CHAPTER 6

TOUCH ME

TOUCH ME NOT

POPPY

I head straight for my therapy room to change the sheets. I don’t have another massage for a little bit, but I need to get away from Lance and his hockey friends before one of them says something and outs me. That’s a level of embarrassment I can’t deal with right now, if ever.

My room smells like massage oil and Lance. I close the door, and try not to get all swoony over his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever that awesome scent is. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or sad that he didn’t show any signs of recognizing me—not from last year, or when we were kids.

This day was so normal prior to an hour ago. Everything in my life was normal. Maybe even a little boring and predictable, but I don’t necessarily think there’s anything wrong with consistency. Now that normalcy has been turned inside out by the reappearance of Lance, I can’t decide whether it’s good or bad or somewhere in between. Although, I managed to put my hands on him for an hour without inadvertently groping, which is definitely a good thing.

My plan is to prepare quickly for my next appointment and run out to grab a bite to eat, because I have back-to-back sessions for the rest of the evening. I toss the balled-up top sheet in the laundry hamper. It takes a lot of effort for me not to sniff it first, like some creepy obsessed fan.

“Stupid.” I pull the rest of the sheets off the table, tossing them into the laundry as well. I miss, and they land in a heap on the floor. When I crouch down to pick them up, I notice a cell phone lying under the chair in the corner—the one where clients leave their clothes.

It vibrates across the floor toward me, a contact lighting up the screen. I blink a couple of times, sure I can’t be seeing it right, but I am. The caller has been named DO NOT FUCKING REPLY in all caps. Maybe it’s a joke. It stops ringing, and the screensaver pops up. It’s definitely Lance’s phone, because the image is the Chicago team logo. A few seconds later, it starts ringing again.

Maybe it’s Lance calling his own phone. I debate whether I want to answer. It could also be someone he doesn’t want to talk to, and if that’s the case, I probably don’t want to talk to that person either.

A knock on the door startles me, and I fumble the phone, nearly dropping it.

“Poppy?” It’s April.

“Come in!” My voice is high and pitchy.

She peeks in, taking stock of the stripped table, the pile of sheets on the floor, and the phone buzzing in my hand. She slides in through the crack and closes the door behind her.

“So? How’d it go?” She looks again at the phone. “Did you get a picture of his ass?”

“No. I didn’t do something that could potentially cost me my license, April.”

“Wow. You’re testy. I’m guessing it didn’t go so well.”

“It was fine. He left his phone here, though.”

“Oh my God! Lemme see!” She grabs for it, but I hide it behind my back.

“You can’t get into it. There’s obviously a passcode.” I haven’t checked to verify this, but who doesn’t have a passcode on their phone?

“I know that. I just want to see it.”

I roll my eyes and hand it over because there really is nothing she can do besides check out his screensaver.

April rubs it on her shirt before she examines it. “Dammit, it’s thumbprint activated.”

“Seriously, April.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t try it.” A sudden flash nearly blinds me.

I raise a hand. “What’re you doing?”

“Sorry! That was an accident.”

“Did you take a picture of me?”

“I didn’t mean to!”

I grab the phone, but without a password, I can’t delete the photo. “Thanks a lot. How am I going to explain that when he comes back to get it?”

She makes her sorry face. “Tell him the truth. It was an accident.”

“Should I include the part where you tried to get into his phone because you can’t contain your curiosity, or maybe the part where you rubbed it on your boobs?”

“I was cleaning the screen!”

“On your boobs.”

“I bet you stuck it down your pants!”

“That’s just too far.” We both snort laugh.

“Do you think he left it here on purpose?”

“I doubt it. He was looped by the time I was done with him.”

April wags her brows. “Oh, I bet he was. Bernadette said he was all kinds of flirty with you.”

“Bernadette’s full of crap.”

She gestures to the phone. “So what’re you going to do?”

“I guess I’ll try to call him to let him know it’s here so he can come pick it up.”

We check the system for his contact information and discover he’s only left one number. Instead of letting Bernadette do the calling, I use my personal cell, and the phone in my hand rings. I assume he’ll come to the conclusion that it’s here and return for it—but who knows how long that could take.

I only have twenty minutes left for dinner now, so I run across the street, grab a sandwich and a Sprite and scarf it down as quickly as I can before my next appointment.

I follow my rushed meal by working on a man with the worst bacne ever. It’s a stark contrast to Lance’s flawless, freckled, tattooed skin. I try to stay out of my head and remain focused on what I’m doing with my hands, but back acne isn’t all that pleasant, and mostly I’m just trying not to gag.

My final client of the evening, Debbie, is fifteen minutes late for her appointment. She relies on an independent transportation company to get her here because she can’t drive, so I always try to build in extra time in case they’re late, as they sometimes are.

This means I’ll be the last one out of the clinic. April wants to go to a pub for snacks and details about Lance’s massage, but I tell her not to wait. I’ll catch up with her.

It’s after nine by the time I finish my last client, and I know I’ll be responsible for cashing her out because Bernadette always leaves at eight thirty. I wash my hands and wait for Debbie to appear.

“Any plans for tonight?” she asks as we walk down the hall.

“I think I’ll curl up with a bowl of popcorn and watch Vikings.”

“Great idea! I have the best dreams after I watch that show. Ragnar is sex—” She comes to an abrupt halt.

I’m confused until I see what she sees. Lance is sitting in the exact same place he was earlier today. He’s wearing a pair of jeans now instead of sweats, and a T-shirt with his team logo instead of a hoodie. His hair looks like his hand has been in it. He proves my theory correct when he looks up from his lap and runs his fingers through it again. No man should have the right to look this good, especially as beat up as he is.

“Hi.” Wow, my brain is on point right now.

“Hey.” His knee bobs a couple of times.

“Holy Jesus,” says Debbie. She grabs my arm and does this swoony thing, falling into me for a second before she pushes away and flaps her hands in front of her face. “Oh my God! You’re Lance Romero! You play for Chicago!”

I suddenly feel far less ridiculous about my reaction to this man.

She takes three steps toward him and then two steps back. “I’m so sorry. I just—can I please have your autograph? I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t be this close to you and not ask.” The whole time she talks, her hands are flapping. She looks to me. “That’s Lance Romero. I’m in love with him.” I think she means to whisper the last part, but she doesn’t.

The side of his mouth quirks up. “I’d be happy to sign anything ya want.” That hint of Scot drops.

More hand flapping follows, and she turns to me imploringly. “Can I get a piece of paper and a pen?”

“Of course.” I move around the empty receptionist desk, trying not to be smug about the fact that this woman is losing it over Lance and I’ve had my hands on his ass today.

“Why don’t I sign this for ya?” He spins the ball cap in his lap around his finger—he can’t have been wearing it, based on his lack of hat head.

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“You have no idea how much I appreciate this! Seriously, isn’t he the best?”

“That’s the rumor,” I mutter.

“Pardon?” Debbie asks.

“He sure is.”

I pass him a Sharpie from Bernadette’s desk. Lance signs the cap and hands it to Debbie. She squeals and hugs it, then puts it on so she can get a selfie with him. Apparently Lance isn’t great at taking selfies, and her arms are too short to be able to get his whole head in there, so I’m commissioned to take the picture. Lance flinches as she wraps her arm around his waist and hugs his side—I remember the bruises on his ribs, the ones I avoided as I massaged his back. She promptly posts the picture to all of her social media sites.

Once she’s done fawning over him, and talking to him about how much of a team player he is, and blah, blah, blah, she thanks him half a dozen more times for being so nice.

As soon as she’s gone, Lance exhales a deep breath and taps on the counter. And I’m alone with him, again. For the second time today.

“I’m so sorry, and thank you. You really didn’t need to do that, but I’m pretty sure you made her entire year.”

“It’s cool. I’m used to it.” More desk tapping.

I try not to fidget or touch too many of Bernadette’s things. “I’m sure you are.”

“I didn’t mean for that to sound cocky.”

“It doesn’t. I assume you’re here about your phone?”

“Aye. The receptionist lady said you had it.”

“Yes, I meant to leave it with her, but I forgot.” The lie feels thick on my tongue. Despite the awkwardness of this entire situation, I still wanted to be the one to give it back. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

“I would’ve waited to see you either way, so it doesn’t really matter.” The last part comes out heavily accented, sounding more like It does nae reee-lly mah-ter.

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say to that. I don’t understand why he’d wait to see me, unless he wanted to make sure I didn’t jailbreak his phone.

He looks down and smoothes his hand across the counter. His knuckles look sore, and his nails are bitten to the quick, a bad habit I used to share, but have worked hard to curb. There’s nothing quite like wearing your worry on your hands for everyone to see. He makes a fist when he notices me looking and drops his hands to his sides.

When he doesn’t say anything else, I shut down the computer and push up from the chair. “Well, I’ll just go get your phone for you.”

I beeline for my massage room and try not to freak out on the way there. His phone sits where I left it: on top of my pile of towels, where I could see every message come in while I massaged my other clients.

Lance is standing in the same place when I return with his phone. He has thirty-seven new messages, six missed calls, and two voicemails from DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I only know because the tally appears every time the phone lights up again.

I pass it over to him. “You missed a lot of calls.”

At the quirk of his brow, I rush to explain. “I wasn’t snooping. It just went off a lot.”

The phone buzzes again. His grin drops and his eyes go wide as he scans the screen and does some scrolling.

“Fuckin’ell.” He jams the device in his pocket and shakes his head. “I, uh—thanks for holding on to my phone for me.”

“Of course.” I’m anxious now. His proximity does things to me that I don’t know how to handle. And he’s staring. “Did you forget anything else?”

“You.”

I blink a couple of times, certain I’m misunderstanding. My heart does this stupid fluttery thing. “I’m sorry. Pardon?”

Lance shakes his head. “My teammate Miller says I know you, but I don’t remember, and I should.”

“I don’t—”

“I should remember someone as beautiful as you.” It sounds very much like a line, but he taps the desk again. He’s agitated, his frustration obvious. “I want to remember you.”

I look away, because I don’t want him to see my hurt. I should be relieved, but I’m really not. “It’s not a big deal. You meet a lot of peop—”

Lance interrupts me. “I hope I wasn’t an asshole. I get that way sometimes; when I’ve been drinking I’m not always nice. I wouldn’t have wanted to be a dick to you.”

“You were perfectly fine.” It’s only sort of a lie. He was nice to me until Kristi got in the way and made it clear she was interested in a lot more than conversation.

He watches me for a few long seconds, and I know he’s assessing whether I’m telling the truth. “I probably wasn’t if I don’t remember you. I must’ve been fucking wasted, so however I acted, with you and your friends, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” I adjust a few of the papers on the desk to have something to do with my hands. I could say something. Maybe I even should, but I clam right up instead, too caught up in my own embarrassing memories.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket again and hits a few buttons on the screen, mumbling something I don’t catch. “Can I get your number?”

When I just stare at him, likely with that blank look store mannequins can pull off effortlessly, he’s quick to correct my stupid assumption that he’s asking me out. Because that would just be crazy.

“So I can call you for massages. Do you do home visits?”

“Pardon?”

“Like, have table, will travel? You do that, right?”

I don’t even know what to do with that question. “You want me to come to your house?” I can’t tell if this is some sort of weird proposition, and whether I want to be flattered or affronted.

Lance runs his jagged nails through his hair and drops his head, his jaw working. When he raises his head, there’s a hint of panic behind his pale green eyes. “I’ll come see you again here if that’s the only way I can do this, but it’d be good if you could come to me…if there’s, like, an emergency situation or something.”

“Emergency massage?” This is the worst pick up in the history of the world. Except, as I observe his mannerisms and expression, I don’t think he’s trying to pick me up at all.

“Sometimes I get into fights on the ice.”

“So you want me to be your on-call massage therapist? What about the team therapist?” I can’t treat him on a regular basis. Well, I can, but I’m not sure I should. I might have successfully managed myself around him so far, but I’m not sure if that’s going to last. Not with the way I feel right now, and how upside down this all seems.

“I—I don’t really like it when people touch me. It makes me…uncomfortable. But it wasn’t like that with you today. So it’d be good if you were the person I saw when things like this happen.” He gestures to his face. “If that’s okay with you.” He bites his split lip, staring intently at me while he waits for a response.

What does he mean he doesn’t like to be touched?

While rumors are typically embellished, based on the many accounts of Lance’s exploits and what happened with Kristi that night at his house, I find that hard to believe—at least when it comes to sex. But I keep this to myself. Beyond it not being an appropriate observation to voice, it’s really none of my business.

“It’s more expensive for me to do home visits,” I tell him. “I have to factor in things like transportation time.”

His panic flares. “Is it about the inconvenience? What if I can come to you?”

“I don’t know—”

“Please, Poppy? Whether you come to me or I come to you is irrelevant. I just want to know that it’s going to be your hands on me.”

Based on his expression and his pleading tone, I don’t think he’s playing games. Or maybe I just don’t want him to be.

“My trainer’s gonna make me do this again, and if it’s you I’ll feel a lot better about it. Please?”

Eventually I give in. I’d like to say it’s because he needs the treatment, which he does, but I’d also like to see him again. “Okay, fine. But this needs to be cleared with your trainer. I took you as a favor today, but only certain therapists are covered for team treatment, so it’s up to you to make sure this arrangement is okay.”

“That’s cool. Even if it’s not covered, I want you.” He passes me his phone. “Maybe you can give me your cell, so if I need you, I can text or whatever works best.”

Giving Lance my cell number isn’t a smart move. I know this. But I type it in anyway, clearing him to contact me outside of work hours, which is probably the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I tell myself this doesn’t mean I’m actually going to hear from him. Or answer his calls. But I can’t imagine ignoring Lance if he messages me.

Which is exactly what he does as soon as I pass him back his phone. I hear mine chime in my purse.

I go to the message and add him as a contact while he fiddles around with his phone some more.

“We’re all set?” he asks.

“All set,” I echo.

“You didn’t reply.”

I pull up the message from him, add a smiley face and a thumbs up emoji, and hit send. His phone vibrates, and the smile he gives me reminds me of the boy I met when we were just kids. I wish he’d been like this at the bar last year.

“Better?” I ask, maybe a little snidely.

“Much. I’m gonna let you go home now. Maybe I can walk you to your car?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he was nervous. Except this is Lance “Romance” Romero, and I can’t imagine he gets nervous about much—except massages apparently.

“Umm, I guess that’s okay.”

“I promise I’m not going to kidnap you or anything.” He makes a face and crinkles his nose. “That wasn’t very reassuring, was it?”

“Not really. As soon as you say you’re not going to do it, that kind of makes me think it’s part of your plan.”

He takes a step back from the desk. “I can just go, if that’s better.”

“Yeah, but then I’ll find you hiding between cars in the dark with a rag soaked in chloroform. Better to keep an eye on you until I’m safely locked away inside my vehicle.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Besides, there are video cameras in the parking lot. If you steal me, people will know.”

Lance arches his split brow. “Wow, this got macabre pretty damn fast.”

“Sorry, my sense of humor is a little off sometimes. I think it’s from all the crime drama marathons.” I cringe at how stupid that sounds, but he doesn’t look at me like I’m an idiot, so I feel a little less ridiculous.

I shove all my things in my purse, make sure the computer is shut down, and gather the keys to the clinic and my car.

My stomach does all sorts of spins and twists and turns as Lance opens the door for me and waits while I lock up. He’s hulking behind me. I can see him in the reflection in the glass. He absolutely dwarfs me. It makes my skin hot.

When I turn around, he’s right there. I take a step back so I don’t accidentally slam into him. He puts his hand on my elbow, as if to steady me. He’s wearing the oddest expression, as if he’s expecting me to burst into flames, which is entirely possible with how hot my face feels.

He drops his hand and stuffs it back in his pocket. “Sorry.”

“Trying to get close enough to get high from sniffing me?” I ask.

His white teeth flash. “That was fucking awful, wasn’t it?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard it.” He said exactly the same thing once before, all those years ago.

“I swear I’m not always an asshole.”

“I know,” I whisper, and when he looks confused, I realize my mistake and shake my head. “I mean, I believe you. My car’s just there.” I point across the lot, where a bright light shines. I know better than to park at the back. This might be a decent part of town, but it’s late, and I’m not very imposing, so I try not to take risks. Usually when I do, it backfires. The case in point is walking beside me.

I also drive a car that matches my size. Beside my Mini is a massive, ostentatious Hummer in lime green. I snort. “I bet some five-foot-nothing bald guy drives that thing.”

“Why do you think that?” Lance checks out the beast of a vehicle.

“Oh, come on, you know what they say about guys who drive big trucks.” When all I get is a look of confusion I continue. “That they must be compensating for something?”

“What if it’s a girl who drives it?” he asks.

“No girl would drive something that big. It’s not practical.” I hit the unlock button and shimmy between the Hummer and my car. Of course I have to become the least graceful person on the face of the Earth and bang my head on the Hummer’s side mirror, dropping my keys in the process.

“I got them.” Lance swoops into the confined space and bends to retrieve them. I just need to get out of here so I can stop acting like an idiot in front of him. I rub my head, checking for a bump.

“Are you okay?” Instead of handing me my keys, he shoves them in his pocket.

“I’m fine.”

“Let me have a look.”

“Seriously. I’m just clumsy.”

He ignores me and turns me around. “Whereabouts you hit your head?”

I rub the small lump forming at the back. Lance shifts my ponytail out of the way and slides his fingers under my hair, beside mine. I’m glad I washed it this morning, otherwise it would be a greasy mess.

“There’s a bump. I think you should probably sue whoever owns this asshole ride.” Lance knocks on the passenger side door. “Should we leave a note?”

“Stop making fun of me.”

“I’m totally serious. What if you have a concussion?”

“Can I have my keys now?”

“Concussions are dangerous business.”

I hold my hand out.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself, but if you end up with memory loss, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Well, I won’t remember anyway if that happens, will I?”

“I guess not.” Instead of dangling the keys from his finger, Lance’s places them in my palm.

I’m positive I stop breathing. I look down to where his hand molds to mine, and then up to his face. God. His expression is intense. He drops the keys into my palm and closes my fingers around them, covering them with his other hand.

“I should know you.” He looks so forlorn.

It reminds me of when I was just a girl with a silly crush.

I’d wanted him to remember me when I saw him in that bar last year, to be the same honest, kind boy I’d met all those years ago. When we’d been invited back to his house that night, part of me had still hoped he’d remember me. But he didn’t.

I feel like I’m melting inside, and a rush of emotions makes me want to tell him he does know me, but I tamp that down, biting back words that will probably cause me more trouble than good.

My phone buzzes in my purse, and he expels a sharp breath, retracting his hands. He reaches for the handle and stands there a moment before he says, “Thanks for taking care of me today.”

As he opens the door for me I mumble, “You’re welcome.”

I don’t know how else to respond. I feel like his words are loaded, and I’m suddenly terrified of the mistake I’ve made in giving him my number.

Because now I’m not sure what’s going to be worse: him finally remembering who I am and how we know each other, or me realizing I never left enough of an impact to warrant being remembered at all.