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He follows me and lies down on the table, rolling up his workout shorts while I pull massage oil out of the cupboard.
He’s done this before. So have I. This is a normal thing. It won’t be weird.
I apply the oil to my palms, and when I put my hands on him, I try to focus on the way the tight muscles feel under my fingers as I press and glide, but my face is heating.
I’ve done this for him, years ago. When we used to do this—
Oh god. My skin crawls.
He’d get turned on, and then it would turn into sex.
Ugh. My stomach thrashes with discomfort. I hate everything about this, but I also hate how embarrassed I am. This would be afantastictime for him to apologize.
I wonder if the other girls he slept with while we were together did this for him.
Our gazes catch, and my heart lodges in my throat the moment he notices my burning face. A slow smirk slides onto his face, like he’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t.
“So,” he starts, tucking his hands behind his head. “This is a good time to have a quick chat.”
My stomach rolls with nerves, but I hold my expression neutral. Under my hands, the muscle is loosening up, thank god. “Go for it.”
When he apologizes, I’ll be gracious. I won’t lord it over him. I just want to move on.
He laughs lightly, glancing down at my hands on his inner thigh with a conspiratorial grin. “Given our history, can you be professional this season?”
My hands pause. Yeah, he just said that. The sick feeling in my stomach starts simmering, a low boil, and I yank my hands back.
“What?”
He gives me a knowing look, like we’re sharing a secret. “Come on. You being my physio this year was a pretty big coincidence, and now this?” He gestures at his inner thigh.
A weird feeling loops through me, pounding harder with every heartbeat. It feels like I’m falling, like the contents of my stomach are in my throat.
He winces. “I just want to make sure it’s not going to be weird with us this year.”
Oh, Hazel. Wrong again. It’s almost laughable how wrong I am about guys.
He’s not going to apologize. He thinks I’mtrying to get him back. After what he did and said, he thinks I’d actually be interested.
To him, I’m the person who walked out of that party crying while everyone whispered about her. I’m the girl who took summer courses so I could follow him to university, like a clueless, lovestruck fool.
I’mnotthat person anymore.
Rage drips into my blood, followed by an intense need to prove him wrong.
“I didn’t request to be your physio.” My voice sounds weird. Strained.
He arches an eyebrow. “No?” It’s clear he doesn’t believe me.
“No.” Shame squeezes my throat.Clingy, I remember him saying about me.
Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me. God, even now, the words slice through me.
I want to prove him wrong so, so fucking badly.
Across the gym, Rory watches. He’s had one eye on me the entire session. His desire to help earlier pounds in my thoughts.
He lifts a weight, holding my gaze and flexing his biceps and triceps. My pulse stumbles, because even if he is a cocky dickhead, Rory Miller is wildly handsome. I can see why women fall all over him, even if I’ll never be one of them.
