Page 24 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

He shoots me a mock salute. “All right, boss.” Then he leaves.

Well, so much for friendliness.

I roll my shoulders back, ready to dig into someone’s muscles and ease their stress.

A lot of people cry on the massage table, and sometimes they don’t even know why. They just release the sorrow, the hurt, the buried anger, to get it out.

I’ve seen it so much that I simply tell people to let go, to not be embarrassed. We hold memories in our bodies, and when the memories are pressed on just right, they release in a rush, becoming a flood of emotion.

Afterward, clients thank me. There’s nothing better than having someone grab your hands, hug you, and say you helped them that day, that you made the burden easier to deal with.

That’s why I do this—not for me, but for the clients.

I buckle on my massage belt, which holds lotions, tissues, hair bands, smelling salts, and my own personal Bitty Being.

She sits in the front pocket, her cracked face visible—a split running down the middle. Yes, she’s cracked, but she was my first and means the most to me.

With my belt fully stocked, I’m prepared for anything short of a grease fire.

I’m about to enter the massage room when I spy a familiar shape in the receptionist’s waste bin.

Derek’s beheaded Bitty Being has been trashed—both parts. Still broken. Still bitty.

That jerk.

That’s probably why he was smirking—he knew I’d see his gift.

Well, two can play that game.

I dig it out of the trash (luckily there’s not much digging to do) and run it back to my office with a plan to glue it back together and regift it to him.

Then I quietly pad to the massage room, open the door, and step inside. The lights are dimmed and the sound of a jungle rainfall plays on low.

I halt as a shiver tingles down my back. The room should smell like the ocean and cotton. Instead, it’s soap and leather.

My stomach flips.

I know that scent.

Rhett Maddox.

And there he is—face down atop the table, lying on a perfectly folded towel, the edges aligned with the bed, suggesting this is a man who doesn’t like disorder or contact.

I inwardly scoff. We touched before—when he handed me a water—and he didn’t flinch then. In fact, his touch lit me up from the inside out, in a way I should probably not be thinking about.

I shake off the memory and take in his back. My gaze lingers on his naked flesh. Every line is taut and unfairly attractive—hills and valleys of smooth skin leading to his muscular shoulders.

Not overly muscled—the man can put his arms down. But still, wow.

Get it together, Cristina. It’s just a massage, not an ogling fest.

Right.

Rhett requested a full-body massage, front and back. Shit. He’s going to see me, and after all our runs-ins, he probably hates me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be so engrossed in the massage he won’t notice who’s giving it.

But just to be on the safe side, I pull my shirt over my mouth and lower my voice so that I sound like an alien. “I’ll start on your back.”

“Be tender with my tailbone. I fell earlier and it still hurts.”