Page 15 of Worth Risking It

“Bye, baby girl.”

He hung up so I straightened my stance, only to find the doorway empty. Exhaling loudly, I tossed my phone to the mattress, looking around the sea of boxes. I had no idea I had so much stuff! I sure as hell didn’t have this much when I moved into the penthouse. Until I was packing, I hadn’t realized how much Milo had splurged on me since we’d been together.

Sitting on the bare mattress, I toyed with my engagement ring, thinking about my life. There were some parts I loved, some I hated, some I still thought were figments of my imagination. The parts I hated really were small in comparison to all the wonderful things experienced being with Milo.

“I’m done!” Wyatt barked, literally throwing the box to the floor. “For today, I’m fucking done.”

“What is your problem? You act like I haven’t carried just as many boxes in.”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t the one hurting, now are you?”

Pouting, I sat up straight. “You’re hurting? I didn’t know that. What’s wrong?”

He pressed a hand to the back of his ribs, somewhat twisting his waist. Sucking his teeth, his face was contorted in pain, his lips curling.

I stood and held an arm out. “You…y-you want me to give you…a massage? I can help, you know?”

Snorting, he stomped out of the room. “Get real.”

Chasing, I grabbed his elbow. “No, really. My table and oils are already set up downstairs. I don’t mind. C’mon, let me help you with that pain. Don’t be a stubborn asshole.”

He huffed, his nostrils flaring. “Fine.”

My hand motioning forward, we walked across the gallery style hallway to open the door to the other half of the house, the elevator right around the corner. I tapped the button and clasped my hands, gazing at his scowling profile.

“Where does it hurt the most?”

“Here,” he grumbled, bending his arm backward to wag his finger up and down to indicate his latissimus dorsi and external oblique.

The door opened and we stepped inside the brushed, bronzed room. Hitting the button for the lowest level, I leaned backward and gently touched the area.

“Ah, shit!” He lashed out, violently slapping my hand so hard, it flung against the wall, knocking my knuckles. “What the hell did you do?”

Blinking, I gazed at him in surprise. “Jesus, Wyatt. How much does it hurt?”

“A lot, all right? Shit.” He was groaning, rubbing the spot.

“What did you do? No way you hurt it like this moving boxes.”

Again, he tensed, turning his head away from me. “I was… Don’t worry about it.”

My head bobbed once, my lips pursing. That meant it was business related and I didn’t want to know. At least now I knew why he came home late the other night. He must have pulled his muscles then because since, we’ve done nothing but pack the little stuff, hiring professional movers for the big items.

The elevator stilled and swished open, so we stepped off. Going through the double doors to the vestibule that led to the exercise, media, and a couple bathrooms, we went left down a short hallway to the spa room.

The floors and walls were white, in those old fashioned, octagon shaped tiles. On the left was a shelving system where I kept all my towels, lotions, and oils with a short counter and sink next to it.

I went to the iPod and turned it on, the soft, soothing music spilling from the surround speakers built into the ceiling. Taking a small towel, I handed it to him.

“What’s that for?”

Squinting for a split second, I said, “To cover yourself when you take your clothes off.”

He did a doubletake and snorted. “I ain’t taking my clothes off.”

Propping a hand on my hip, I curled one side of my lip and shook my head. “Like I don’t know what you look like. Stop being a brat when I’m trying to help you.”

His lips moved to silent curses as he snatched the cloth.