Читать книгу Feels So Right - Isabel Sharpe - Страница 9

DEMI GLANCED AT the clock on the wall of her office, embarrassed to be so jittery. Two more minutes until Colin arrived. Stay cool, girlfriend. He was just another client, a man in pain, one of the many she’d treated, one she’d be able to help. For today she’d ignore her whole-client philosophy and concentrate on seeing his body as a collection of muscles, tendons and bones. There would be time for worrying about his brain later—if he stuck with the therapy.

Mysterious, this upset to her system. Demi knew what kind of guy attracted her, and the überjock was definitely not it. Besides, Colin had a serious girlfriend. Sharon or Tiffany or something. A marathoner. Not that he’d look at a woman like Demi twice anyway, especially after she’d pissed him off so badly last time by gently trying to get him to face the truth about his recovery—or lack thereof.

Another glance at the clock. One more minute. Would he be out in her waiting area already? Her studio space, originally a two-bedroom apartment, had been renovated into a waiting room, office, one small room for examination and massage and a larger one for exercising, with a gym mat, treadmill, stationary bike, and the free weights, balls and other tools of her trade.

The minute hand of the clock joined the hour hand at twelve. She gave up her rather lame attempt at updating her previous client’s file and stood. Ready, set, go. Reminding herself of Colin’s anger and poorly hidden contempt at their last meeting, she lifted her chin and opened the door to the waiting room.

Her body went on an immediate adrenaline fizz.

Yeah, he was there. And he was still gorgeous.

At least she’d prepared herself. The first time she’d opened this same door to him back in August, she’d been so flustered by the intensity of his brown eyes and the sheer beautiful size and shape of him, she’d blushed, dropped her gaze and mumbled like a complete geekazoid.

“Colin, hi, come on in.” She smiled and gestured toward her massage room, this time blushless, in control and professional.

He nodded and stood slowly, hitches in the motion indicating muscles lashing out at him.

“Uh-oh.” Demi’s smile faded when she saw what the movement cost him. “You don’t look so good. Bad pain?”

“It’s—” His response was cut short by what must have been a killer spasm. “Not the greatest.”

Translation for a normal human: nearly unbearable. When it came to pain, elite athletes spoke a different language.

“I’ll work on that today—should be able to give you some relief.” She followed him into the small room where she did her massages. Decorwise, she’d worked to achieve a balance between clinical and luxurious. Half examining room, half spa, with softer lighting than one would expect from a medical office, and nice touches like fresh flowers courtesy of Bonnie Blooms, a CD player for music and a light scent she sprayed on the bedding, floral for women, spice for men. “You know the routine. As many clothes off as you’re comfortable with, under the sheet on your stomach. If you need help getting on the table, yell and I’ll come in.”

“Right.”

She smiled and left the room, waiting outside the door, knowing he wouldn’t call even if he was in agony. Honestly. What an ego. Risking serious injury to avoid asking for help? Crazy. But he wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. She’d gotten used to people’s peculiarities. Women who hated being touched, men who liked it way too much …

“Ready,” he called. Sooner than she’d expected.

She waited three beats and went in. Colin lay with the sheet down to his waist, shoulders as broad as the table, looking like a sexual invitation—or he would if his body wasn’t stiff with pain. She eased a cushion under his hips to relieve pressure on his back, opened her heated cabinet and took out a blanket, pulled the sheet up to his neck and draped the warm cover over him. She was glad to hide him from view while she collected herself, cranky that this difficult man provoked such a strong reaction and that she couldn’t seem to control it.

Heading for the hand sanitizer she abruptly rechanneled her brain when she found herself wondering how much Colin was still wearing under the sheet. “How have you been?”

“Fabulous,” he growled.

Ah. Still Mr. Sunshine. Okay, then. She’d stick with his physical problems today, give him some relief and worry about the rest of him another time if he gave her that chance. “Can you describe your pain? Any particular location?”

“Down my right leg. Neck. Shoulders. Back.”

“Doesn’t leave much, does it.” She suppressed a very tempting told-you-so and turned on her CD player, which filled the room with a bland but relaxing tune she’d heard so many times it barely registered. “The leg pain is from nerves pinched by the disc bulging in your spine. The rest is sympathetic reaction from other muscles, which—”

“I know where the pain comes from.”

Grrr. Demi sent him a poisoned glance he couldn’t see. Lovely, lovely man. Just as well. If he had an appealing personality to go with those looks and that body, he’d be much too dangerous to have around. Not fair for one person to have that much going for him, anyway. “I’ll see what I can do today about loosening you up.”

“That would be good.” His voice was softer.

Well. Not exactly charming, but better. Demi pulled her bottle of peppermint-scented oil from its warming stand and poured some onto her hands, concentrating on the familiar routine. “I’ll start with a light massage, then we’ll go deeper. You let me know when it’s too much.”

As if he would. She could probably light matches and stick them under his fingernails and he’d pretend not to notice.

“Okay.” His voice was strained now.

Hands oiled, she had no further excuse to avoid touching him.

So.

This was about his back. Just a back. She’d seen many beautiful backs before, athletic and otherwise. This was nothing different.

Demi laid her hands on him gently, started light sweeping motions following the muscles, encouraging blood flow and warmth, forcing her mind to register only the muscular system beneath her fingers. Trapezius. Latissimus dorsi. Deltoid. Teres major and minor.

So far so good, but she was keeping her movements brisk and mechanical, something she generally avoided. Slow stroking did a lot to bring comfort and pleasure to people in pain. Colin was a client like any other, and Demi wanted to bring him that pleasure.

Uh. She should not have phrased it that way.

Lips determinedly tight, she slowed her movements, traced his muscles more sensually. Colin needed as much TLC as anyone, maybe more, since the macho guys seldom knew they needed it and even fewer knew how to ask for it.

Her fingers relaxed into the slow pace of the music. She dipped them again in the peppermint-scented oil and moved up into his neck, appalled at the tension. This guy was suffering.

Back and neck warmed up, she moved downward to his gluteal muscles, blocking out the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything but skin under the sheet, blocking out any picture in her brain but those suitable for an anatomy class, because otherwise her thoughts would go down an entirely different path.

They did anyway. Colin let out a groan of pleasure, and Demi had the absurd urge to lean down and press her lips to the small of his back, let her hair sweep over his—

For heaven’s sake.

Gluteus maximus. Largest of the butt muscles, supporting the pelvis, vital in maintaining an erect—

Torso, Demi. Torso.

Moving on, probably sooner than she should have, she swept over the long muscles in the backs of his thighs, the biceps femoris. He seemed to be lying easier now, already more relaxed.

“Better?” She moved up toward his back again. “I’m going to go deeper now, put strong pressure on the spasming muscles. It won’t feel good while I’m doing it, but you’ll heal faster in the long run.”

“I can take it.”

Demi rolled her eyes. Of course he could. She could drop an anvil on his head and he’d insist it was a mild bruise. Guys like him reminded her of the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, one of Wesley’s favorite movies, in which a battling knight with amputated limbs insisted he was suffering only a flesh wound.

The next part would be a lot easier on her nerves. Neuromuscular therapy was substantially less sensual than the stroking involved in Swedish, and she had hard work to do, going for the most problematic muscles with fingers, fist or elbow, holding strong pressure until they relaxed and gave. Slowly, carefully, she worked on him, finding the process deeply satisfying. Time flew, and she managed to keep her thoughts strictly G-rated.

Well … maybe PG. One PG-13 when she was working on his butt the second time.

“Okay.” She trailed light fingers over his back, then laid a firm hand between his shoulder blades before she lifted it off. Done. It was over. She’d survived. “You’ll be sore tomorrow, maybe the next day, but after that you should start feeling looser.”

He lifted his head, turned it experimentally, pushed cautiously up onto his elbows. She covered his body immediately with the sheet and blanket. “Feels better already.”

“Good.” Ooh, he’d said nearly a whole sentence. “We’ll do this again, then get you to where you can start on some exercises.”

“Gee, really?” He rolled cautiously onto his side. “Ten whole minutes on a stationary bike? Two or three sets of leg lifts?”

Grrr. “Gotta start somewhere, Colin.”

“I know, I know.” He lowered his head back down to the table. “Sorry.”

The word came out as if it hurt worse than his back, but it did come out, and made him human enough for Demi to experience a quick pang of empathy. “In the shape you’re in, you’ll come back fast, Colin. Sprint triathlons are a sure thing, I’m betting within the year.”

He grunted and managed to sit up, keeping the sheet safely tucked around his lower half.

Unfortunately, this gave her a superb view of his impressive chest. She spun around and busied herself arranging the scent bottles on her counter, which were already neatly arranged. Sprint triathlons were a hell of a comedown for someone hoping to qualify for the Ironman World Championship. A quarter-mile swim, twelve-to-fifteen-mile bike ride and three-mile run. He could do that in his sleep.

“I know. Doesn’t seem much of a challenge. But it’s better than being out of the circuit entirely.”

“Whatever.”

Demi should have known better. Colin was still grieving hard over his loss; he wasn’t ready to see any of the positives yet.

“You should be able to whip a couple of old ladies your first time out.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. You think I’m just trying to build your hopes up, but I’m not kidding.”

Astoundingly, she heard the beginning of a chuckle. “Don’t even talk to me.”

Demi handed him a bottle of cold water, grinning. “Come into my office when you’re dressed.”

“Right.”

She left the room and strode into her office, congratulating herself. Excellent job, Demi Anderson. A whole hour and she hadn’t once sexually harassed him. A fine day’s work. She should call Wesley or her friend Julie and go out for a celebratory drink. Guess what? I had Colin Russo in my office and didn’t grab his crotch! Yay!

She giggled, imagining their faces, and wrote some notes on Colin’s chart, not that she was liable to forget their session by the next appointment—if he came back.

In pain. Uncommunicative. Hotter than a blast furnace. Identifies self strongly as triathlete. Must work on emotional acceptance of injury and its fallout as well as standard treatment for L4-L5 disc rupture.

Okay, she didn’t really write the part about the blast furnace.

“I’m here.”

She looked up, still refusing to blush, and gestured Colin into the chair set in front of her desk, wishing she’d thought to move it back several feet. But at least being behind the desk gave her a feeling of safety and authority. “You’re moving easier.”

“I feel better.” He sat without as much effort as he’d used to stand, and rested his hands easily on his thighs. Demi felt as if the walls of her office had closed in a foot at least.

“You’ll want to be on anti-inflammatories the next couple of days.”

“Okay.” He held her gaze steadily, as if he expected something from her. Demi opened his file, picked up a pen, took off the cap, wrote, What the heck is he thinking? in her most professional scrawl, then put the pen down.

“Colin, maybe we should talk about why you left. Why you came back. What you want from me and this treatment and how you feel about both.”

“My feelings?” He looked disgusted. “This is physical therapy, right?”

Grrr. Demi needed to set boundaries right now or this would never end. Taking her sweet time responding, she leaned back in her chair and pretended to study his file. “You probably didn’t know this, but I’m a betting woman.”

“And …”

“And I bet I can tell you exactly how much your parents enjoyed your teenage years.”

His silence made her wonder if she’d pushed too far, if they were about to embark on Colin Russo Tantrum, Part II. But when she glanced up again, he was looking amused for the first time. The expression changed his whole demeanor, got rid of the grouchy-brows and downturned mouth, relaxed his forehead and eyes. And made him even better looking, less sulky and more vibrantly male. She could only begin to imagine his magnetism when he was operating at one hundred percent. “I was hell on wheels.”

“Not surprised.”

“I still am, I know that. This is not easy.”

“I am not suggesting it is, or that it should be.”

“But I don’t need to beat you up with it?”

She shrugged. “I think I could do you more good without that, yes.”

“Okay.”

Demi raised her eyebrows. “It’s that easy? I say ‘please play nice’ and you do?”

“I tried doing this my way, and figured out when I could barely get out of bed this morning for the fifth time this month that my way doesn’t work. My body isn’t behaving the way it has for the past thirty-four years. The rules have changed. I have to get to know a new person but it’s still me.”

“It won’t always be this bad. But yes, it’s tough for athletes. You have such intimate knowledge of bodies—your bodies.” Oh, geez. Did she have to phrase it that way? He looked mildly surprised, still amused, his deep brown eyes intently focused on her. Demi was so flustered she had to look back down at his file. “Now that has changed, you’ll have to form a different kind of intimate … relationship.”

Stop. Just stop right now. Except he wasn’t saying anything and she couldn’t stand silence.

“I know you can do it.” She closed his file, folded her hands on top of it and determinedly met his eyes again—then wished she hadn’t when she found them full of mischief. Her brain mushed on her. “Your discipline is already there. It’s just a change. You won’t be able to stay training … to keep so hard anymore. Hard on yourself.”

Okay, her face was officially on fire. All pretense at cool was gone.

“I give up.” She lifted her hands, let them smack down on her desk. “You’re hurting but it will get better. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

He was chuckling for real now, his face relaxing further. “I think it was funnier when you were telling me I’d have trouble staying hard again.”

“No, no.” She shook her head, hands up and out. “That is not my expertise. If you’d like me to help with your pain and the management of your injury, I can. But only if you are realistic about what we can accomplish and how far you can come back. That’s going to be much more difficult than the rest of it.”

His expression turned grim again. “So I’m discovering.”

“Now.” Demi composed herself, relieved they were back on familiar ground. “You’re a personal trainer and health-club manager.”

“Was.” His jaw set again. “Will be again.”

“You enjoy it?”

“When I can do it, yeah.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “The first thing we need to focus on is getting you out of this rut of only thinking about things you can’t do. To all my clients I preach the gospel trinity. Positive thinking, can-do attitudes and silver linings. These are the only ways your life can become better after a big change like this.”

“Right.”

She expected the cynical reaction. “Any hobbies?”

“Swimming, biking and running.”

“Uh-huh.” Somehow she kept from gritting her teeth. “Anything you did before you took up triathlons? Something you’d enjoy rediscovering?”

His eyes lit for a brief moment before he could resolutely shut down into misery again. Aha. There was something. Good thing, because he definitely needed a jump start back into feeling productive.

“I used to play alto sax.” He laughed without humor and shrugged. “I was pretty bad.”

“Doesn’t matter. If you still have the instrument, bring it by in a week or so when you’re standing easier. What else?”

His eyes narrowed. “Bring it here?”

She returned his gaze calmly. Was he going to fight her on everything? “How much does an alto sax weigh, about ten pounds?”

“Not quite.”

“Heavy enough. I want to watch you play to make sure you’re handling the instrument in a way that isn’t going to sabotage your progress. What else?”

His expression grew darker; clearly he thought her questions a waste of time. She had to remind herself to focus on that glimmer of mischief and good humor that had transformed him. She wanted to bring that man back, healed, whole and happy. Because if he stayed like this, she was going to have to medicate herself to be anywhere near him.

“I used to have another hobby.”

“Yes …?”

“I made knives.”

“Knives.” She wasn’t sure what to think about that. “Tell me more.”

“More?” He shrugged. “I made knives.”

Grrr. Just talk to me. “What kind?”

“Kitchen, hunting, whatever.”

“You make them from scratch? Blade and everything?”

“Everything.” A glint of pride. “Handle, blade … yes.”

“How cool.” She let the silence go a few seconds. “Why did you stop?”

“Ran out of time.”

“Would you say making knives brought you some of the same satisfaction as—”

“Here we go again.” He sent her a mocking look. “Is this physical therapy or—”

“Okay, okay.” She waved his question away. “My point is—”

“That my life isn’t over. I have plenty to live for, and though it might seem bleak right now it’s always darkest before the dawn and the world is my oyster.”

“Colin.” She looked at him disapprovingly. “You forgot every cloud has a silver lining and when God closes a door He opens a window.”

He actually grinned at that, making him even more irresistible. “I guess I did.”

“All joking aside, positive thinking, can-do attitudes and looking for silver linings are the tenets my practice is built on, so you can expect to hear about them until you’re ready to scream. When do you want to come back?” She pulled her calendar up on her iPhone before he could make fun of her again. “Next week I’ve got Wednesday open at two o’clock.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Good.” She stood. “We’ll make progress. Just please don’t push between now and then. Once the pain is gone, and I mean gone, not bearable, you can ride your bike ten or fifteen minutes, easy, sitting up straight. If that goes well, we’ll increase. Also, once the pain is gone, do a few, just a few, core exercises to keep those muscles from deteriorating too far. We need them strong to keep the pressure off your spine.”

“Right.”

“No cheating. No superhuman stuff. Baby steps at the beginning until the swelling is down.”

“Right.” He walked to the door, obviously in a hurry to escape her lecture, which, perversely, made her talk faster.

“Heat if you’re stiff. Ice if the pain seems new.”

“Right.”

“Colin.” Instead of kicking him in the gluteals, which she wanted to do, she gave him an encouraging smile, trying for supportive counselor and trusted medical adviser. “You’re going to be okay. Better than okay. You’re going to—”

“Right.” He opened her door and took off down the hall, still walking stiffly but looser than when he came in.

Demi strode back into her office, closed the door and slumped against it. Colin was going to be tough. She wanted to heal him and let him see enough progress that he could shake off his despair. He needed self-motivation and spirit to do the hard work of fighting back to his new normal. She hoped she could be enough coach, inspiration and taskmaster to help him—while keeping herself and her goofy crush under control.

Every part of her hoped that Colin’s recovery was smooth and quick. For his sake and hers.

Because if it wasn’t, there was a good chance one of them would lose it.