Page 31 of Sterling Touch
14
[Vale]
IcannotbelieveI am doing this. I don’t even know how I’m going to get Cort up the stairs or back out of here again.
“Didn’t even sneak boys into my room when I was a teenager,” I mutter to myself as I tiptoe up the steps.
A soft chuckle behind me causes me to spin and place a finger over my lips to shush him. I’ve been walking up the stairs as quietly as I can, hoping the kids aren’t in tune to the double set of footsteps climbing the treads.
Unfortunately, my bedroom is at the end of the hallway. Without direction, Cort passes me and takes the lead, moving down the hall like I’d seen him do a thousand times when we were kids. Only, back then he was headed to Stone’s bedroom beside mine. Presently, he goes to the final door and lets himself into my room.
I should be cussing him out. Scolding him for appearing out of nowhere. Unannounced. Late at night.
But something inside me doused the angry fire burning in my chest while we were staring at one another downstairs. When he was spinning his hat in his hands, like a nervous twitch, and his eyes spoke a thousand words, all of which my heart wanted to interpret with more meaning than what he really desires.
A massage.
The nerve of this guy. Making a house call. Tomyhome.
I don’t have a massage table here and while I could use the sturdy kitchen table, I didn’t want Cort exposed in a main room of the house.
Being in my bedroom isn’t exactly better, though.
After I close the door, I watch as Cort takes in the soft pink walls and black and pink rug. The white comforter and the fluffy rose-colored blanket folded at the end of the bed. This room was yellow when I was a child, but the color has changed numerous times over the years, the latest being a light blush that’s feminine and sweet without being childish.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” His mouth hooks at the corner, like he’s fighting laughter.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Lie down on the bed.”Nothingabout that command sounds right.
Cort. My bedroom. My bed.
He doesn’t bat an eye. He sets his hat on a chair near my dresser and sits on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
I turn away from him, not wanting to watch him peel off his shirt, but then I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror over my dresser.
I should close my eyes, but I cannot pull them away from the sight of this man slowly unbuttoning his shirt and then shrugging it off his shoulders, exposing the wide breadth of them, and revealing his back. It’s like slowly unwrapping a birthday gift and it isn’t even my birthday. He tosses the shirt to the opposite side of the bed and catches me watching himthrough the reflection. Without a pause, he twists and lies flat on his belly, head on one of my pillows.
Everything about this scene is wrong. So wrong.
But my feet move across the rug, and I stand beside the bed. Cort is positioned lower than a massage table height and I’d ask to straddle the backs of his thighs if I didn’t consider that a dangerous position. Instead, I reach for the jar of honey balm on my nightstand and lather up my hands, not bothering to ask him where it hurts.
With his head turned on the pillow, I watch his eyes close the moment I touch him. His brows pinch, signaling I’ve hit the mark, and I concentrate on his lower left lat. A once-a-week massage should be enough to loosen him up. He should also be doing stretches on his own to alleviate pain. However, I don’t mention either method because I’m too irritated with him for barging in on my night and pissed at myself for letting him get away with it.
Fifteen minutes. Then his ass is out the door, and he owes me a huge tip for this inconvenience.
A soft knock comes to my door, and I freeze. With my hands still on Cort’s back, I press down on him and crane my neck, glancing over my shoulder at the lock on the doorknob.
Dammit, I didn’t lock the door.
My heart seesaws while my lungs stop working.
Please don’t let Hudson come in here, I beg the Universe.
“I’ll be right out, bud,” I call to my son, hoping he’ll respect the closed door and not barge into my room. As he’s gotten older, he’s become a little more reticent to walk in without an invitation and I appreciate his hesitation.
I have nevereverexperienced a situation like this one—a man in my bedroom—and I do not want this to be that first-time-for-everything moment.
“Just wanted to say goodnight.”
