He has no idea just how good these fingers are.
I keep working the muscle, watching as his body slowly, finally starts to relax. The tension in his shoulder’s eases. The stiffness in his spine melts. He turns his face toward me now and I notice his lips part right before I hear a deep, rough moan. He was bracing the entire time I touched him. Maybe because he still doesn’t trust me. Maybe because he’s never let anyone take care of him before.
This is what I love about PT and massage. We take broken bodies and help them heal, make them stronger. We fix things people didn’t even know needed fixing. It’s the beauty of therapy—caring for these meat suits we’re stuck in for the short time we have on this earth. It’s an opportunity to see the beauty in life. The goodness in people.
Romanticize every moment.
I keep working at the tension in his thighs, thumbs pressing deeper this time, and when another rough sigh slips out of him, I notice it immediately. His hands are flat against the table now, fingers spread wide, knuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping the edge. Heat creeps up my neck because I know exactly what’shappening. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel it too. There’s this slow, heavy pull low in my stomach, a dangerous little ache every time my hands drag over the hard ridges of muscle.
I try to focus. Keep it professional. Keep my pressure steady and clinical even though my pulse is fluttering hard enough to make me dizzy. But then his breathing changes again, deeper now, rougher, and when I glance up and catch the way his eyes are squeezed shut, jaw tightening like he’s trying not to let me see his reaction, I know my suspicion is right.
Seth’s getting turned on by my massage. And the worst part is how much I like knowing that.
“Better?” I ask softly after another minute of massage.
“Yeah.” His voice is rougher than it was before. He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s better.”
“Good. That should be enough for today.” I pull my hands back, already missing the feel of his skin. “I have a handout for you; some stretches to keep you limber on off days. But on training days take it easy, okay? Don’t push this leg.”
“Okay.”
“You can get up now.” I take a step back, expecting him to push up immediately and sit. But he doesn’t move.
I hesitate, then grab the handout from my folder and hold it out to him. He tilts his head to look at me, still lying face down on the table, and takes the form, tucking it into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“Thanks. I’ll look at it.”
My brows pull together. “Can you move?” I scan his body for tension, for any signs of pain. “Did I hurt you?”
He clears his throat, shifting just slightly. And that’s when I see it. The faintest flush dusts the tops of his ears.
Before I can question it, he pushes up onto his forearms, muscles flexing, biceps bulging, then flips his legs around in one fluid motion. And then—oh.
Oh.
His hand adjusts his waistband.
I snap my gaze away so fast it hurts my eyes.
He’s hard.
Heat floods through me so fast my fingers tingle with it. I know what he's working to conceal right now. I know exactly what that looks like, and I know—in a way that's entirely inappropriate for this room—exactly what it feels like inside me. The memory of it is vivid. I have tried to bury it, and I have failed, and standing here right now I am failing spectacularly to act like I don’t want to see it again.
He doesn’t hate you... well, maybe he does, but his body clearly hasn’t gotten the memo.
“So,” I say, voice impressively steady. “If there’s nothing else—”
“Wait.” He stops me. His voice is low, gruff, and I have to fight every urge not to let my eyes dip lower. Not to let my mind go there. I force myself to meet his gaze instead, but that’s a mistake, too. Because his eyes are locked onto me with something unreadable, something almost hesitant. Like he’s about to say something he isn’t sure he should and is arguing internally.
“You can keep being Sawyer’s nanny,” he says finally.
The knot in my chest immediately disappears. “Really?”
He nods, jaw tight. “She gushed about you all day Sunday. Was really disappointed that you didn’t come over and hit the ball with her. I tried to fill in, but apparently my athleticism doesn’t translate to volleyball.”
I let down Sawyer. I won’t do that ever again. “I was trying to respect your wishes.”
His hand comes up, a silent concession acknowledging my intentions. “I know. Thank you. I explained that to her.” He shifts. “I’ll only need you when I have late practices or away games that she can come to. And I get if you have to travel with the team and can’t do it. I’ll text you the schedule each week and you can tell me if any of it doesn’t work. It’ll probably be three times a week or on a rare weekend.”
