EMMA
Tuesday, I wake up feeling energetic and sore as hell. I limp my way into work, hoping the walk will do me some good, but it's hard to concentrate. I'm thankful Phil doesn't have anything too complicated for me to work on. When I finally get home from work, I see a brown paper grocery bag on my stoop. My name is written on the bag in marker, with a note: Hope this is the right size.
I look inside and gasp to see a hand-blown coffee carafe. The bowl is clear with swirls of green and gold, and the thick, sturdy handle fits perfectly in my hand. I hurriedly unlock my apartment and, as fast as my aching, post-seizure body can move, hustle to the coffee machine, where I see that it is indeed the right size. I'm in the middle of fishing my phone from my bag to thank Thatcher for his surprise, when there's a knock at the door.
I peek through the window and see a sturdy-looking woman on my stoop, holding a folding table. "Can I help you?" I say, opening the door partially.
"Emma Cheswick? I'm Lucy, the massage therapist. Thatcher Stag sent me?"
Oh my god! This man not only makes me an artisanal coffee pot to replace the one I broke in nude shock, but he also sends me a massage therapist? The one thing in the world I really needed today but hadn't had an opportunity to arrange? Is he for real? I feel bad that my immediate thought is to wonder what he wants in exchange for all of this. I can't help but remember how he behaved when we first met, the sleazy, self-assured confidence that I was going to sleep with him in the greenhouse before his opening.
Lucy smiles at me expectantly, so I open the door for her. "I…don't know what to do. I haven't ever had…I didn't know Thatcher had hired you…"
"Don't worry about a thing!" she says, looking around. "I think I have plenty of room to set up in the living room. Give me five minutes and we can get started."
This gives me just enough time to fire off a text to the mysterious, ever-surprising Mr. Stag. Are you for real with these gifts?
You should make Lucy some coffee with your new, fragile pot.
Seriously, thank you, Thatcher. I don't know what to say here.
How about you let me come massage you instead?
Of course. Of course he wants to make this into some sex fantasy. There it is. Pass.
;) I'm kidding! But call me after.
I bite my lip as a thought forms. Before I can talk myself out of it, I type back Just come over in an hour. We can eat the next meal from Alice.
Lucy finishes setting up the table and soon, I am a blissed out puddle as her strong hands work out all the ache from my bones. We talk about my epilepsy, since it seems relevant, and it's so refreshing that she knows about seizures. Some of her clients suffer from them, too, and she knows just what to do to help me feel better. She pays special attention to my feet, which I hadn't even realized were bothering me until she starts to knead my arches. I could get used to this, for sure. When she's done, I pretty much roll onto the couch, guzzling water as per Lucy's instructions. I melt into the cushions, feeling my inhibitions slide away alongside my soreness. Thatcher knocks on the door and I holler at him to come in.
He laughs, seeing me sprawled out. "You look like you just smoked a bowl, Chezz."
"Mmm," I nod. "I actually have a meeting with my neurologist about that next week. There's a clinical trial at the medical school. For epilepsy."
"No shit?" His eyebrows fly up. He lifts my feet and sits down on the couch. My legs drape across his lap, and I feel the firm warmth of his thighs under my calves. He moves so casually that I hope he doesn't notice me squirm as heat floods my core. "I'd be down to help you with your research, Chezz. If you need someone to sample the goods and make sure they're safe, and all."
"Very funny," I tell him. I need to sit up and get my feet off his lap before I start stroking his crotch with my toes. I don't understand what's going on with my attraction to him right now. It's like my animal mind is attracted to his hot body and thoughtful favors, superseding my rational brain who remembers that he's a screw-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy. Maybe this is just him working hard to get in my pants.
Before I can decide if that would be a bad thing, I stand up to reheat the next layer of Alice delights. "Asian stir-fry today," I tell him, reading from the label. "With coconut Jasmine rice. God, she's amazing."
"She definitely is," he says. Thatcher walks over to the island and winds his long, muscular legs around one of my stools. As I wait for the microwave I stare at his jeans. His thigh must be two feet long. My cheeks flush as I think about how easy it would be to reach over and just give it a rub. When he starts to talk again, I yelp a little bit, drawn out of my fantasy. "So I was hoping Lucy would grease you up so you'd be more amenable for my next big ask for Operation Fake Fiancé," he says.
"Hm?" I slide him a dish of stir-fry.
"I forgot there's a bachelor/bachelorette thing this weekend. My brothers, their ladies, and us, holed up in a cabin in Deep Creek."
"This weekend?" I set down my fork and pull up my calendar app on my phone. "Oh. Shit. Fuck. That's why Veronica was so pissed." Everything comes back to me with my sister dropping hints about our family dinner this weekend. "Logan and Veronica are getting engaged." I reach for my fork, take a big bite, and look again at the calendar. "What are the details of this Deep Creek thing? My mom's going to want us to come pretend we're excited for Veronica and her country club friends."
"That sounds fun," Thatcher says, grinning. "I can put a hoop in my nose. Your mother will love it."
I almost spit out my food laughing. "You're terrible," I tell him, sort of hoping he's not joking. We map out the logistics. He's going to pick me up from work Friday with bags packed. We will duck out of the Stag party early on Sunday, leaving enough time to get to the country club for Veronica's perfect announcement. I'm actually looking forward to bringing him with me. There's never anyone I feel comfortable around when I'm out with my family, least of all my perfect sister and her perfect degree in political science and her perfect relationship with my father's chief of staff.
I feel sparks run down my spine when Thatcher's hand tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. "What's on your mind, Chezz?"
"Oh." I flush. His touch is really starting to affect me in ways I hadn't bargained for. "I was just thinking I am glad I will have an ally at this thing Sunday."
He smiles at me and his grey eyes are molten with…something. Can he be feeling this heat, too? I clear my throat and shift the conversation back to work, telling him about how excited everyone has been about his feature story and how much they're looking forward to reading about Juniper. "This weekend will really give me a chance to grill her," I tease.
Later, when he leaves and I sink back into the couch, I can smell traces of him. Spicy deodorant, the smoky smell of his workshop, and the lingering, wonderful scent of Thatcher Stag himself. I think I'm in trouble, I text Nicole. I might be into this guy.