Tyler

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Details are my friends.

Loopholes are my bedfellows.

And detours are often the way I get where I want to go.

I’ve mastered all three for work. While my cousin has often said I charge out of the gate when it comes to work, he’s also acknowledged that I’m in love with details, and they counterbalance my relentless pursuit of unconventional deals.

All those tools are in my arsenal on Thursday morning.

I dress for work. Charcoal gray slacks. A black leather belt. A crisp white shirt. And a forest green tie. It’s too warm to wear a jacket, and who needs one these days anyway?

I grab my phone and wallet and leave my apartment, sliding on my sunglasses, since the big yellow orb in the sky is shining brightly. I take that as a good sign as I walk across town, passing the usual neighborhood haunts—the bodega on the corner, the dry cleaners, the organic café.

All around me, New Yorkers are talking, walking, moving. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, but this city energizes me like no place else as I put one foot after the other on the pavement. I’m not a car person; I’m a man who gets around by foot, quickly and with purpose.

Today’s goal is singular.

Some might call it a Hail Mary.

Some might say it’s a leap off a cliff.

I say it’s a strategic bid for a second chance. The past week on the phone with Delaney—however brief—has only cemented this desire. I loved her like crazy in college, and when we talk now, I can still hear the parts of her that I fell for. The way we connect pulses with its own energy.

The chemistry is still there. I just need her to know I’m sorry.

So it’s time to say it like I mean it.

When I reach my destination, I yank open the door and walk inside. Nirvana Spa is the opposite of the crisp, quick, do-it-now-ness that pervades my law offices, and that makes it perfect for a spa. It’s soothing from the second I enter. Lotions and potions perch on shelves. Lavender eye pillows flank them, along with yoga mats, a tray of jewelry made from recycled glass and metal—there’s a sign that says so—and greeting cards featuring photos of faraway island enclaves, snow-capped mountains, or sandy beaches.

I check in at the front desk. The receptionist peers at the screen, her nose-piercing shining in the morning light that filters through the windows. She looks up and smiles. “Mr. Pollock,” she says. That’s the first detail—the name I gave when I booked my appointment. “Welcome to Nirvana. Delaney is finishing with someone else right now, but she should be with you shortly.”

“Excellent.”

“Have you been to Nirvana before?”

Considering Nirvana is a synonym for heaven, a perfect place, or one’s happy zone, I’d have to say yes. “In some ways. But not this spa. I hear it’s the best.”

The woman nods happily. “Would you like to change into a robe? We have a relaxation zone in the back. You can wait there and have a mug of tea or some cucumber water.”

I hold my hands out wide. “How can you go wrong with cucumber water?”

“You just can’t. It’s the best. I’ll have Felipe take you back,” she says, and a few seconds later a slim young guy with kind brown eyes and fully inked arms strides into the reception area.

“Welcome to Nirvana,” he tells me, then holds open a wooden door, and I follow him into the rest of the spa.

That’s another detail. Knowing the terrain. Mapping out a strategy.

I called earlier in the week and asked a few casual questions about the whole massage protocol here so I could plan properly. The woman on the phone walked me through the details, and that’s what I need to navigate next as Felipe escorts me to the robe portion of the plan.

“So glad to have you here today, Mr. Pollock,” Felipe says. I canvas the hallway while we walk. A heavy man walks ahead of us, and a lady with purple hair darts into the women’s room. There’s no sign of Delaney popping out early from her current appointment, and I’m glad of that.

When we enter a locker room that’s more like a quiet sanctuary, Felipe hands me a white robe, pats a locker, and gives me a key for it.

“These robes are amazing. So soft and comfy,” he says, like he’s cooing at the clothing item.

Well, then. “You don’t say? I probably won’t want to take it off now.”

He smiles and laughs, then tells me he’ll be back shortly to “fetch” me and take me to the Rainfall Room. He points a finger at me and adopts a playful grin. “With your robe on, Mr. Pollock.”

“Ten-four. I just need to hit the little boys’ room first,” I say, since that’ll buy some time.

Now it’s time for the loophole. Because once he leaves, I’ve got my window.

He exits, and I briefly stare at the robe in my hands. I don’t really see the point of one. A robe to me represents a lack of commitment—you’re either naked, or you’re dressed, plain and simple.

I set the material on the bench, and now I’m ready for the detour.

I push open the door, poke my head into the hall, and scan up and down. Coast is clear. I step into the hall, find the Rainfall Room, and hope.

This is the part that could trip me up. I’m assuming she won’t be using the same room for her client before me, but that was a detail I couldn’t procure. So, I’m winging it.

My shoulders tense as I turn the knob, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the room is empty. I wouldn’t want to walk in on someone else’s rubdown.

With a soft whoosh, I push the door so it’s barely ajar. I toe off my shoes, pull off my socks, and then I unknot my tie.

I work open the top buttons on my shirt when I hear the footsteps. A flurry of nerves spreads inside me. Partly because I hope to hell Felipe’s not coming in here, hunting me down like the Robe Police.

Mostly, though, I’m nervous because I’m flying blind from here on out.

I’ve no clue how Delaney is going to respond. But the woman made the path to forgiveness crystal clear. Say you’re sorry. Make it believable. Mean it.

The evidence from our calls in the past week points to our rekindled chemistry—so I need to lean on that for my apology.

I slide another button out of its hole.

A soft rap sounds on the door, then someone pushes it open wider, and soft feet pad into the tiled room.

“Hi Mr. Pollock, so glad you—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, meeting her brown-eyed gaze. She frowns.

I slide open another button. “I’m sorry for the calloused way I ended things.” I reach the hem of my shirt. “I’m sorry for the juggling comment. That was cold and cruel.”

Her lips purse, like she’s trying to ask a question. As I move to the tie and unknot it fully, leaving it undone around my neck, I keep up the words—I’ve always loved words, and shaping them into just the right argument to make a point. Now, I need all the letters of the alphabet to let this woman know I want her to look beyond the idiot I was eight years ago. She prizes honesty, so I give her more of the bare truth. “I was a stupid, twenty-two-year-old cocky, conceited jerk.”

She blinks as I pull my shirt from the waistband of my slacks. “What on earth are you doing here?” She waves wildly at my unbuttoned shirt, like I’m a brainteaser about two trains in opposite directions entering a one-way tunnel at twelve o’clock.

“I’m your ten a.m. massage, and I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

“You booked a massage?” she asks, like that statement makes the train puzzler even more confusing.

I nod. “I sure did. A massage and an apology for the way I cut you out of my life.”

She runs a hand through her hair, still processing the riddle of me. And, for the record, two trains can enter that one-way tunnel without colliding—one goes in at noon, the other at midnight.

She parks her hands on her hips. “You know, Tyler. That really hurt,” she says, and I can hear the pain in her voice. The sound of it hooks into my heart.

I nod. “I understand why it would, and it was something I thought I had to do. But I can see now that I could have handled it a lot differently. In so many ways.” I hope she can hear the honesty in my voice as I pull the loose tie from around my neck. Her eyes follow my every move, drifting down to the green silk in my hands. She nibbles her lip, a tell if I ever saw one. “Your favorite color. I wore it for you,” I say, trying to get our flirt on again.

“I love ties.” Her words tell me one thing, but her delivery says another. She bites out each word like they cost her something. “And I can’t believe you had the audacity to wear my favorite color.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Audacity is my middle name. Besides, why would I wear anything but your favorite color?”

She snaps her gaze away from me. “I can’t even look at that tie right now.”

I shrug and toss the tie on the stool in the corner of the room. “Out of sight. Out of mind.”

Slowly, she turns back to me. “Good.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s out of my mind, too.”

Time to put something else in her mind then.

And so, I undress for her. Because sometimes you’ve got to give it your all. Show a woman you’re willing to bare your heart for her.

And, let’s be honest, your body.

Look, you’ve got to play to your strengths when you’re negotiating. You need to know what your opponent wants. And sometimes you need to give them what they can’t resist. I’m in excellent shape, fit as a fucking fiddle, and I work out hard. Delaney used my body as her playground once upon a time. She loved getting naked with me.

Let’s do this.

Off goes one sleeve, then the next. I toss it behind me. My hands reach for my belt.

“Tyler,” she says, but her voice hardly sounds like a protest. She sounds half turned on, half pissed.

I focus on the first half. Glass half full and all. “And I listened to you. You said I needed to do it properly and to mean it. So, I’m taking a chance, like I did when we met in college and I kept asking you to go out with me,” I say, unhooking the belt buckle.

She arches a brow. “Like that time you showed up at the snack bar, plopped down next to me, and asked what it would take to get me to finally go out with you?”

“And you said, ‘An ice cream sundae with chocolate sprinkles.’ The snack bar didn’t carry sprinkles, so I went out and found some. And then you said yes.”

She shakes her head, like she’s all discombobulated. “That was different than this,” she says, waving her hand up and down my body.

“But do you want me to stop? I could get chocolate sprinkles this time, too, if that helps.” I yank the belt from the loops and let the leather fall to the tiled floor.

Her lips part, and she stares—simply stares at my hands poised above my zipper. No answer comes, so I trust she wants me to do the opposite of stop—she wants me to keep it up.

I slide open the button on my pants.

She inhales sharply. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you I’m sorry. Meaning it. And asking you out one more time.”

Her eyebrows knit together. A tiny smile tugs at her lips. But then she erases it, pointing at me. “You can’t just come in here and strip.”

“But isn’t that what I’m supposed to do before a massage?” I tilt my head like I’m trying to remember. “I’m pretty sure fully clothed is not the proper attire.”

“You know damn well that fully clothed isn’t the proper attire. But you also know stripping isn’t how it’s done, either.”

I furrow my brow again. “How else would I get down to the appropriate state of undress then?” I ask, tossing the question back at her.

She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Mr. Pollock. You’re completely ridiculous.”

“Yes, I am. But I was a persistent bastard in college, and I got you to go out with me. I’m hoping it will do the trick again.”

And the rest goes quickly. I unzip my pants, push them to my hips then down, and her eyes pop wide.

“What. The. Hell?”

I shrug casually, then shove the pants to my ankles and step out, leaving them on the floor.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, opens them and lets her gaze drift down to my boxer briefs. Black and snug. I’m not sporting a raging boner. C’mon. I’m apologizing. It’d be a little tacky if I was pointing in her direction. Not right away, at least. But she is fine as sin, and as sexy as she’s ever been in those black yoga pants and a black V-neck T-shirt. A thin silver chain with a turtle charm hangs around her neck, and her blond hair is pulled into a ponytail. A tremor of lust rattles me as I remember how she liked me to pull her hair.

And the one-quarter in my shorts turns into a semi.

Her eyes stray to my chest, like she’s taking me in.

Good.

I’m not saying relationships should be built on the physical. But it can be one hell of a fantastic foundation. The way she looks at me tells me she likes what she sees. And I like the way she stares with heat in her dark eyes.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” I say, because I can’t not.

Her hands flutter and seem to dust across her breasts. They’re not big. They’re small but firm and perfect. Perky, too. “Thank you,” she answers, but she’s not giving in yet. So I keep going.

“And you said I need to mean it. Here goes. I’m stripping for you, but I don’t want your brain cells to evaporate. I just want you to say yes.”

I strip off my boxers, let them fall to the floor, and stand naked in front of her. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. She looks at me, and yeah, I do have a hard-on now. No semi anywhere—the full monty deserves a full monty. Her chest rises and falls, and I love that I can tell she’s fighting with herself.

She purses her lips, then she brings her fingers to her forehead like she’s shocked I did this. Like she can’t even process it. “I don’t know what to say,” she says, taking time with each word. “You’re naked at my work, and I can’t even think.”

“I’m supposed to be naked.”

She lifts her head and points wildly to the massage table. “You’re supposed to be naked under the sheets, not standing here at full mast, showing off your rock hard body and perfect dick. I can’t think straight when you look like this.”

I rein in a grin.

She inhales sharply. “I mean it. I can’t think at all.” She turns on her flip-flopped foot, yanks open the door, and strides in the hall.

Oops.

That wasn’t part of the plan. Time to improvise, since I’ve got no choice but to follow her. I don’t want her to get away from me again.

“Give me a chance, Delaney,” I say firmly. I won’t beg. But I will speak my mind. I cup a hand over my dick and walk into the hall.

Double fucking oops.

This time the coast isn’t clear. It’s stuffed with people, who all catch a glimpse of my Garden of Eden attire, my hand mimicking Adam’s fig leaf.

A short, muscular, forty-something woman wanders out of the ladies’ room and snaps her head toward me, her eyes widening.

A masseuse sporting a long braid down her back steps out of a massage room, calling over her shoulder, “Yes, come see me again tomorrow.” Then she sees me and asks, “Are you my ten a.m.?”

I’m about to answer with a no when Felipe rounds the corner and halts in his tracks. His eyebrows rise, and he clasps his hand over his mouth gasping, “Oh my.”

I raise my other hand in a casual wave. “Like I said, not a fan of robes.”

As his eyes roam my body, he utters, “I’m not a fan of robes anymore, either.”

The muscular woman waves her hand, like she’s calling for attention in class. “Honey—” The woman levels a sharp gaze at Delaney. “You need to give that man a chance.”

Delaney smiles tightly, nodding a thanks that I’m sure is hard as hell for her to give. Especially since I have more supporters.

The masseuse with the braid pipes in. “If not, I’ll take your chance.”

With her jaw set hard, Delaney gives a quick, “thanks for the feedback” wave, then spins around, smoke seeming to billow from her nose. She sets a hand on my chest and pushes me back into the Rainfall Room.

She slams the door behind her.