Читать книгу Call To Engage - Tawny Weber - Страница 10
ОглавлениеJEREMY PRESCOTT HAD been a man of great responsibility, deep pride and a quirky sense of humor. When he’d died, he’d left behind a devastated family, a tidy nest egg and a few special bequests to his only son, Elijah. Among them were sage bits of advice, mostly in the form of clichés handed down with a wink and a smile; the responsibility for an emotionally fragile widow with a propensity for drama outmatched only by her gift for nagging; and a cherry ’53 Corvette.
Chevrolet’s first attempt at what would become an icon. The red body was a rough testament to fiberglass, the white leather interior almost flawless with some wear and tear along the edges of the driver’s seat. Granted, at ten years old, Elijah had been too young to drive—hell, his feet had barely reached the pedals—but nobody challenged his right to the car. For a while, especially when he’d been deployed overseas, he’d kept the vehicle garaged at his mother’s. But two years ago a friend had convinced him to live a little, to bring it down to Coronado, take it out for a ride once in a while.
Given the cost of gas, he’d often joked that cruising the car was his guilty pleasure. The pleasure was dimming as he was cruising past hour seven on the drive from Coronado to his hometown of Yountville. Nestled in the heart of the gorgeous Napa Valley, the charming town was known for its fine dining, with restaurants like the French Laundry pulling in locals and tourists alike. Less well-known was the meddling prowess of the Prescott women. Elijah’s mother and sisters specialized in forming, sharing and debating their opinions on the lives of others. He loved them all, but damn, the idea of facing that after a long drive while his body ached was a lot to take.
So when he came up on the exit to Napa, he debated for all of two seconds whether to continue another handful of miles to his mom’s before pulling off the freeway and heading to his cousin’s instead. He’d rather bunk on Mack’s couch, eat wheat germ and drink lemongrass. Parking the ’Vette in the gravel lot behind a three-story building, he leaned one arm on the steering wheel and contemplated the gym his cousin had built.
Scarred gray stucco walls were framed in crisp white. Through the wall of plate glass fronting the building chrome flashed, highlighting row after row of cardio equipment. Treadmills, ellipticals, rowers and spin bikes were filled with bodies.
He knew they were positioned there to give the exercisers a view as much as they were to advertise the gym, and he wondered if Mack still seeded the machines with ringers. A handful of men and women who sweated for free and made it look as if they’d built those perfectly sculpted bodies on those machines, luring in the gullible to think that three twenty-minute sessions each week would give them the same.
Mack Prescott was a canny businessman.
When Elijah stepped into the gym, he could see that canniness was paying off. Hard rock pumped out a heavy beat and instead of the sweat he was used to at the base gym, the air was fresh with something that smelled like clean air.
About thirty of the forty cardio machines were occupied, with the same number of people on strength equipment or using free weights. There were two more rooms enclosed in glass, one filled with women in spandex and the other empty.
Even through the milling, sweating and grunting bodies—and the temptation of those spandex-draped babes, Elijah only had eyes for one person. He grinned when he saw the guy manning the desk next to what appeared to be locker rooms.
At six-two and SEAL fit, Elijah wasn’t a small man. Standing tall at six-four and a comfortable 230 of muscle, Mack Prescott lived by the motto that fitness was king. And it ruled his body with an iron fist. Bald as an eight ball and just as crazy, Mack had spent his early twenties on the fitness circuit, competing and collecting trophies that paid ode to his ripped body. Seven years ago, he’d decided to turn his expertise to training others and opened a gym. Something Elijah appreciated on so many levels.
A wide grin spread over his homely face when Mack saw Elijah weaving his way through the gym rats.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite sailor. Elijah, how the hell are you doing, man?” Not waiting for an answer, Mack grabbed Elijah close and smothered him tight enough to make a man grateful for good deodorant. “You just passing through?”
“I’m on leave,” Elijah mumbled into Mack’s armpit. “Needed some time to rest and recoup.”
As if testing that assessment, Mack gripped Elijah’s shoulders and pushed him out arm’s distance for an inspection. If his scowl was any indication, he didn’t much like what he saw.
“You said the injury was minor,” Mack growled, accusation clear in the deep rumble.
“It was.” Compared to death. But Elijah didn’t figure sharing his yardstick was going to do much to wipe that look of worry from his cousin’s eyes. He shrugged. “I was cleared for active duty. That means a US of A doctor said I was in good enough shape to serve my country. That should be good enough for you.”
From the slow shake of his head, Mack wasn’t buying it. But while his eyes took another inventory up and down Elijah’s frame, the bigger man didn’t argue. He tilted his head toward the car visible through the windows fronting the gym.
“You staying with your mom?”
“Only if I have to.”
“She know you’re here?”
“You telling her?”
Elijah’s two sisters were still in Yountville with his mom, while most of Mack’s family was scattered over the Napa Valley. So unless one of them had recently gottten into the fitness craze, there was no reason for any of them to notice he was here.
“Should I keep your company a secret?”
Elijah puffed out a breath. He could evade. He could even lie. He was trained to do both. But he was tired. So damned tired. “I could use a break, some downtime,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his hair with a worn sigh.
“How long you got?”
“Three weeks, thereabouts.” Or forever. “Long enough to rest up, get in fighting shape and show you up in the gym and the bar.” A worthy challenge, actually, and one Elijah figured would be fun.
Apparently Mack agreed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, slapping Elijah on the back and damned near sending his face through the chest-high service desk. “You’ll stay at my place.”
“Thanks, man.” That was just what he’d hoped for. “I won’t be any trouble.”
As if he’d heard something Elijah hadn’t intended to let slip, Mack’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything, though. Just gave a long hum, then inclined his head toward the elevator.
“You’ve had a long drive. Bet that leg is stiff. We’ll go up this way—save the stairs for tomorrow. Better yet, I’ll set you up for a massage in the morning. I’ve got a couple of solid massage and rehab therapists attached to the place now.”
As if his body knew it was finally home—or as close to a home as Elijah had—it gave up all pretense of energy and drooped like a used condom. In a fog of exhaustion, he followed his cousin through the gym, vaguely aware of Mack pointing out his new weight-lifting equipment before they settled into a glass tube for the ride to the third floor.
“That’s the dojo,” Mack said as they slid past the second floor, a study of white on white with rich wood accents. Diamond tuck padded walls were visible beyond two groups of students following the instructors and a dozen or so others practicing kicks and punches solos.
One stood out. Slender yet curvy in the white gi, a woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail performed a series of running jump kicks. There was something familiar about the move, but Elijah couldn’t pinpoint it. His eyes narrowed. But before he could focus, the elevator’s ascent blocked his view.
“Guest room is all yours for as long as you want it. I’m busy tomorrow, but I’ll book you a massage first thing. Then we’ll spend some time getting that leg back into shape,” his cousin promised as he opened the door to his third-floor apartment and waved Elijah inside.
“You’ve redecorated,” Elijah noted, looking around.
Mack’s living space reflected the man. Big, intense and comfortable. A television covered a wall opposite a deep purple leather sectional. There was art, most of it nudes, and a chrome-and-glass table plus leather chairs straight out of the 1970s. Instead of the slew of trophies that had once crowded the far wall, there were now a trio of abstracts that, if Elijah tilted his head to one side, appeared to be a ménage à trois.
“Sit, be comfortable. I’ll get us a beer, and you can catch me up. Start with your sex life,” Mack instructed, heading for the kitchen as Elijah dropped onto the couch, sinking into the soft leather.
“Nothing there to catch up on. Between the hospital time, recovery and my regular duties I’ve been pretty busy.”
To say nothing of the random flashback onslaught, the nightly retrospectives through the terrors of his subconscious and the nagging feeling that after sacrificing everything that mattered for his career, that career was spinning wildly out of control.
“Too busy for sex?” Mack had a pitying expression when he returned with a tray carrying two chilled pilsners of beer, a bowl of mixed nuts and a plate of what looked like a cross between potato chips and green beans. “Sounds like your leg isn’t the only thing we need to work on while you’re here.”
Call it exhaustion. Call it instinct that had the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was, Elijah vowed then and there to step carefully. Because that matchmaking gleam in Mack’s eyes could mean only one thing.
Trouble.
And the last thing Elijah needed right now was more trouble. Even if it came in the form of a naked woman. He didn’t care how hot she was. He didn’t care how willing. He didn’t even care if she came wrapped in a bow holding a list of kinky preferences.
“No work necessary. I’m here to rest and recuperate, nothing more,” he said, taking his beer. As he swallowed down a healthy gulp and shifted the conversation into safer realms, Elijah changed that vow.
Not about avoiding trouble or needing to rest. That vow was rock solid. But the naked woman part? No point making any hasty decisions on that subject until he saw what Mack came up with.
Because, after all, who could resist a bow?
* * *
MY LIFE ROCKS.
My life is right on track.
My life kicks serious butt, and I love every minute of it.
Ava repeated the affirmations on each exhalation, the soothing tones of bells and chimes ringing softly in time with the words. The gentle scents of sandalwood, vetiver and neroli wrapped around her bare shoulders, as soft as the raw-silk fabric of the lush, oversize pillow she sat on.
As the music slowly faded, so did her words. But her breath stayed even, slow and easy. After a few seconds of silence, she scanned her body for any tension, but she found no tightness, no stress. She felt great.
She let herself grin as she opened her eyes. She knew from experience to give herself a few moments to find her balance before pushing to her feet.
It never failed to make her smile that she felt as if she were opening her eyes to a rainbow. Colors glinted from every corner. The walls were a soothing teal, the low-slung couch sapphire blue. Drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling window in shimmering shades of emerald and amethyst. Pillows in a myriad of shapes, sizes and colors scattered like jewels over the couch, pouring onto the floor. A couple of topaz beanbags rounded out the seating around the low, surfboard-shaped ebony table.
On the far side of the room, partitioned off by a curtain of beads, was a hanging bed covered in white, with more pillows strewn over the surface so it looked like a fluffy cloud amid all the rest of the color. She had a few antique pieces here and there, a tiny kitchenette opposite the bed, with the only door other than the front one opening to a dollhouse-size bath.
The studio was unquestionably small. Cozy, she liked to call the space. It was actually the attic level of a renovated three-story Victorian. The polished wood floors creaked, and the plaster walls tended to let in the cold in the winter and the heat of summer.
Ava loved it.
Her mother hated it. It’d taken Ava a year or so to decide whether she loved it out of spite, a bit of rebellion against a domineering mother who considered her own opinions pure gold. Eventually, though, Ava had come to accept that the space simply suited her, and the whys didn’t matter. She considered that a sign of maturity.
Rising with a lithe move, Ava stretched her arms high overhead. Grasping each hand around the opposite wrist, she twisted from one side, then the other, pulling air all the way into her toes and greeting the sun rising outside her window.
She prepared for her day with Mack’s offer playing through her now-clear mind. It was tempting—so tempting—to say nope, she didn’t want commitments and responsibilities cluttering up her life. But the fact that she was automatically angling for the easy route told her that she shouldn’t.
She needed to consider the partnership seriously. Beyond the money, what it would cost? Was it worth the risk? How big of a difference would it make in her life, and could she be just as happy without it?
Ava gathered her gear for the day. Her duffel, with street clothes and a change of workout gear. Her iPhone, earbuds, charger, wallet. A new bottle of shampoo to replace the almost-empty one in her locker. Car keys, although she walked to work in good weather.
She capped the protein smoothie in her insulated mug and added it to the duffel, then crossed to the door. Hanging there on the wall by the heavy polished oak was a oval silver beveled frame, not more than three inches tall.
It didn’t hold a photo, but instead a swatch of pale blue fabric and a tiny lock of hair, shades deeper than her own nutmeg brown.
Ava kept most of her previous life exactly where it belonged—in the past. She’d locked away the memories, buried the emotions, let go of the reminders.
Except for this.
Her talisman. To remind her that while things might be simple now, she’d once held a life that made every complication worthwhile.
Dominic Prescott.
Her darling baby.
There was no buffer that could dim the pain of waking up one morning, surprised that the four-month-old had slept through the night. Riding high on her first full night’s sleep since his birth, breasts full to aching, she’d all but danced into the nursery to nurse her baby.
But he wouldn’t wake. He wasn’t breathing. He’d never opened those gorgeous eyes again. Other than the hysteria, Ava didn’t remember much after that. Not her husband finally coming home after three frantic days of trying to reach him. Not the doctor’s pronouncement. Not the funeral. Not the multiple people who’d tried to comfort her through a pain that couldn’t be assuaged.
SIDS. Sudden infant death syndrome. A clean, tidy term for the end of her world. A hideous loss that had blown her already-fractured marriage all to hell.
The only way she’d been able to survive was to leave it all behind. The perfect home she hadn’t chosen. The smothering attention of her controlling parents. Her charming prince of a husband who’d been too busy battling the world’s dragons to give a damn.
It had taken months of therapy to pull her out of the depths of depression enough to function, and another year to work through the guilt and hatred and self-blame. But, eventually, she’d accepted that her old life was over. Gone in a blaze of misery.
From those ashes, her new life had formed. The only thing she allowed herself to bring was her love for Dominic. Her sweet boy.
Ava pressed her fingers to her lips, transferred the kiss to the frame.
Then, chin high, she pulled her bright mood around her once again, grabbed the bag of granola she’d made the night before and headed out the door.
Five minutes later she stepped through a rustic grapevine arch into the lush bounty of greens and golds. Not as big as the Napa Community Garden, this plot served Chloe’s small neighborhood.
“Good morning,” Ava called when she spotted the blonde crouched low between rows of flowering tomato vines.
“We’re having fresh strawberries for breakfast,” Chloe declared in lieu of a greeting. She rose with a smile, tipping the basket to show off the bright red fruit. “And a couple of nectarines, a sprig of grapes and, mmm, the first pears of the season.”
Her stomach growling in appreciation, Ava gestured to the rest of the bounty. “And the cabbage, beets and cucumbers?”
“Juice bar,” Chloe declared, stuffing the vegetables into a cotton bag. “I’m trying a couple of new recipes. Want to be my tester?”
Ava eyed the sad-looking spears of asparagus and, remembering how long it had taken to rinse away the bitter coating of the last recipe she’d tested, shook her head. “Not even a little bit.”
Ava pulled the granola out of her tote while she waited for Chloe to gather the rest of her ingredients, her bullet journal and a fist-size ring of keys.
Nibbling on the oat-and-almond mixture as her friend turned off the hose, Ava checked the time on her cell phone. Six forty. Leave it to Chloe to be right on schedule.
Granola in the summer, bran muffins in the winter, fruit year-round. Thanks to the near perfection of Northern California’s weather, they shared this routine of breakfast to-go and a morning walk to the gym whenever their schedules meshed.
Chatting about everything and nothing between bites, the two women strolled along the riverside promenade that fronted downtown Napa on their way to the gym.
“The guy would have been irritating if it wasn’t so funny watching him try to stay on the yoga ball during planks,” Ava said as she wound up her story about a know-it-all first timer who’d tried to take over her core class the night before. “He finally quit trying to instruct the rest of the class on proper form the third time he went down on his head.”
“Bet all that giggling gave everyone some extra core work, too.” Chloe laughed. “But, hey, speaking of irritating? That creepy guy, Rob? The one who drives that gas-guzzling monster truck and calls every woman he meets a doll? I heard he’s given up trying to hire you as a personal trainer. He’s decided to go the massage route instead. He’s one of those guys that think getting naked on your table will turn the tide. Like you’re gonna see a woody and jump on. You know, to ride it like a pogo stick.”
Ava wrinkled her nose. “And yet I manage to resist.”
“Speaking of pogo sticks...” The blonde gave Ava a playful look. “I have the perfect guy for you. He’s a banker, which is like, totally uptight sounding. But he’s not, really. He used to jam with Bones in this jazz band, and he’s pretty fit. Not gym fit, but he plays B-ball with the guys every weekend so he’s not a slob, ya know?”
“Nope.” Ava breathed in the cool morning air, reveling in the simplicity of it all.
“Don’t say no. Just listen—he’s a nice guy. He drives a BMW, has good personal hygiene and likes Bourne movies. He mows his mom’s lawn even.”
“Nope.” Wondering if she could get an extra yoga session in before her afternoon classes, Ava tried to remember her massage schedule. She knew she had morning clients but wasn’t sure if she had someone booked at eight or at nine. She wished Mack would move to a computerized system. Then she could sync it to her phone, change it on the go. It might be worth considering the partnership offer for that reason alone.
“Ava, you’re not listening,” Chloe complained as they left the riverfront promenade, crossing the street toward a row of redbrick shops.
When they passed the bakery, Ava breathed in the yeasty scent of fresh-baked bread and promised herself she’d stop on the way home for a small round of sourdough.
“I listened. You want me to date a lawn-mowing, mother-loving, BMW-driving banker. Why, I’m not sure, so if you mentioned that part you’re right—I wasn’t listening.”
“Because he’s hot. He’s nice. And you need to date. If you don’t, you’re going to dry up inside. You know the rule about muscles. Use them or lose them.” Chloe added an arch look at Ava’s hips just in case she missed the point about which muscles were in question.
“I’ve got a Bikram yoga class this evening. Don’t worry—I’ve got it covered.” She offered a sassy smile. “Moist, hot air and a lot of Kegals. See, that way nothing dries out or withers away.”
“You’re killing me.” Chloe sighed before stepping into the small health-food store. She came out again, adding a bag of flaxseed and tube of honey to the vegetables in her bag, and picked up the conversation as if it had never stopped. “So, are you going out with this guy or not?”
“Not. I’d rather spend the time figuring out what I want to do about Mack’s proposition.”
“Proposition? Do tell,” Chloe insisted, leaning closer with a naughty smile.
“Not that kind of proposition.” Ava rolled her eyes at Chloe’s lash-fluttering attempt at innocence. “As if you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Well, I’ll admit to hearing a thing or two about Mack’s plans to take on a partner.” With her usual exuberance, Chloe waved to shopkeepers and tourists alike as they picked up their pace. “With his travel schedule heating up and all those competition guys wanting him as a trainer, he’s gone as much as he’s here. So having someone he trusts on board would take a lot of worries off his big ol’ shoulders.”
“Uh-huh.” Giving Chloe a narrow look, Ava waggled her fingers in a tell-all gesture. “Spill it. What else have you heard?”
“Rumor is that you’re top of the list, but I think he’d consider Joe Peters or Con Barton if you turn him down.”
Oh. He had names lined up? Ava’s teeth snapped together at the realization that she didn’t have a lot of thinking room with those guys on the list. They were both solid trainers, and Con used to own a gym back east before following his wife to California.
“Hmm,” was all she said.
Chloe pursed red lips and considered Ava carefully. “I think you’d be a great boss, if that matters. Are you considering it? I mean, seriously considering. Not just pacifying Mack by thinking about it but planning to say no.”
Good question. “I don’t know.” Ava tapped her fingers on her thigh a few times, watching the river as a pair of kayakers found their rhythm. “It’s a big commitment, and it’d mean I have to get serious about things like schedules and time frames and budgeting my energy.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” Ava said again. “I guess that’s what I have to figure out. I teach enough classes and have enough massage clients to cover my bills, and I can pick up extra classes here and there if I feel like it. Commitment is a big step. Right now I can just go with the flow.”
Of course, she kept throwing commitments into the flow, things like class competitions, black belt testing and new massage classes to increase the range of treatments she could offer clients. But those were all on her terms. It would be different if the schedule were etched in stone. Or at least carved in wood.
Wouldn’t it?
“Only dead fish go with the flow,” Chloe pointed out, her face perfectly serious.
Ava had to laugh. Leave it to Chloe to sum it up perfectly. “Well, I guess I’m still swimming, so I might as well consider it.”
By the time they strode into the gym, Ava realized she wasn’t just considering it. She was seriously considering it. She loved this place, she thought as they worked their way through the early gym rats toward the locker room. She really did. She appreciated the scent of exertion, the pounding music accompanied by swearing grunts and easy chatter.
“Are you sure you don’t want to meet the banker?” Chloe asked, eating the last of the strawberries while Ava stashed her bag in her locker. “He really is cute.”
“Nope. My schedule is full,” Ava replied. “Tonight I’m trying that new Bikram yoga class. Right now I’m heading to the supply closet for a dozen nunchakus for weapons training in this afternoon’s taekwondo class. And at some point I have Mack’s proposition to consider, remember?”
Chloe shook her head, her dreadlocks sweeping over the hemp straps of her beige tunic. “I tell you about the hottest guy you could ever meet, and you turn down a date because you claim you’re going to be busy stretching yourself into a pretzel in an oven filled with sweaty people. Then you receive a career-changing offer and you’re going to count out a bunch of sticks on chains so you can teach pajama-clad Bruce Lee wannabes?”
“Don’t be silly,” Ava shot back with a delighted smile. “I’m going to put my gi on first.”
* * *
WHETHER IT WAS twelve hours down, or simply getting his first dreamless night in months, Elijah woke feeling great.
Rested. Refreshed. Alive.
One way or another, Mack had always been there for him. He’d taught Elijah to drive in his Honda, had stood by him when Elijah had pissed off the family with his choice to join the Navy and had given him the sex talk at the tender age of twelve. Of course, Mack’s version had been more along the lines of birds and birds than birds and bees, but Elijah had been a smart kid. He’d made the translation without too much trouble. Mack had helped guide Elijah after his dad had died, then a dozen years later had gotten him through the darkest time in his life.
Elijah didn’t expect his cousin to fix his problems now; he was a big boy. He’d fix them himself. But it would be nice fixing them here.
With that in mind and ready to get started, Elijah rolled out of bed. He snagged his jeans from the floor, fishing out his cell phone to check the time: 8:05 a.m.
Elijah tugged on his pants, then strode out of the room in search of hot coffee and his cousin. He found neither. But as he wandered the apartment, he did find a note propped against the coffeepot.
Sorry! Got called away to step in as referee for a big match. Gotta follow the money. You chill here, take it easy, rest up. We’ll talk when I get back. I know I got things to explain. Get your massage—you’re booked for 8:30. I’ll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, coffee is ready to go, just push the red button.
Elijah read it twice, but no amount of cryptology training was making Mack-speak any clearer. So he took the last part to heart, pushed the red button and noted he had enough time for coffee and a shower.
He was still feeling good when he stepped out of the apartment. Damned good.
It wasn’t pride that made Elijah take the stairs down to the Fit Wellness Clinic. It was a desperate attempt to work the stiffness out of his leg before someone started pummeling it.
Located in the same building, the clinic was as unisex and comfortable as the rest of the gym, with wide glass doors opening to the street and a juice bar along one wall. The narrow hallway leading to the treatment rooms was guarded by a display counter showcasing fitness gear, energy bars and insulated bottles. Sitting behind the counter was a pretty blonde who looked like she’d gotten lost somewhere between deciding if she wanted to be a hippie or a sex symbol. Her dreadlocks were tied back from her face with a wide magenta hairband, her shirt appeared to be made from hemp and her lips were painted bloodred.
Elijah approached her with a wary smile. “Hi. I’m booked for an eight-thirty massage.”
“You must be Bruce Banner.” Her smile was appreciative. “Mack said you were a big boy.”
“Is that what Mack said?” Not as big as the Hulk, though. Figuring there was no point trying to explain his cousin’s joke, Elijah shrugged.
“You’re in room one. Go ahead and go on in. Strip down naked and get comfy on the table.” She inclined her head toward the first door on the left. “You let me know if you need any help.”
“You the one who’s going to come work the kinks out?” he asked.
“I wish. But you’re down for an injury rehabilitation massage, and we only have one person qualified for that.” Her sigh said that person wasn’t her. “Your therapist will be with you in a few minutes.”
Therapist. Elijah grimaced. He’d had enough of that. But he didn’t figure anyone rubbing his burn-scarred flesh was going to ask what was going through his head. They’d be too busy holding back their gasps of horror.
He stepped into the massage room, letting the door close behind him as he checked it out. The therapists must have free rein on their decorating choices, because this was not a room done by Mack.
The colors were soothing, cream and tan with splashes of black and red to keep it from being boring. There was an Asian feel to the art and statuary, with delicate coins on a red string hanging in one corner and chimes in another. But the star of it all was the massage table. Bigger than most, it looked sturdy enough to hold an elephant and was set at its lowest height, telling Elijah that the massage therapist was probably a woman.
Cool, he grinned.
He wouldn’t mind being rubbed down by female hands. Something that his recovery had put on the no-fly list for the last few months.
He stripped down, neatly folding his clothes and stacking them on the chair. Comfortable with his nudity, he reached for the ceiling, stretching out muscles still tight from yesterday’s drive, then climbed under the sheet.
Maybe that was his problem, Elijah considered as he propped his chin on his fists and began systematically relaxing his muscles. He started with his toes, breathing deep, relaxing each digit before moving on to his ankles and calves.
Maybe all he needed was a good lay. A hot ride to clear his pipes, knock loose the kinks and get him back in fighting condition.
His eyes drifted closed as he felt a few of the tighter knots loosen in his thigh. Seemed like his body was all for that idea.
About the time he’d breathed relaxation into his shoulders, he heard the door open. A familiar scent tickled his awareness, teased his senses with both desire and dread.
“Sorry I’m running late, Mr. Banner. Bruce, is it?” There was humor in the friendly words and a hint of doubt. “I hope my delay didn’t upset you.”
Elijah didn’t have to turn his head to know who had just walked in. Like her scent, he’d know her voice anywhere.
Fuck.
He was going to kick Mack’s ass sideways.
He forced his expression to clear before he turned on the massage bed, propping himself on one elbow and offering as close to a friendly smile as he could manage.
“Hello, Ava.”
