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“Shit. It looks like the nearest one is an hour away.” I keep scrolling, in the hope there might be someone further down who’s closer.
“Not much of a surprise,” Elliot mumbles into the sheets. “The whole reason we’re launching First Byte here is because it’s a low-income area. I doubt many people here could afford massage therapy.”
The further down the list I scroll without finding anyone nearby, the more a sense of dread rises inside me.
“Give me a minute,” I say, desperate to ward off the growing fear that there might be only one possible solution.
I try searching “LMT Plainsville” in the hope it might make a difference. The hand holding my phone gets slick while the other one shakes as it scrolls.
Nothing.
Still, the closest is the one an hour away.
It was bad enough to have to pull this launch together in two weeks. It’s even worse that the work was close to finished, then washed away in a flood. Worse still that I now have less than a week to stick the place back together again. On top of all that, its owner now can’t stand—never mind walk—and there’s no professional nearby to fix him.
And now we get to the sickest joke of all.
I walk around to the side of the bed Elliot’s facing and kneel on the floor, partially to make myself eye level with him and partially to hide my bare legs from view.
“You know I told you last night that I stayed home to help Brody recover from his injuries? Well, Dad’s medical coverage wasn’t awesome and we were broke, so I had the physical therapist teach me some things I could do to help him.”
A broad smile spreads across Elliot’s face and his eyes widen. “Go on.”
My stomach churns. “One of his issues was lower back pain.” I can’t believe this is happening. “And she taught me some moves.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “You have moves?”
Flirtatious suggestiveness is not helpful. Rubbing Elliot’s back is not going to do anything for my overwhelming desire to do it for nonmedical reasons.
I meet his bright brown eyes and sigh. “This is not the moment for giving me a hard time. Right now, I’m pretty much your only hope.”
“And I couldn’t hope for better hands to be in,” he says.
“Well, apart from hands belonging to someone with an actual license who understands anatomy and musculature, is trained, has years of experience, and knows what they’re doing.”
“Oh, yeah.” He shrugs. “Apart from that.”
“Okay, well. I’m going to have to get up there and see what I can do.”
“Great,” he says, lifting his head just enough to slide off his glasses. “Could you put these on the nightstand for me?” He looks at me like he’s trusting me with his most precious possession.
“Of course.” I take the eyewear from him and set them down with a care reserved for Fabergé eggs.
His face is different without them. More vulnerable.
There’s no putting it off now. “Are you’re sure you’re okay with this?”
“Could not be more okay,” he says like a kid being asked the dumb question of whether they want ice cream.
Jesus. He is not helpful.
If I’m going to try this, I at least need to be on the side where he can’t look at me.
I walk around the bed, climb onto the mattress, and kneel beside him.
I wipe my trembling hands on my T-shirt. “I’m going to have to lift your shirt a bit. Is that okay?”
“Have at it,” he says.
