Page 21 of Sterling Touch
But then my eyes land on two men who have just entered Milton Roadhouse.
My brothers Clay and Knox.
Glancing toward the opposite side of the bar, I watch Cort take a seat. Possibly the one he was sitting on when Henry approached me. He gazes up at the baseball game on the big screen like it’s the most fascinating game he’s ever watched.
For half a second, I curse my brothers’ appearance.
Then I cuss the whole lot of them for still holding a grudge.
10
[Vale]
Parents have the option of lingering during baseball practice. Rogue River isn’t that far away from Sterling Falls, but also not close enough for me to run some of the errands on my list, so I sit in my SUV because of cooler temps today and wait out Hudson’s practice. As much as I’d like to read the latest hot romance on my Kindle, my mind keeps drifting, along with my eyes, toward the practice field, where Cort is coaching Hudson on pitching.
Cort doesn’t look over at me once.
As I’ve had time to reflect on his sudden appearance in the bar the other night, playing savior against Henry’s rudeness, I realize Cort might have eventually been flirting with me. And I’m rusty on flirting.
My last date was almost a year ago. I can’t remember when I last had sex. I don’t have the energy or desire to hang out in a bar and play flirting games. Plus, there aren’t that many singlemen in this area that I haven’t already dated, or that didn’t date a friend once, or marry one of them first, and there is just something about being second fiddle that strikes a chord with me.
Most days I tell myself I cannot expect there to be a man in his thirties or forties whohasn’texperienced love with someone else first. I think I’m the anomaly.
By Wednesday, I’ve replayed my brief interaction with Cort last week in Milton Roadhouse over and over and concluded . . . nothing. My decision becomes clear—pretend it didn’t happen. So, when Cort enters the massage room, I’m as professional and distant as I can be.
But dammit, he looks so good in faded jeans and a dark Haven Exteriors T-shirt that hugs his chest and strains over his biceps.
Why does he have to be so pretty?
“I’ll give you a minute,” I say, after he nods in greeting at me. Because I’m the one needing a minute for another strong pep-talk about professionalism. He’s a patient. He’s injured.You will not lust after him. And the final punctuation on the internal speech is the reminder he cannot get you off.
That should do the trick.
Only, when I re-enter the room, and see the expanse of his back, my self-talk falls to the ground like a heavy brick. His trapezius is a work of sculpted art. His rhomboid muscles are defined. His latissimus dorsi cause the perfect valley along his spine leading to his gluteus maximus. But even the technical terms are no distraction from the perfection of him and how badly I want to run my hands over his shoulders, upper back, and ass in more than a medicinal manner.
Bad, Valentine. Very, very, bad.
“How is your lower back?” I ask, reaching for my tablet to gather myself. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being unbearable.”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a five. The massages help but by the end of a week, the pressure is back.”
I glance over at Cort and catch him watching me, his head awkwardly turned on the donut pillow.
“I’m sorry that happens to you.” I clear my throat, noticing my voice is too robotic. I do feel bad for him. Back pain is no joke. “You’ve been approved for more visits so let’s see if we can keep working out the kinks.”
Cort’s eyes widen, and a flash beams outward at me, like a beacon roaming over a dark sea.
Ignoring the spark, I step to his side and begin the calming work of introduction.
With my hands settled on his mid-back, I can feel his thumping heart, but he doesn’t stiffen as much as he did the first time. And I have a question for him. My heart says asking Cort something personal is crossing a line; my head says it’s the professional thing to do.
“Cort, may I ask you something?” The second I question him, tension occurs in his back, but I keep my hands still and my determination plows onward. “Do you have touch aversion?”
“What’s ‘touch aversion’?” he mutters into the pillow surrounding his face.
“It’s when you don’t like to be touched by anyone. Touch makes you uncomfortable. Possibly, you even have a fear of it.” The thought that he’s afraid of my hands wounds me and yet I know it’s possible. “Technically, it’s called haphephobia.”
Silence follows my explanation, and I move my hands during the awkward quiet. Beneath my touch, Cort takes a deep breath. I wish I could see his face, maybe read his eyes, but I can’t. With his back to me, I’d been hopeful the disconnect might make it easier for him to answer me.
