When she said nothing, still staring openly at him in surprise, he went on. “I swear I didn’t know it’d be you. I didn’t even know you were a masseuse. The confirmation email just said M. Kilpatrick.”
“That’s my married name,” she said faintly. She could see his chest, the sprinkling of hair she’d always loved. God, he was still so fit. Was he naked? Of course he was, she cursed inwardly. He was here for a fucking massage.
He said nothing now, looking at her a bit strangely. He cleared his throat again.
“Look, I can go. You definitely don’t have to do this,” he insisted, shifting his weight on the table and she rushed forward, her arms outstretched as if to prevent him from revealing more of his naked body to her.
“No!” she cried out and he froze, looking at her in alarm.
“I mean, I’m… I’m a professional. I see people I know all the time,” she stammered, lying easily. “I’m fine to continue, but I can certainly step out and check the other schedules if you want to switch. It would just take a minute.” She made the offer brightly, perhaps too brightly, but her feet stayed firmly planted.
He hesitated a moment. “If you’re okay with it…”
“Definitely,” she stated. “No problem. Just uh… just lie back down for me.”
God, she could hear herself like a pathetic little schoolgirl.
He slowly lowered himself down, that beautiful face disappearing in the cushioned headrest. She could smell the tension in the room. Or, dear god, was she smelling herself? She felt a distinct slickness between her legs. What the fuck was JT Harris doing here?
As if he could read her mind, he popped his head up and turned to her.
“The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable, Maggie,” he persisted.
“It’s fine,” she insisted, walking over to him and placing her hand on his bare back, applying some pressure to get him to lay back down. He did, and she took a deep breath before touching him again and resuming the massage. What had been before just pleasant, warm flesh felt utterly different now. How on earth had she not recognized his body? This was a body she had known intimately. Every inch had been pressed against her. She had loved this body once.
For the longest time they were quiet, and Maggie sensed that he wouldn’t speak now, not unless she did first. So she fell back into the familiarity of her work, feeling his tension all over now, reversing the benefits of her earlier efforts. Eventually though, her curiosity won.
“You’re back in town, then?” Maggie said a silent prayer of thanks at the steady nonchalance of her voice.
“Yeah, I moved back a few months ago for a new job in the business district. But I used to live just over in Cresson.”
Cresson, she thought. Not even an hour’s drive from her these past six years?
“I, uh, I thought you were going to travel. Didn’t you have a job lined up in France?”
They had talked about France in bed, she remembered suddenly. He had gone on a week’s trip to Paris at the expense of the company scouting him. The night he had returned he had kissed her, murmuring in her ear in that seductive, scratchy voice of his of the smell of pastries wafting as far as the metro stations, the chic shopping districts, a boulevard he had strolled down lined with perfectly manicured trees. At the time she had wondered if he was priming her, if he might ask her to come along, and her heart had thrilled at the idea of such a reckless adventure with a new love. Later, she had cursed herself for such fanciful, stupid thinking.