Chapter 2 - Naomi
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not!” I turn away from Meghan as my cheeks start to burn. I know I’m red—I can feel the blush creeping up my neck and covering my cheeks. Even my ears feel hot. I probably look like a Christmas bulb right now.
“You are so blushing right now.”
Her dark eyebrow arches gracefully as she watches me. I roll my eyes.
“What if I am?”
“He’s a player,” she says, glancing towards the front door. “Max Westbrook is in the tabloids every second day. Do you know he left his fiancée at the altar? Literally at the altar. He just didn’t show up.”
“Poor woman,” I reply, shaking my head. “That must have been mortifying.”
“You can say that again,” Meghan grumbles, turning to face me. She leans her tall, slender body against her desk as I start wrapping up some resistance bands to put them away.
“So what’s going on between you two, anyway? There was lots of laughing going on for a simple physio session.”
“What, I’m not allowed to enjoy my job?”
“Not that much,” she retorts, grinning.
I try to swallow back the blush that threatens to light up my face again. I shake my head. “He’s making good progress, and I’m happy about it. When he first came in here he could hardly bend his knee. Now he’s squatting with no pain!”
“Must be all that dedicated, one-on-one work you’re doing.”
“Shut up, Meg,” I laugh. “Nothing is going on. He’s my client, and I would never do anything with a client. Plus, he’s not my type.”
Meg snorts, pushing herself off the desk and grabbing a protein bar from the shelf. She walks a couple steps and turns back towards me, unwrapping the bar and taking a bite. She points the protein bar at me and shakes her head.
“Max Westbrook is everyone’s type. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry.”
She stares at me for a few seconds, and I force myself to hold her gaze. Finally, she shrugs. “You decide what you’re wearing on Saturday?”
I sigh, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
Shit. Saturday.
Meghan makes a noise, and I can almost hear the smirk on her face. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” I reply, turning towards her. Yep—she’s smirking.
“It’s our boss’s bachelorette party, Naomi!”
“Yeah, well, I’m not really a ‘wedding’ person. Why are we invited, anyway? It’s not like we’re friends with her.”
Meg grins. “Maybe we are her friends, and we just don’t know it.”
“At least she said it would be on the company credit card.”
“So I take it that’s a ‘no’ to the question about what you’re going to wear?”
“I don’t know, I’ll wear jeans and a nice top, or something.”
“Wow, way to narrow it down.” She takes another bite of her protein bar. “Come over in the afternoon on Saturday. Ariana’s coming too.”
“Does Julia even know her?”
“Company credit card,” Meg laughs. “She’s crashing the bachelorette party.”
“Typical Ari,” I laugh.
“Come on, come over. We can get nice and buzzed beforehand and I’ll help you get ready. I have a couple dresses that you could try on.”
“I don’t think your clothes will fit me,” I say, glancing at her tall, willowy frame. My hands drift to my wide hips and I shake my head. “I’m about four inches shorter than you and a couple sizes bigger.”
“You are not,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You just always wear clothes that are a couple sizes too big for you. Show off those curves, Naomi! You’re a knockout. Plus, you need to get laid, if only to stop going gaga over your freaking clients.”
“Mm,” I reply, turning to my desk and finding Max’s file. I can sense Meg’s eyes on my back so I turn to look over my shoulder. “Fine.”
A grin spreads over her face. “Good. I’m going for lunch. You coming?”
“Gotta finish this paperwork. See you when you get back.”
Meg makes a noise and glides through the door. I watch her leave before sinking down into a chair. Closing my eyes for a moment, I drop my head into my hand.
I open my eyes and stare at the stack of papers in front of me. Before I know what I’m doing, I trace his name with my fingers: Max Westbrook.
Meg is way too perceptive. I was laughing more than usual, and it wasn’t because Max was making progress. It was the way he was looking at me. More than once, I got lost in those deep, blue eyes of his. I had my hands all over him—I mean, I had to. It’s my job! But this time, it wasn’t like his other appointments. When I was massaging his leg, it was sending thrills through my body that are still echoing through me now.
My hands drift down to my thighs and I remember the way his hard, muscled body looked and felt as he laid on my massage table.
I take a deep breath and put the stack of papers down. I jot down a few notes and file them away, shaking my head.
Meg is right. Max Westbrook is my client. Not only that, he’s a super rich, super out-of-my-league playboy. No matter how electrifying his touch is, or how deep and blue his eyes are, I can’t get involved.
I snort at the thought, shaking my head. Get involved? It’s not like I have the choice. He wasn’t exactly coming on to me or anything. He just looked at me, for crying out loud. And here I am, losing my mind over it.
I stare through the door and take a deep breath. Meg is right. I do need to get laid, if only to stop myself from going wobbly-kneed every time an attractive man walks through the door.
The last thing I need is to get distracted. There are dozens of attractive, athletic men who walk through these doors. Professional athletes come here with injuries all the time. Working here is a privilege, and I can’t forget that. Not even if Max sends a thrill through my body every time he’s near.
That’s just part of the job.
… Right?