“Hypothetically,” I say, playing along, “I’d have you lie face down and work the hip flexor and glute.”
“Face down?”
“That’s where the IT band is. On the side and back of the leg.”
“Hmm.” He sits on the bed, pulls me between his knees. “And would this hypothetical treatment involve direct contact?”
“It’s deep tissue work. So yes.”
“With your hands?”
“Obviously.”
“On my ass.”
“On your glutes. There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?” His hands slide up my thighs. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’d have your hands on my ass. For medical purposes.”
“For therapeutic purposes.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
He stands, turns me around so my back is to his chest, and leans down to murmur in my ear.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you liked the idea. Back then. Of having a legitimate reason to touch me.”
My face burns. “That’s—I was being professional?—”
“You were being professional. But you also blushed when I suggested it.” His hands trace up my sides. “I noticed. You always blush when you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be thinking about.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do. Like right now.” He turns me back around, grinning. “You’re blushing.”
“That’s because you’re—this is—” I stop, laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m thorough,” he corrects, pulling me closer. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?”
He kisses me, and I feel him smiling through it.
My mom is gone. Winters is gone. The investigation is over.
Roman’s here. I’m going back to work. We have a year to figureourselves out.
It’s not perfect. It’s not fixed.
But right now, with Roman’s hands on my waist and his laughter in my ear?—
It’s enough.
