Page 23 of Sterling Touch
He snorts, causing his shoulders to flinch. “Guess I am.”
I smile but instantly chastise myself because this is not a professional conversation to have with a patient. However, the truth slips free. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” For some reason, my cheeks heat and my fingers stiffen against Cort’s back.
Glancing at the timer on my phone, I notice our session is almost over and shift to the final stages of the massage. A calming activity where I smooth my hands over the parts I’ve concentrated on.
“And we’re finished.” I step away from the table turning for the tablet on the counter to type up my notes for today in preparation to leave the room and provide Cort privacy to dress.
But when I turn back to address him, he’s pushing himself upright, twisting himself into a seated position by swinging his legs over the edge of the table while pulling the sheet over hislap. With such a quick movement, I wouldn’t even guess he has a back issue.
My mouth falls open at the glorious outline of muscle on his chest and smattering of hair over his pecs before I lift the tablet like a shield before my face.Holy hell. “I’m just going to—” I motion toward the door with the tablet, keeping my head turned to the side despite the magnetic pull my eyes feel to inspect Cort one more time.
His fingers circle my wrist, and I lower the tablet-shield to meet coal-dark eyes, sparking here and there with a flame. My breath hitches at the warmth of his palm on my skin, and I glance down at where he’s touching me.
“Does shit like what happened with Henry, happen often?”
He’d asked me a similar question the other night. He’d also told me I was beautiful, and I have not forgotten how it sounded coming out of his mouth.
I can’t seem to find the words to answer him. The heat of his hand. The warmth in his eyes. The concern in his rugged voice. The combination is scrambling my thoughts.
“I’m gonna be watching out for you, too.” He’s referring to how my brother was there for me. How my brother hasalwaystaken care of me.
But I don’t want his pity. His sympathy for me not having a dad, just like my son doesn’t. His empathy that my brother raised me, like he helped me raise my child. The idea that I need some sort of protection.
“I don’t need that,” I tell him, noting the edge in my tone. “I take care of myself.”
Cort stares at me long and hard, like he again knows a secret about me, or maybe he can just see into the depths of my soul. Where it says I’m a strong woman but I’m still lonely. I’m still craving something no man has ever given me.
“At the practices, and games at least, I’ll have one eye on you.”
I scoff. “Oh, like you’ve been ignoring me at said practices since seeing you at Milton’s last week.”
His brows hitch, eyes widening. “I’m not ignoring you, Vale. I’m keeping my distance out of respect for your brothers. There’s a difference.”
“Well, I don’t account to my brothers.” And why is he still holding my wrist? Still stroking his thumb along the sensitive flesh on the underside. Still pressing against my accelerating pulse.
“Little Bee,” he whispers, soft and concerned.
“I’m not a child,” I counter, sounding very much like a little girl.
“I’m well aware.” With those dark eyes piercing mine, my breath hitches, and catches a second time when he slides his hand from my wrist to my palm before circling three of my fingers: pinky, ring finger, and middle one. He gives a little squeeze before he lets go, and I want to chase his touch. Like a pollinator seeks out the sweet nectar in pretty flowers.
Only, I’ve already been drunk on Cort, and I won’t be smothered in false honey again.
Cort can never again be the buzzing awakening I experienced at ten or a blinding blip of hope I had at twenty-two.
It isn’t fair to him.
And it isn’t fair to me.
11
[Vale]
On Saturday, Stone takes Hudson to practice while I run errands around town. My first stop is motivational. I need coffee and something sweet, so I pop into my brother’s bakery.
The Curmudgeon Bakery has black and white checkerboard tile flooring. A dark wooden bench runs the length of one wall with a scattering of tables and chairs in front of it. A display case of goodies lines the opposite wall. Near the front of the bakery is a small sitting area with café tables. The place is appropriately named for the business owner—our once surly brother—who also happened to be one of my closest friends growing up.
Trouble led Sebastian, and as I followed him wherever he went, that meant trouble found me on occasion. In my teens and the beginning of my twenties was when I was most reckless.When I searched for love in all the wrong places, literally. I wasn’t proud of what I’d done or who I’d been with, having gotten myself into a pickle a time or two with the wrong sort of character. Or rather, refusing his pickle. One time in particular was a close call, and my brother right above me in birth order played the hero. He also took the fall like a villain, serving jail time for his reaction.
