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Maybe it’s Lance calling his own phone. I debate whether I want to answer. It could also be someone he doesn’t want to talk to, and if that’s the case, I probably don’t want to talk to that person either.
A knock on the door startles me, and I fumble the phone, nearly dropping it.
“Poppy?” It’s April.
“Come in!” My voice is high and pitchy.
She peeks in, taking stock of the stripped table, the pile of sheets on the floor, and the phone buzzing in my hand. She slides in through the crack and closes the door behind her.
“So? How’d it go?” She looks again at the phone. “Did you get a picture of his ass?”
“No. I didn’t do something that could potentially cost me my license, April.”
“Wow. You’re testy. I’m guessing it didn’t go so well.”
“It was fine. He left his phone here, though.”
“Oh my God! Lemme see!” She grabs for it, but I hide it behind my back.
“You can’t get into it. There’s obviously a passcode.” I haven’t checked to verify this, but who doesn’t have a passcode on their phone?
“I know that. I just want to see it.”
I roll my eyes and hand it over because there really is nothing she can do besides check out his screensaver.
April rubs it on her shirt before she examines it. “Dammit, it’s thumbprint activated.”
“Seriously, April.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t try it.” A sudden flash nearly blinds me.
I raise a hand. “What’re you doing?”
“Sorry! That was an accident.”
“Did you take a picture of me?”
“I didn’t mean to!”
I grab the phone, but without a password, I can’t delete the photo. “Thanks a lot. How am I going to explain that when he comes back to get it?”
She makes her sorry face. “Tell him the truth. It was an accident.”
“Should I include the part where you tried to get into his phone because you can’t contain your curiosity, or maybe the part where you rubbed it on your boobs?”
“I was cleaning the screen!”
“On your boobs.”
“I bet you stuck it down your pants!”
“That’s just too far.” We both snort laugh.
“Do you think he left it here on purpose?”
“I doubt it. He was looped by the time I was done with him.”
April wags her brows. “Oh, I bet he was. Bernadette said he was all kinds of flirty with you.”
“Bernadette’s full of crap.”
She gestures to the phone. “So what’re you going to do?”
“I guess I’ll try to call him to let him know it’s here so he can come pick it up.”
We check the system for his contact information and discover he’s only left one number. Instead of letting Bernadette do the calling, I use my personal cell, and the phone in my hand rings. I assume he’ll come to the conclusion that it’s here and return for it—but who knows how long that could take.
I only have twenty minutes left for dinner now, so I run across the street, grab a sandwich and a Sprite and scarf it down as quickly as I can before my next appointment.
I follow my rushed meal by working on a man with the worst bacne ever. It’s a stark contrast to Lance’s flawless, freckled, tattooed skin. I try to stay out of my head and remain focused on what I’m doing with my hands, but back acne isn’t all that pleasant, and mostly I’m just trying not to gag.
My final client of the evening, Debbie, is fifteen minutes late for her appointment. She relies on an independent transportation company to get her here because she can’t drive, so I always try to build in extra time in case they’re late, as they sometimes are.
This means I’ll be the last one out of the clinic. April wants to go to a pub for snacks and details about Lance’s massage, but I tell her not to wait. I’ll catch up with her.
It’s after nine by the time I finish my last client, and I know I’ll be responsible for cashing her out because Bernadette always leaves at eight thirty. I wash my hands and wait for Debbie to appear.
“Any plans for tonight?” she asks as we walk down the hall.
“I think I’ll curl up with a bowl of popcorn and watch Vikings.”
“Great idea! I have the best dreams after I watch that show. Ragnar is sex—” She comes to an abrupt halt.
I’m confused until I see what she sees. Lance is sitting in the exact same place he was earlier today. He’s wearing a pair of jeans now instead of sweats, and a T-shirt with his team logo instead of a hoodie. His hair looks like his hand has been in it. He proves my theory correct when he looks up from his lap and runs his fingers through it again. No man should have the right to look this good, especially as beat up as he is.
