeks?
I folded the pages he'd given me and tucked them away in my purse as he pulled off his pants and climbed onto the table.
"Now, do I need to book my own flight and hotel room, or does the team do it?"
"I'll take care of it," he said, staring at the ceiling. "You might not be on the same flights as we are, but that's okay. You'll be at the hotel with us. And I'll make sure you get picked up at the airport. And driven back too. It'll all work out, you'll see."
He was rambling, and I didn't know why. "The team doesn't do it? What about Mike? They must handle his arrangements."
"I want to make sure it all gets done right. Can we get going? I need to get home soon."
"Sure," I said, confused. I opened the oil and forced his strange behavior from my mind, concentrating instead on my work, on his leg beneath my fingers.
Maybe because of my focus, my senses were hyper-heightened. The smell of the oil mingled with his soapy scent into something both comforting and arousing. The sight of him lying open to my touch made my heart pound. The warmth of his skin against my hands felt like I'd touched him a million times and every time had been perfect, and I shut my eyes as a heat a
nd hunger I'd never known swept over me.
Eyes still closed, I slipped the tip of my tongue between my front teeth and bit down hard. The throbbing pain brought me back to myself. I was a professional, and he was my client. No part of my response was appropriate, and I needed to shut it down. Now.
When you open your eyes, you will see your client, not an attractive man. Got it?
I let my eyes open and I did see my client. But I saw the attractive man too.
Chapter Ten
After much effort, I came up with a plan to complete Jayne's five pieces. I gave myself four days for the first piece, to ramp up my speed, and three days each for the rest. With the three days I'd lose to the away game and my swim meet, that was nineteen days gone. The other two I kept in reserve in case anything interfered.
I set to work immediately, vowing to have a good start on the first piece in the few hours before bed time. All I got, though, was a vicious headache and the realization that working to Jayne's guidelines made it a million times harder to create, not easier as I'd expected. I didn't make anything worth keeping.
Not much changed over the next few days. I forced myself to put something together, but I hated it. The revolting little piece I'd begun wasn't mine. It was some sick combination of Jayne and me, and I couldn't bear to lay eyes on it.
By Wednesday evening, I was so blocked I scrubbed every inch of the bathroom to avoid working. I'd massaged Forrest that morning, then fought with the miniature until I'd been able to escape to his afternoon massage. I'd made myself swim afterwards since I knew I needed to, but I'd cut it short to hurry home. I had to work.
But when I tried to twist the few ideas I had to make them fit Jayne's guidelines they withered and died, leaving dull husks of what they could have been. I couldn't revive them, couldn't complete the piece, couldn't reach my dream. So instead I cleaned my bathroom with unnecessary roughness.
When the bathroom was done, I dragged myself to my table before I could launch into reorganizing the kitchen cabinets, promising I'd spend a blissful hour watching television for each hour I worked. I sat staring at the miniature, rage and frustration and a terrible sadness rising in me, for several minutes, refusing to let myself leave the chair but unable to do anything constructive.
So I did something destructive. I slammed my hand down hard, clay and fabric and paper giving way beneath my palm, then ground my fist into the piece for good measure. I ripped and shredded and mangled it until it was unrecognizable, then dropped my head to the table and cried.
The tears were painful to release but even worse to hold back, so I gave in and let them take me apart. I couldn't do this. The first step to my dream and I'd failed, and failed miserably.
When the phone rang, I saw Forrest's name on the call display and tried to pull myself together. If by some miracle I finished the pieces, I didn't want his mother to know how much I'd struggled.
"Tess, what's wrong?"
So much for self re-assembly. "Nothing. I'm fine. What's up?"
He paused, and I repeated, "What's up?", my tension driving the words out with increased force.
"Could we do an extra session tomorrow?" he said tentatively, and a blast of fury ripped through me, keeping me silent long enough for him to add, "With a game last night and one tomorrow, I could use another massage. One o'clock?"
"I can't do that," I snapped, snapped both in voice and somewhere deep inside. "I have my schedule set and I'll get even more behind. Why are you doing this?"
"I--"
"You're sabotaging me, aren't you? You don't like me doing something besides taking care of you. Well, don't bother. You can't break me, I won't let you, and I'm not going to quit. You can't make me quit!"
The tears took over again, and I clapped my hand over the phone's mouthpiece to hide them.
"Tess, when did you last do anything but art and massage?"
I swallowed hard, his concern bringing up a different kind of tears, and took my hand away. "I swam today. And yesterday. Monday too."
"But that's still work, right? What did you do for fun this week?"
I let the word 'fun' wander around in my head to see if it found a connection. It came back alone and unloved.
"You've been tense but I didn't know it was this bad," he said when I didn't respond. "Have you had dinner?"
I hadn't even had lunch, just a few crackers and some cheese, and I realized I felt sick and dizzy. "No."
"I'm taking you out."
"I don't have time, I have to--"
"Tess, listen to me." His sympathetic tone sent a tear down my cheek. "Someone very smart told me that even though I wanted to keep working I had to rest. I think that applies here."
"What moron said that?" I brushed the tear away, a tiny smile growing.
"I'll tell you at dinner, but she was no moron, I assure you. Wear something nice, no jeans. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
I didn't have time for dinner, but I couldn't go on this way either. I hadn't showered after my swim, though. "Make it thirty."
"Twenty," he countered. "I'm starving."
"Twenty-five."
"Good enough. Remind me how to get to you?"
I gave him directions as I threw the mess I'd made of my first professional art piece into the garbage. Maybe something at dinner would inspire me. I hoped so. Or else I was doomed.
*****
I'd dried my hair and dressed and was putting on lipstick when Forrest called to say he was nearly to my apartment. I snuggled into the delicate but warm seashell-pink mohair shawl Jen had crocheted for my birthday and headed downstairs.
Though I hadn't let Forrest in, he was waiting for me in the lobby. I walked toward him, wishing I owned something nicer than the long-sleeved full-skirted black dress I wore. It wouldn't have mattered, though. Nothing could have let me look as good as he did, his dark blue dress shirt and black suit making him seem even taller and more masculine than usual.
His head rocked back a fraction of an inch and his throat worked as his eyes swept over me, and he took a deep breath before he said, "Tess, you look lovely."
I smiled, embarrassed but pleased at how my appearance had affected him. "You're not so bad yourself. But how'd you get into the building?"
"I was waiting outside and an older lady insisted on letting me in."
I rolled my eyes. "They're not supposed to do that, but I guess she thought you looked safe."
He might have been safe for her, but he was a rink-sized risk for me. I could not be looking at a client the way I was seeing Forrest. I couldn't notice that he'd shaved since our afternoon massage, couldn't consider stroking my fingers along his newly smooth cheek, couldn't register the warm rich scent of the first cologne he'd ever worn in my presence. I couldn't, and I wouldn't.
I'd expected a sports bar, but instead he surprised me by picking Steel, not even two months old and already the hottest restaurant in Toronto. Everyone said you couldn't get a reservation earlier than next February, but somehow he'd managed.
"Want to talk about your art?" he said once we were seated.
I shook my head. "The word of the day is 'disaster'. Nothing more to say." I looked around at the silvery granite and gleaming hardwood of the restaurant, then turned back to him. "Do you come here often?"
He laughed. "That's your best pickup line?"
"I don't have to pick you up," I said, smiling. "You're already here. And I meant do you know this place?"
"Doesn't seem like me, you mean?"
I squirmed, trying to find an answer both true and inoffensive. "I thought you'd prefer a sports bar."
He gave a pretend shudder. "I used to, until people started recognizing me. That's less likely to happen here."
"What happens when people recognize you?"
"Oh, autograph requests mostly. Those aren't so bad, and I do them whenever I can because people appreciate it so much. I'm not so keen, though, when they tell me what I do wrong on the ice and how they'd do it if they were me
."
I put on a fake voice not dissimilar to Jen's contractor mockery. "Want to know how I'd do it if I were you?"
He said, "Oh, yes, please," while pretending to shoot himself in the head, making me laugh.
When our eyes met, though, my amusement faded. I hadn't planned an answer, so I reverted to my real voice and told him the truth. "Flat out. Exactly how you do it."
A slow smile grew on his face, and I felt its twin grow on mine.
"Of course you would. Look at you with the art. You and me, we're both stupid that way."
"Call yourself stupid, fine," a deep voice said.
I jumped, and turned to see a tall man in a charcoal suit and light gray shirt and tie, his short dark hair dusted with silver at the temples. Deep blue eyes, somehow friendly and hungry at once, studied me.
"She looks smart, though. Too smart to be out with you. So who is she, and how'd you convince her?"
"I asked her and she was nice enough to say yes." They shook hands and Forrest said, "Good to see you again," then turned to me. "Tess, this is Kegan, the owner of this joint. Kegan, Tess is my massage therapist."
As Kegan and I shook hands, he said, "Forrest, I'm jealous," and the open admiration in those vibrant eyes made me blush. "My massage therapist is a sixty year old man." He released my hand and pulled a business card from his jacket pocket. "If you ever want a new client, give me a call." He said 'client' but his tone said something different, and I looked at Forrest, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable.
"Okay, man, that's enough." Rolling his eyes, but with a faint smile, Forrest took the card and dropped it back into Kegan's pocket. "Don't even think about poaching my savior. Go get us some red wine, would you?"
"Yes, master." Kegan swept a ridiculous bow. Straightening up, he shot me a wink that made my heart race and departed.
"Friend of yours?" I said, trying to hide the heat the wink had sent through me. Those eyes would make a nun break her vows.
"Never met him in my life."
I stared at Forrest in confusion then slapped his hand when he laughed. "You're as bad as he is."
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