It was never going to happen. He’d been so drunk the night she told him she was pregnant, it had finally become clear there was no hope of a future for them. She had no interest in talking more about those days. So what the hell was she supposed to do now?
Your job. You can at least do your job.
She took a breath and smoothed down the front of her shirt. “It says here your shoulder is bothering you,” she said, glancing at the info sheet.
“Yeah, I think I did something to it on tour. I’m sure you’ll feel it right away.”
Like she really needed the reminder that she was going to have to touch him. Her hands—and her heartbeat—were anything but steady as she approached his nearly naked body on the table.
He turned onto his stomach and settled into position. She’d given plenty of massages to attractive men before. That he was her ex, and the father of her child, and way more built than the twenty-something she’d left behind didn’t change the fact that she was a professional who knew what she was doing.
But as soon as she felt the soft glide of his skin and the hard, unyielding muscle underneath, she didn’t feel so professional anymore.
“Where does it hurt?” she asked, trying to keep her voice under control.
“Everywhere,” he said, and for a second she could feel her heart breaking all over again.
Then he laughed and said, “I’ve been on tour for months, sitting in that goddamn van. Hunched over with the guitar on stage. My back is a mess. My right shoulder especially. You know the spot.”
Of course she did. It was where he used to be sore when he stayed up late in their cramped basement apartment, picking out chords on the guitar, trying to catch the notes of a new song. Where she used to rub his back as he fell asleep at night, when it still seemed like they’d always be together.
“Here?” She pressed with her thumb.
He let out a groan. “You always go right for the kill.”
She wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a dig or not, but she made herself move past it.
“You have a minor tear, but I can loosen up the muscle to reduce strain.” She used her hands to glide over the tender spot, pressing to see how much he could take.
He sucked in his breath when she kneaded harder. But when she asked if it hurt, he told her not to stop. “Whatever it takes,” he said.
“It’ll feel good after,” she promised him. “Even if it hurts for now.”
“Better than the opposite,” he said. And she fell silent, his dry humor hitting way too close to home.
“How long have you had this place?” he finally asked.
“Three years,” she said, using both hands to get deep into the muscle. “My parents helped me open it.”
“So, no law school.”
“No,” she said, moving across his shoulders, trying to focus.
He had cords of muscle now, exaggerating the divot of his spine. She worked her hands down to the dimples on his lower back. Her fingers dipped just below the sheet, finishing the long slide down his spine.
It was the same thing she’d do to loosen anyone up. But when she felt the elastic of his boxers—that answered that question—she pulled her hands away. Better stick to his upper back.
Not that his shoulders were much safer.
“No law school,” she repeated, her concentration faltering. She paused. “No college.”
She felt him stir and reminded him to keep his head down. “You didn’t go back?” She had no idea why he sounded so surprised.
Once again, she didn’t know what to say about Maya. Were they just going to pretend that nothing significant had happened? Something that might have made it hard for her to pick up her life where she’d left it when she so stupidly dropped everything for him?
She went back to the knots in his shoulder, kneading the muscle. He had a long scar along the ridge of his left shoulder blade, and she felt hard tissue underneath. It was new. Well, not new. It had been almost six years since she’d last had the right to know anything about his body. But new to her.
“What’s this from?” she asked, changing the subject. She knew it would be better not to talk, but silence was worse. It eclipsed everything, so all she could think about was his body, her fingers, how bizarrely familiar he still felt after all this time.
“Rock climbing,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
Her hands paused in their work. Forget familiarity—the Ryan she knew had been naturally skinny. He only worked his biceps to lift another beer.
“It happened when I first started. A buddy belayed me down too fast. I spun around in the ropes, got all twisted up, and slammed into the rock, right against one of those points that stick out. Handy when you’re looking for a foothold—less convenient when it’s jammed into your back.”
“Ouch,” she said, because she felt like she had to say something. Because since when are you a rock climber, and, are you just making that up so as not to tell me you were shitfaced and fell down the stairs, weren’t the kinds of things she could say to him. Not now, after so much time had passed. She wasn’t supposed to care about him—whether he was rock climbing, whether he was still drinking…whatever the hell he was doing with his life.
But she pressed her fingers more gently to him, tracing his skin until he told her to do it harder and they both, she thought, had to catch their breath at the request.
It doesn’t change anything, she reminded herself.
But the voice in her head wasn’t very convincing. Not everything between them had been bad, and she’d be kidding herself to pretend that it had.
Chapter Six
Oh. Fuck.
Sixty minutes had never felt so short in his life…except that lying on his stomach on the massage table was seriously starting to hurt.
It wasn’t simply from a little innocent blood flow due to being so relaxed he felt like he was melting. It was all because of her touch, her fingers stroking every part of his body except the one that was pressing into the table like a hammer, hard enough to break it in two.
He’d gotten plenty of massages for his shoulder before, and he could guarantee that this had never happened. When she brought her lips close to his ear and said, softly, “Take your time getting dressed,” he thought he might actually explode, hands free, right there on the sheets.
Turning over with Claire still there in the room wasn’t an option. She didn’t need to know the effect she still had on him. Not when he’d messed her life up in ways he hadn’t even imagined. He had to force himself to keep it together until the door clicked shut behind her and he was alone.
He sat up, slowly coming to. His limbs felt rubbery and warm. He rolled his shoulder and could already tell how much looser it was, that knot of pain no longer there. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t gone back to college or become a lawyer. And yet she radiated happiness here, and she was clearly damn good at her job.
He felt terrible that she’d had to leave him to find her path. But he was grateful she’d found it, all the same.
He put on his jeans, a button-down shirt, and laced up his black leather boots. He was taking her seriously about not rushing. He needed all the time he could get for Mr. Happy to calm the fuck down.
She was waiting for him at the front desk when he finally made it out of the massage room, a worn-out hoodie thrown over his arm. Claire glanced at the sweatshirt, a hint of a smile crinkling her eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She shook her head.
He raised an eyebrow. She’d never been able to weasel away from him before, and although he knew he shouldn’t be thinking this way, he was not-so-secretly delighted that she couldn’t do it now.
“You may have updated from sneakers, but some things never change.”
She gave him an obvious once-over, and he felt that hard press against his fly returning. Fuck, he couldn’t believe how good it still felt to know she was looking at him.
He gave a li
ttle shrug. It was warm in the office, and he rolled up his sleeves. But as soon as he did so, he saw her eyes move from the sweatshirt to his forearm.
“What’s with the tats?” she asked without missing a beat.
He looked at his arm. He had no idea what to say. He’d just barely seen her again, for the first time in years. Laying everything on her was way, way too much.
Especially when as soon as he walked out of here, he’d be heading straight to the airport. He’d gotten his wish to see her this once. He might never see her again.
“I got it four years ago,” he said evasively. Four years, two months, and twenty-seven days ago, to be precise. That was how long he’d been sober, out of rehab, and making it on his own.
“What happened four years ago?”
Everything.
“I moved to Chicago.”
She looked up from the desk in surprise. “Chicago?”
“I left New York.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked down, away—anywhere but at her. “I needed a change of scene.”
“That must have been a big move.”
Oh, sweetheart, he thought. You have no idea.
“Something like that,” he said, and pulled out his wallet.
But she held up a hand, stopping him.
“On the house,” she said. “For old friends.” She paused. “Or something.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can.”
He passed her a credit card. “I’m either paying for this massage, or I’m leaving you a hundred-dollar tip. Or both, but I don’t have cash, so you have to charge me something so I can make good on my threat.”
She couldn’t hold in her smile. God, he used to fucking love making her smile. He wanted to say something about that basement apartment, how the idea of spending a hundred dollars on anything back then would have made them both laugh, cry, throw up, or all three.
But he had no right to go talking like that. And anyway, he knew it would take the smile right off her face. They’d had no money because they were a waitress and a musician with no college degrees, no savings, no family support, and no idea what to do.
Even more than that, they’d had no money because he spent it all. Sure, he had built-in excuses—rent, groceries, his agent, his manager, the instruments and gear and studio time he needed because they were building a name.
But he and Claire both knew where her tips went. Just because rotgut whiskey was dirt-cheap didn’t mean that shit didn’t add up.
She, too, seemed to hesitate, and he wondered if she was remembering the same thing—everything he’d done to deserve waking up to her bare half of the closet, despite how much he’d loved her.
“Just take it,” he finally said, and she nodded and reached for the credit card he was handing her.
This was business. That was the only reason she’d put her hands on him. So he’d better get that hard-on out of his mind. He’d better forget the way he used to feel when she was near.
She rang him up then groaned when the machine started sputtering halfway through.
“Sorry,” she said, tapping her fingernail against the desk like she couldn’t wait for him to get out of there.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” he said.
About anything.
A faint flush crept up her cheeks. She must have known what he meant, even when he couldn’t say it out loud.
“I need to call the wireless people and figure out what’s wrong. Add it to the never-ending to-do list.”
“You must be busy.”
She snorted. “You can’t imagine.”
He wondered what that was supposed to mean. Obviously, she was busy, running her own business with who knew how many clients a day. She didn’t have a ring, and she hadn’t said anything about another person in her life—although he hadn’t had the balls to ask. So what else was taking up so much of her time?
He inhaled, about to say, “Try me,” when he saw her eyes flit over to something on her desk, fast, then back again. Her cheeks reddened, and her finger tapped faster, desperate for the transaction to go through.
Ryan followed her eyes. When it was clear she was deliberately avoiding looking at him, he leaned over the desk to see what had caught her attention.
“What have you got there?” he asked, unable to stop from being nosy—and from inhaling the sweet lavender scent of her skin while he was close.
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t have to. Ryan saw the framed photograph on her desk and picked it up. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Another man, to be honest. That clean-cut guy she deserved.
But it wasn’t a man.
It was a child. A girl, pumping her legs on a swing set. She had long, dark hair and an enormous grin that made her gray eyes squint. The credit card machine finally spat out the receipt, but neither of them moved.
He kept having to swallow as if something were clawing up his throat. Not vomit—not exactly. More like his entire heart.
She wasn’t saying anything.
Why wasn’t she fucking saying anything?
“Claire.” He thought of himself as a pretty steady guy. He’d been through a lot, and he’d still come out the other side. But suddenly his voice was trembling, just like his hands.
“Her name is Maya,” Claire said, so quietly Ryan had to lean forward to hear her, relying on the edge of the desk to hold him before his legs gave out.
“She’s beautiful,” he said.
“I know.”
“She looks like you.”
Claire shook her head. “She has your eyes. Your hair. And definitely your temper.”
“My what?”
She smiled with a trace of sadness. “Don’t pretend you’re a saint.”
Yeah. She had him there.
“Claire,” he said again, because that was all he could manage. She wasn’t telling him what he needed to know, what should have been obvious except he still couldn’t wrap his head around it. “She’s…mine?” he had to ask, even though it felt so stupid to utter the words.
“Christ, no,” Claire said, a sudden fierceness ripping through her, and Ryan stepped back, startled. Had he totally misunderstood?
But then she said, “You may be the father, Ryan. But that child is all mine.”
Just hearing the word father kicked his pulse into overdrive. Was she kidding? But nothing about her face, or her words, said this was any kind of joke.
He swallowed, heart pounding. This couldn’t be real.
But he looked at the photograph again, at that small, beaming girl with Claire’s smile, Claire’s joy, and something heavy and solid flipped over in his stomach.
Or maybe it was he, himself, who’d been turned upside down.
“How could you not have told me?” he said, a million emotions crashing through him at once.
Her eyes widened in shock. “Are you serious? Of course I told you!”
Now he was even more confused. He ran a hand through his hair, trying not to totally freak out. Trying to think through what had happened.
“You didn’t,” he insisted. “You just…left. I came home that day, and you were gone and I—”
“You didn’t come home,” Claire said. “You were there when I packed. You were just passed out.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he genuinely meant it.
“At some point, you were puking.”
Fuck. “Also sorry.”
“After you walked out on me the night before.”
“Again, still sorry.”
“And when I asked you what we were going to do about the baby, you said—”
He winced and held up a hand. He shouldn’t have tried to revisit the past. He really didn’t want to hear what he’d done.
But Claire obviously wasn’t the same eager-to-please girl she used to be, because she kept right on going.
“You said, and I quote, Christ, Claire. Don’t you know I have a headache?”
He dropped hi
s hand. “I said that?”
“It’s not the kind of thing a person forgets.”
He knew he’d done some shitty things in the past, things people hadn’t hesitated to tell him about when he tried to make amends. But on a long list of bad, this was worse than he’d ever imagined.
He brought a hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension tightening again. “Jesus, I was such an asshole.”
She didn’t try to make him feel better with some kind of platitude about how it wasn’t that bad, or she was sure he had changed. She just leveled her eyes at him and twisted that knife as deep as it would go. “The real mystery is why it took me so long to figure that out.”
He looked away, feeling her words like a physical ache. He didn’t want to know what else he’d done or what else she thought of him. He didn’t want to say another word. He just wanted to run out of there, head straight to Chicago, and never look back.
But that photograph. His daughter. It still hadn’t sunk in.
“Did you really tell me? That you were pregnant?”
Claire folded her arms. “Why do you think you got so trashed that night?”
“Little White Lie had just signed with our label.” He may not have remembered half their relationship, but he certainly knew that.
Claire, though, shook her head. “That’s why you were late, despite promising me up and down that you’d be home because I was making dinner and had something I really needed to talk to you about. It’s also why you were already drunk.”
He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to die on the spot.
“But that’s not why you were so trashed that day. It was my bundle of good news that drove you out until the following afternoon.”
He winced, wishing he could go back to the kid he used to be and shake him until his brain fell into place. “You couldn’t have waited until I was a little more together to spring that on me?” he asked, biting back anger and regret.
Claire let out a laugh. “Ryan. If I had waited for you to be sober, I would have been pushing that baby out of me before you had a clue. And even then, it’s doubtful.” She arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to disagree. But he couldn’t.
Make Me Yours (Men of Gold Mountain) Page 3