Harlequin - Jennifer Greene, Hot Touch [urban books to read txt] 📗

“It’s okay,” she said swiftly, and zoomed forward—almost putting her bare foot in the broken porcelain but getting smart at the last second. A little smart, anyway. “These are my neighbors—Barb, Gary, Fred, this is Fergus—”

“We’re leaving,” Barb said again, as she pumped his hand. Fergus went rigid.

Phoebe saw his response and recognized that he was hurting. Thankfully that slapped a little sense in her head. “Y’all can take the rest of the coffee cake on your way out. And I’ll catch up with you later,” she said firmly.

It took a minute to clear them out, clean up the broken bowl, have a heart attack because she’d had no chance to brush her hair or put on makeup or real clothes, get Mop and Duster to quit behaving like puppies on speed, and then get back to him.

He was still standing exactly where she’d left him, looking around her massage room setup. “Phoebe, I really am sorry about interrupting you.”

“You didn’t. That was just a Saturday-morning neighborhood free-for-all. They eat me out of house and home. What’s wrong?”

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He answered her slowly, quietly, his gaze directly on hers. “I was rude before. I wanted to apologize.

When I go through one of my bad pain stretches, I can’t seem to…think. My foot was so deep in my mouth, I’m amazed I could even get it out again. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t. And it’s not a worry. I understand about pain.” She cocked her head curiously. “But you could have called to say you were sorry. Instead…you’re here.”

He tugged on an ear. “Yeah, well. Nothing I tried ever helped those headaches. You did. And if you’d consider taking me and my sometimes big mouth on as a client, I’d appreciate it.”

He obviously hated eating crow. She couldn’t very well hold a grudge when she hated sucking up after making a mistake herself. “I take it you’re having one of those headaches right now?”

“I’ve got one coming,” he admitted. “But that’s not why I came now. The headache isn’t that bad. And I didn’t expect you’d be working on Saturdays. I just came to apologize, and I figured Saturday morning you might not have clients, so it’d be a good time to ask if you’d consider taking me on down the pike—”

Before he could finish, she said, “All right.”

“All right, you’ll take me on?”

“Yes. If we can come to terms.” She perched up on a counter and crossed her bare feet. “If you want me to work with you, Fergus, my idea would be to sit down together with a whole program. Not just deal with those headaches when they’re tearing you in two, because that timing is way too late. You need to practice some techniques to make them go away for the long term.”

“Like what techniques? What kind of program?” he asked warily, but her attention was diverted when she saw him starting to sway.

“Strip down,” she said swiftly.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’re on my turf now, Fox. Go behind the curtain, strip down—I don’t care if you keep on your underwear or go buff—but take off most of your clothes. I need two minutes to heat the sheet and prepare. When you’re done, come back in here, get on the table, cover up.”

“I—”

“Do it,” she ordered him.

She wasn’t going to think about it—about how or why he rang her chimes. Or about that stupid euphoric feeling she got around him, either.

It had cost him to come here, particularly for a man who had a hard time leaving the house these days.

And though he may not have been in serious pain when he started out, he was obviously getting more miserable by the minute. She kicked her speed up to high gear. The pups were sent outside, the phone put on no-ring. The massage table was automatically dressed with a clean white pad, but it was baby-size. She scouted out an adult one, then threw a sheet in the dryer to heat on high for a few Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

minutes.

Minutes before, she’d worried about looking like something a cat wouldn’t drag home, but any thought of vanity disappeared now. Impatiently she pushed up her long hair, twisting and clipping it, while she considered which oils she wanted. She decided on lemon balm, sweet marjoram and calendula. She clicked on the CD, then strategically placed several small towels where they’d cushion his neck, the small of his back, under his knees.

She heard him cough—and easily guessed he was on the other side of the dressing room curtain, ready, just not sure what to do next. She didn’t look up, just said, “Climb on the table and lie down on your back. I’m going to pull the shades, darken the room so it won’t be so bright, Fox. There’s a cover you can pull on, if you’re too cool.”

She used her bossiest voice, yet she still momentarily held her breath, unsure if he’d try giving her a hard time. But he said nothing. Once he settled on the table, she turned around and immediately smoothed a cool compress on his forehead and eyes until she finished setting up. On the CD player she clicked on madrigals. She’d never liked that kind of music, but this wasn’t about her. Somehow even the most rowdiest babies seem to quiet down when she used that disc.

The details were done, then, and once she moved behind his head, she concentrated as fiercely as a brain surgeon. This was work. It wasn’t abouthim; it wasn’t about sex; it wasn’t about analyzing why such a scrawny, stubborn, contrary man put such an impossible zing in her pulse.

It was just about a man who was hurting…and about her, hoping to find a way to help him.

She worked for fifteen solid minutes, but his headache was almost as stubborn as he was. He just couldn’t seem to relax. The pain had a grip on him with