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I wince. My fault. Totally my fault. Wonder if mentioning that I wound up with a headache after our encounter would make him feel better?

Probably not.

After rubbing my hands to warm them up, I pump some lotion into my palm. As I reach for him, every nerve in my body is on red alert.

Stop it, Cristina. It’s just a massage. You’ve done this thousands of times.

I inhale and slowly spread my hands over his shoulders.

He wanted deep tissue, which I love because that’s when the real work happens, when there’s the opportunity to dig into people’s knotted muscles and smooth them out, open them up.

It takes a couple of minutes for me to learn his back, discover where he holds stress. His shoulder muscles are stone, like he’s been wrestling ghosts for years.

I pause and pull my hands away, studying him. I’ve worked on hundreds of backs, but his knots are among the deepest I’ve ever felt.

And for some reason, that breaks my heart.

What are you carrying, Rhett Maddox?

“Everything okay?” He starts to lift his head, and quick as a wink, I place my hands on his warm flesh, resuming the massage.

“Oh, yes, everything’s fine,” I say into my shirt.

As my hands run down his back and then to his legs, something shifts inside me, and I find myself aching for him.

Which must be why I forget to talk into my shirt when I say, “Okay, time to flip over. I’ll hold the blanket for you.”

His head pops up. “Cristina?”

Oh, shit.

“Yes?” I squeak.

“What are you doing here?”

“Um . . . is this a trick question?”

I can practically hear him roll his eyes. “What I mean is, why are you the one giving this massage?”

The bite in his voice stings a little, especially after working on his back. “Maybe because you booked it?”

He sighs heavily.

“Do you want me—your spa manager and most professional employee—to leave?”

He shakes his head. “No, might as well finish.”

I hold the blanket, looking at the wall as he flips over, then I gently lower it to find him staring at me, his expression guarded, like I’m someone he needs to keep at arm’s length.

“Tell me—did you take me on purpose, just to do the exact opposite of what I asked?”

“No. Wait. What?” A muscle in his jaw feathers, and I scoff. “Oh, I get it. You didn’t want me.”

And now I understand why Derek was smirking when he left. He knew exactly who was on this table and that Rhett had explicitly asked for anyone but me.

Oh, I’ll fix his Bitty Being, all right—by supergluing its head on backward.

All smiles, I tell Rhett, “I’ll start at your neck.”