CHAPTER 12

TOO MANY FAVORS

POPPY

Instead of going out for a bite to eat with April on Sunday evening, I tell her I need a night in with a book because I’m tired. Which is sort of true. I also promised Mr. Goldberg a game of cribbage on his front porch, which I’ve already taken care of and of course I let him beat me twice. Plus, I have early appointments tomorrow. I also want to watch the game. Because maybe I’m a little obsessed with Lance Romero. Still. Again. I don’t know.

I should definitely not want him to call me and beg for another home massage session. I should also not be fantasizing about him. Because he’s a client. Because he’s a dog. All the bunny sites tell me that.

But I am fantasizing. Because he’s gorgeous and because he’s been so sweet with me, and maybe a little awkward. Nothing like the guy I met last year at the bar who was drunk and cocky. Okay, so maybe he’s still a little cocky, but that’s not a bad thing.

My focus during the game is one hundred percent singular. I watch Lance, number twenty-one, every time he’s on the ice. When I’m not watching the game, I’m checking my social media feeds. Lance is following me on Instagram and has liked a bunch of my posts. I shouldn’t be all that excited, since everyone follows everyone else here, but I am.

Close to the end of the third period, a fight breaks out between Lance and number forty-four from the other team. If one could even call it a fight. It doesn’t look two-sided from my perspective. The guy from Philly lays right into him. Lance even takes off his helmet, but he never hits the guy. Not once. He does go down hard, though. Hard enough to make me cringe. He’ll be sore tomorrow. I wonder if that means he’ll try to get another appointment with me.

By the time the refs intervene, Lance is bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow. I think it might be the one that had the fly bandage on it the other day. That’ll suck if he reopened the wound.

He still gets a penalty, though. Both teams do. But Chicago manages to win the game being down a player, and it’s late by the time I go to bed.

I have an early morning with an eight o’clock start, and I’m dragging a little as I get myself out the door. I arrive about ten minutes before my first client, but without caffeine in my system, because I slept through my alarm. It’s Lance’s fault. He not only infiltrates all my waking thoughts, but sleeping ones too. It made for a restless, thigh-clenching night.

Bernadette doesn’t arrive until nine, so I don’t get stuck at her desk to chat. I rush to my room, grateful I set up on Saturday night so all I have to do is throw the heating pad on the table to warm it, cue the music, and put the oil in the warmer.

My first client of the day is always pushing the late side, so I have a few extra minutes, but not enough time to run across the street to grab a coffee. I send April a text requesting one if she has time to stop on the way in.

My client arrives at 8:03, and a long, painful hour ensues. She’s an incredibly chipper person. Normally I appreciate her positivity, but underslept and caffeine deprived, it’s a bit much to handle on a Monday morning.

April arrives at my door as I’m stripping the sheets, coffee in hand. I toss them to the floor and practically tackle her for it. “Oh my God, I’m dying right now.”

April’s eyes go wide and she holds out the cup, cringing away from me. “Wow. Do I need to stage an intervention?”

“I slept horribly last night.”

“Yeah. You look like you’re packing for a vacation under your eyes.”

“It’s not that bad.” I check my reflection in the mirror across the room.

April changes the subject. “Have you talked to Bernadette yet this morning?”

I shake my head. “My first appointment was early, so she wasn’t here when I came in. Why?”

She gives me an eyebrow waggle. “You need to come check out who’s booked into your schedule and on a wait list for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think you mean who am I talking about. Bernadette’s been telling everyone who comes through the door. I think you might have a fan.”

“Is it that guy who smells like cheese? Please tell me it isn’t. I don’t think I can handle repeated hours of that.” Every time that guy comes in I’m off cheese for a good week, and normally I love cheese.

April makes one of her signature faces. “Oh, God. No. This is way, way better.”

“So who is it?” My stomach does a little flip, but I quash that quickly. It has to be someone else. It can’t be who I want it to be.

“Guess.”

“I have another appointment in a few minutes. I don’t have time to play guessing games.” I don’t have anyone for another twenty, but I’m not in the mood for this.

“Oh, come on! Why are you so grumpy? You’re ruining all my fun.”

“Fine. Is it that guy who won’t takes his socks off?” I know it’s not him. He only sees Marcie.

April throws her hands in the air. “It’s Lance! You know, the professional hockey player whose ass you had your hands all over last week? The one who asked for your number so you could be his emergency massage therapist?”

“April!” I throw a pillow at her. “Keep your voice down!” While it’s not against policy, I don’t want the whole clinic to know about that.

“That’s the reaction I get? Lance Romero, this famous, incredibly hot hockey player keeps calling to check for cancellations, and you’re worried about my volume? Where are your priorities? Are you sure he doesn’t remember you?”

“As far as I know. Wait. What do you mean he keeps calling?”

“He called yesterday and left messages, and he’s already called twice this morning.”

“It’s only nine.”

“Yeah. He left a message at, like, seven thirty.”

“You’re kidding.” I squeeze past April and root through my purse until I find my phone. I have missed texts and a voicemail from Lance.

Now it feels like Leprechauns are dancing in my stomach.

“Oh my God. He’s texting you? And he left a voicemail? You have to check them! You need to listen to it!”

I hold my phone close to my chest. “You need to calm down.”

“You need to be more excited!”

I roll my eyes but check my messages. I missed quite a lot sleeping through my alarm and being without coffee this morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh my God!” April rips the phone from my hand. “Did you read this? He needs you. Can’t you hear him saying that in his sexy Irish accent?”

“He’s Scottish.”

“Scottish, Irish, whatever—it’s sexy as hell. You need to find a way to fit him in.”

I’d like to fit him in all right.

She pushes me toward the door.

“What’re you doing?”

“You need to talk to Bernadette before your next appointment so you can call him back and tell him he can come in.”

“He’s getting on a plane; it can wait.”

“Are you crazy? You don’t make guys like Lance Romero wait.”

“I’m sure it’s a skill he could probably use a little help with,” I gripe. “And can we stop calling him by his first and last name? It’s a little weird.” But I stop fighting and let her push me. I’m curious to see what exactly Bernadette has to say about this and whether April is blowing it out of proportion.

As soon as Bernadette sees me, her eyes light up. “You’ll never believe who’s trying to get an appointment with you this week, and who’s booked appointments for the next two months.”

“Lance?”

Her face falls, and she shoots April a dirty look.

April lifts a shoulder. “I got excited.”

“How many appointments has he booked?” I ask.

“Twelve.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s booked twelve appointments. And he took a cancellation for next week, but he says he really needs to see you this week. I tried to explain that you don’t have any openings, but he didn’t sound very happy about it. That accent is so sexy. Where’s he from again? Australia?” Bernadette sighs.

“Scotland,” I reply. “Can I see the appointments?”

She turns her computer monitor toward me and flips through them. He has two appointments a week for seven weeks, starting the week after next since I’m already booked up until then.

I pull up my appointments for tomorrow on my phone. All I have are two half-hour breaks, one at eleven and one at three thirty. The clinic closes at eight on Tuesdays, but since I already have six appointments, Bernadette won’t schedule me another one, no matter how much time I have at the end of my day. As I’m contemplating whether it’s a good idea to give in to Lance, my phone rings.

“It’s him!” April shrieks.

I glare at her.

Bernadette’s hands flutter. “Oh! You should answer! He’s been very persistent. He only wants you.”

I wish people would stop saying things like that. “You both need to stop fangirling.” I wait until they stop twittering like birds before I answer. “Hello?”

“Poppy?”

“You’re speaking to her.”

“Thank fuck.” He mumbles something, maybe to someone on the other end of the line. “Sorry about that—the swearing, I mean. I’m boarding the plane back to Chicago. Listen, I know you said no more home treatments, but I really need to see you, and your appointment warden won’t book me in for anything in the next day or two. Can you help me out? Please.”

Why do I have no resolve? “What time does your flight get in?”

“Uh, like, before noon, I think? Maybe a little later? And we have a team meeting as soon as we get back, but I’m totally free after that. I’ll take anything right about now. I got into a scuffle on the ice last night, and it undid all the good you did last time.”

Oh my God. The word scuffle coming out of his mouth does funny things to me. “I saw that.”

“You did?”

I cringe at his surprise, and the fact that I’ve outted myself as a hockey watcher. Like this man needs his ego fed any more. “Mmm. Let me check my schedule this afternoon.”

Bernadette shakes her head and motions to the screen. I came in early today so I could get out early. My last appointment is at six thirty and it’s only forty-five minutes. Technically I can fit Lance in, although that’s going to put me up to seven sessions today. And I’ll miss yoga. Although our new instructor isn’t nearly as good as the girl who’d been teaching the class since early spring, so I’m really not missing all that much, apart from exercise.

I point to the computer screen and give Bernadette a questioning look. She shrugs, and April makes flailing hand gestures. “I can take you at seven fifteen.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“At your house, or the clinic?”

“At the clinic. We close at eight, though, so it can only be forty-five minutes.” I want Bernadette to be here when he leaves, just to be safe. Lord knows I’m stupid around this man.

“Okay. That works. Yer a precious angel. I really owe ya, Poppy.” His voice becomes muffled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m hanging up. No, ya does nae hafta do that.” His voice becomes clear again, the Scot thicker with his agitation. “I gotta go or they’re gonna kick me off the plane. I’ll see you tonight, Poppy. Thanks again.”

I listen to dead air, still processing the precious angel comment, before I finally hang up.

Bernadette and April are squeal-flapping.

“You’re worse than teenage girls at a boy band concert. You can’t act like that when he’s here.”

April huffs. “This one starts treating famous hockey players, and she’s suddenly Ms. Serious.”

“It’s one hockey player, and he’s asking me to treat him, not marry him.”

“Yet,” April says.

“I have another client, so I need to get ready.” I leave the two of them to go set up, trying not to squeal-flap myself.

The rest of the day moves in an anxious blur. I don’t want to fixate on Lance, but really, I have a lot of time to think about him and the fact that he’s scheduled all these appointments and insisted on seeing me today. I also try not to think about what it means that I’ve given up my evening plans so I can treat him. I’d like to say it’s because I’m nice, but I’m not so nice that I’d give up my evening for just any client.

I’m antsy by the time seven rolls around. Typically I’ll work a little longer on my clients, particularly if they’re regulars, but knowing that Lance is likely waiting out there makes me feel rushed. Still, I don’t want to short-change anyone, so it’s seven twenty by the time I finish up.

I slip out of my room and down the hall to wash my hands before I check reception for Lance. He’s sitting in the same chair as the last time, wearing a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved henley pushed up to his elbows. Its dark green hue makes his eyes and hair pop more than usual. He has bruises along his jaw, and his eye has a dark shadow under it. There’s a new, bigger fly bandage across his split eyebrow. He’s still gorgeous.

But that’s not the most shocking thing. Clutched in one hand is a bouquet of red flowers. Poppies, to be exact.

His eyes move over me. “Hey. Hi. I brought these as a thank you.” He stands and thrusts them at me.

God, there’s far too much fluttering in my stomach. Lance Romero brought me flowers. Because I managed to get him an appointment with me. It’s a little weird.

I take them, aware that everyone is staring at us. Someone snaps a picture to my right. “Um. Thanks?”

“They’re poppies.”

“I see that. They’re beautiful, although unnecessary.” I bring them to my nose.

“They have that water stuff in the bottom, so they won’t die before you get home.”

“That’s very thoughtful. They’re lovely.” Geez. My face must be the same color as the flowers.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives me a cheeky grin. “I didn’t get high when I sniffed them.”

I laugh. “I’m sure you tried really hard, though.”

“I did.” Silence follows while we look at each other, and no one says a thing.

“Sooo…you ready for me?”

It takes a second for me to realize he means the massage, not that he’s picking me up for some date.

“Al-almost,” I stutter. “I’m a few minutes behind. I’m just finishing up with my last client.”

“Oh. Okay.” He drops back into the chair. His knees start bouncing.

My client comes out and settles up with Bernadette. We rebook for three weeks from now, and I excuse myself to change the sheets, taking my flowers with me.

Of course, April catches me in the hall and follows me into my room, closing the door. “Where’d you get those?”

“Lance.”

“He brought you flowers?”

I’m assuming she doesn’t need an actual answer to that.

“Oh my God. He’s so into you. You know what this means, don’t you?”

“The marriage proposal is next?”

“I wonder if he’ll wear a kilt.”

I set the flowers on the chair in the corner, careful not to crush them. I know exactly what this means. I shouldn’t be treating him anymore. But I don’t say that. “He’s being nice. He’s not into me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Will you just help me? I don’t want to be here until midnight.”

She takes the corner of the sheet and pulls it over the opposite end, helping me dress the table.

“Seriously, Poppy. He’s into you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s already slept with someone I know. I don’t want to be an addition to his list of conquests. Plus he’s a client, so I can’t accept his marriage proposal.” I put the heating pad on the table, adjust the cradle, and force April out so I can get Lance.

As soon as I round the corner he’s out of his chair. “We’re good? You’re ready now?” he asks.

“I am. You can come with me.”

He’s right on my heels, practically mowing me over to get to the room. As I close the door, he’s already got the hem of his shirt in his hands. He pulls it up, over his hard, incredibly toned abs.

I drop my eyes to the floor. “I’ll give you a minute.”

“I’ll be naked in thirty seconds.”

I have to bite my lips together to stop from laughing. “Okay. I’ll be right back, then.”

I still knock a minute later, just in case.

“I’m ready,” he calls.

And ready he is. That mountain of muscle is stretched out across my table. The sheet is pushed down to his waist.

I need to keep the ogling in check. I feel like I should go to confession or something, and I haven’t been to church since my cousin’s wedding last year.

“Would you like me to work on the same areas as last time?”

“Yeah. That’d be good.” He shifts a little, and the muscles in his shoulders jump. His fists clench and release a few times as I cross over and pull the sheet to cover his back.

He lifts his head. “Why’re you doing that?”

“It’s how I start. Would you prefer me to leave it the way it is?”

“Yeah. Please.”

“Okay.” I fold the sheet back down. Once again I have no underwear to tuck the sheet into, so I push the edges in around his hips. He jolts a little, then settles again. “I’m going to get started, okay?”

“Yup.” More fist clenching follows.

Usually when I drag my fingers along his spine, moving up to the top of the table, the sheet acts as a barrier. But this time I watch the shiver run through his body and goose bumps break along his arms, the same reaction echoed in my body. When I settle a palm on either side of his broad back, he groans.

I freeze and try to keep my tone professional, rather than breathy. “Are you okay?”

He clears his throat. Twice. “Yeah.” It still sounds like he swallowed the contents of a gravel truck.

“Do you want the heating pad?”

“No. I’m good.” More gravel.

“Take a couple of deep breaths for me, okay?”

He does as I ask, his back expanding with each full inhalation. I do nothing but keep my palm on the center of his back, right in the middle of his cross. When he’s a little more relaxed, I grab the oil and make a few easy passes, moving down his back, gauging where he’s the tightest. When I reach his lower back, he jolts. It’s red, but not bruised. “Is this where you landed when you went down?”

“Yeah. It’s a little sensitive.”

“I’ll be careful around there, then.”

“’Kay.”

“Are there any other tender areas?”

“Other than my back and face, nope.”

“Okay.”

Lance doesn’t say much during the massage. Apart from the occasional grunt when I hit what I assume are sensitive spots, and the fist clenching, he doesn’t complain at all about the pressure.

I don’t even ask about his glutes this time, because it’s already after eight, and Bernadette will be gone from her desk, even if a sexy hockey player is here. Lance was right, though, he’s all knotted up again, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to sort it all out with one treatment. He needs at least one more this week, and I’m fully booked.

“I still have some time left. Would you like me to work on your neck and shoulders again?” I’ve done what I can for his back.

“Uh…yeah, I think that’d be okay.”

I’m relieved he doesn’t have the same problem as last time. Mostly.

I get him to lift his hips so I can take the pillow out from under him. Lance makes a sound of discomfort as he rolls over.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, just managing the aches. Good to go.”

“Great.”

I won’t be touching his face this time because of the bruising and the fresh fly bandage, but he keeps his eyes closed while I work on his neck and shoulders, so I can study his gorgeous, pummeled features.

No matter how hard I try not to, I can still recall—rather vividly—how prominent Lance’s issue was last time. I must make a sound because his eyes open and flip up to mine. I decide it’s a good time to end the massage.

It’s eight thirty, and I’m alone in the clinic with Lance. I give him some privacy and wash my hands in the bathroom before going to the reception area so I can prepare his invoice, which I find already waiting for me. Sometimes Bernadette can be so sweet.

It takes a few minutes for him to come out—longer than it did the last time he was here. I consider what might be happening in that room. When Lance appears, he looks groggy and disheveled.

I put on what I hope is a natural-looking smile. “Feeling a little less tense?”

His eyes go wide before his expression flattens. “Uh, yeah. A lot less tense.”

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and drops it on the counter. Flipping it open, he pulls out his card. “I need to get you for last time, too.”

“Huh?”

“At your house. I didn’t pay you. I need to do that.”

I’d totally forgotten to even prepare an invoice for that massage. “You could email-transfer the funds for that one if you want.”

“Why don’t you add your email to your contact?” Lance passes me his phone.

My name comes up as Pretty Poppy, and it’s accompanied by the picture April accidentally snapped of me. I look like I’m yelling at her. Probably because I was. “April took that picture by accident when you left your phone here.”

“So it’s not a selfie?”

“If I was going to take a selfie, I’d make sure I didn’t look like a troll.”

“I think you look cute.”

“That’s even worse.” I type in my email address and am about to delete the picture when Lance snatches the phone back.

“That’s my phone. You can’t delete my pictures.”

“But it’s a picture of me!”

“Which I like, so I get to keep it. It’s not my fault your friend has a slippery finger. What was she even doing with my phone in the first place?”

“Trying to jailbreak it so she could get all your personal information,” I say.

“Seriously?” Lance looks legitimately worried.

“No. Not seriously. Although she did check to see if it was locked, which was when she took the picture. I forced her to give it back to me.”

“So you were trying to protect my privacy.”

“Mmm. That I was.” I swipe his credit card.

“So you think maybe you can fit me in again this week?”

“I’m fully booked, but I can see if someone else is available.”

“No,” he snaps, then amends, “I mean, no thanks. Like I said before, I only want it to be you.”

“I could try to fit you in at the end of a day again, if that works?” That’s the opposite of what I should do right now, but I’ve decided I’m not going to keep questioning myself. I want this time with him. What I’m doing is helping him, and beyond how much he seems to appreciate it, I like who he is when it’s him and me and I’m treating him, even if this relationship is supposed to be strictly professional.

“Yeah, sure, whenever you can. I have practice a lot this week, cause the official season starts this weekend, but I can usually do these later ones. Unless you want to treat me at my place or yours.”

“It’s better if we do it here.”

He chews on his bottom lip. “All right. If that’s how it’s gotta be.”

Like last time, he walks me to my car. This time I have the flowers with me, which makes getting in my vehicle even more awkward. Lance takes them for me so I can unlock my door and toss my purse on the passenger seat. When I turn back to him, he has this strange look on his face.

He takes a step toward me, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me. In that instant I’m transported back to that closet at the party. But he doesn’t kiss me; instead he leans past me and drops the flowers on the dash. Then he straightens and wraps his arms around me. The hug ends as quickly as it began. He steps back, shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks at the ground, as if he’s embarrassed.

“Thanks for taking care of me again.”

“You’re welcome.”

He holds my door open and waits until I’m in the driver’s seat before he gestures to the flowers. “Is it weird that I gave you those?”

“Not weird. Unexpected and unprecedented, maybe.”

“Okay. I can deal with unprecedented. Night, Poppy.”

“Night, Lance.”

I wait until he’s in his Hummer before I move the poppies to the passenger seat and start my car. I’m not sure what just happened, but this feels different than any of my other client-therapist relationships.