Trouble

by Tia Louise

  She sits back in her chair, eyebrows lifted. “He actually said the P-word?”

  Pressing my lips together, I nod before taking another sip of really good coffee. My mom is killer at coffee. “Last night I slept with him for the second time.” Her jaw drops, and I see the light of hope in her eyes. I put my mug down a little too hard and wave my finger back and forth. “No, no, no! That’s the whole point. If I go there, then it’s confirming what he said, right?”

  Her eyes narrow, the light of hope fading, and she leans back in her chair. “Dang. This guy is some kind of special asshole. He’s got it all fixed so even if he breaks his own rules, you can’t do anything about it or you prove him right.”

  “Yee-up.” I pop my lips on the P. “I want to strangle him… When I’m not dreaming of having his babies.”

  “Is he good in bed?”

  My eyes press closed, and I nod my head. “I’ve slept with him twice, haven’t I?”

  Reaching across the table, she clasps my hand in hers. “Baby, I wish I could save you, but you got that gene straight from me. They’re always irresistible. Your father was like that. He was a smart asshole, and the smart assholes are the worst.”

  “You never told me Dad was an asshole!” My chest tightens, and I’m not sure if I’m glad to hear this or horrified.

  My father died when I was a little girl, so I only remember him doting on me. He was my first Disney prince, my first tragic hero.

  “Your dad was a gorgeous, red-headed Scot, and I loved him from the moment he spoke to me in that accent. That man made me wet… then I discovered he was a notorious playboy, and I nearly took his head off. Then he changed his ways.”

  She says it all so fast, I don’t have time to freak out over the status of my mother’s underwear. Instead, I’m thinking about the last thing she said.

  “What made him change his ways?”

  “I showed him I’d walk away. He decided he’d rather hold onto me than continue his life as a tomcat.”

  “You were a badass.” I sip my coffee.

  “A witch.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m as badass as you… I seem to keep giving in to him.”

  “Don’t do it.”

  Our eyes are locked when the screen door my mother insisted on having at the back of her luxurious Tudor mansion screeches and slams behind her best friend, Scout and J.R.’s grandmother, Alice.

  “Lord have mercy, Regina. One of these days I’m just going to sit on that bottom step out there and holler until you come and get me.” Ms. Alice is a fussy old lady, but I’ve known her all my life. She’s also freakin hilarious.

  “What’s the matter, Alice?” My mom goes over to give her friend a hug. “Rheumatism?”

  “Old age-ism. Sly, is that you? My goodness, you look just like a young Ann-Margret.” She waddles over to give me a hug. “Elvis had a real thing for her. Almost didn’t marry Priscilla because of it. Everybody hated her for it, but she came out on top. Elvis was a big cheater, and she’s still kicking from what I understand. Mmm… Good coffee, Reggie.”

  “What brings you around so early?” Ma returns to her seat at the table after handing her fussy friend a mug of coffee.

  “Couldn’t sleep. I can’t sleep past five-thirty anymore—because I’m old.” She squints an eye at me. “Enjoy your youth while you can.”

  My lips press together, and I love these old ladies. I’ve sat and listened to them gossip and fuss since I was big enough to drink coffee milk and be quiet.

  Giving her a squeeze, my hand slides across thick fabric under her blouse. “Whoa, what’s under your shirt here? A back brace?”

  “Oh!” Her whole face brightens and she rips up her blouse, exposing a flesh-colored bodysuit. “Got me some of those Skims. It’s like a stretchy girdle made out of this slick material. That little Indian girl with the good birthing hips sells ’em. How do I look?”

  She does a little turn, and I hold my nose to keep from snorting. “You look amazing. But… Do you mean Kim Kardashian?”

  “That little girl who looks like Cher, except… fuller.” She motions around her breasts and butt before taking a seat at the table. “If you ask me, Cher always looked like she needed to eat a whole pizza all by herself. I like that little girl’s shape. Womanly.”

  “Why do you think she’s…” I don’t even try. “She’s actually Armenian.”

  “Well, I don’t care what tribe she’s affiliated with. I believe in supporting women-owned businesses, minority-owned businesses—”

  “I mean, she’s not native—not that it matters.”

  “She’s the same thing as Cher, right?”

  “Right, they’re Armenian.”

  Ms. Alice slaps the table, sitting straighter. “Are you telling me Cher’s not… but she had that song where she dressed up like… and her hair…”

  “If it helps, Armenians are still considered a minority group.”

  She takes a moment as her worldview shifts, and I stand, going to my mom. “My work here is done. I’m going to see if I can sleep another hour.” Kissing her forehead, I go to Ms. Alice. “Sorry if I upset you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m going to buy some more of these girdles and help that little girl out.”

  Chewing my lip, I can’t hold back. “Kim Kardashian is a billionaire now. I think she’s going to be okay.”

  “A billionaire! Mother of pearl!” She clutches her chest, and I press my lips together, fighting a laugh. “Maybe I need to start making stretchy girdles.” I’m starting to go when she catches my hand. “Hey, Sly—have you seen that old book of ours? The Fireside Women’s Society book? Daisy thought you might have it.”

  My heart jumps, and I hope she doesn’t see the guilt on my face. “Ahh… I don’t know. It might have gotten mixed up in my stuff. I can check.”

  “Well, if you do, just bring it back next time you come. I don’t want anything to happen to it. That book is a historical record. It’s a powerful thing when women come together to help each other.”

  “I’ll look for it.” I’m retreating quickly when my mother calls after me.

  “Joselyn?” I pause at the base of the stairs. “You deserve to be treated like a queen. If he can’t see that, you’re better off without him.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” I give her a smile. “And thanks for helping with Ollie. I know I kind of sprung him on you this week.”

  “He’s a little doll, and I love Chartreuse. What an amazing frog!”

  “You’re weird.”

  Climbing the steps to my bedroom in the early haze, I know I’m not going to sleep anymore. I’m too keyed up from everything that has happened. I’m considering taking a long bubble bath when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Sliding it out, my heart squeezes at the sight of his name above a text glowing on the screen. Why aren’t you in my fucking bed? What gave you the idea you could leave before I woke?

  He’s pissed I’m gone, and I exhale a laugh, shaking my head as I tap out a reply. You were sleeping so well, I didn’t want to wake you.

  Gray dots float, and I hesitate outside the bedroom Courtney shares with her son. I almost wish we could stay here, where it’s safe. But then I’d be too far from my beast.

  Spencer’s text appears. You don’t leave without telling me.

  My lips press into a sad smile, and I know what I have to do. He’s not giving me a choice. Are you saying we’re in a relationship? I hit send, knowing what his answer will be.

  His reply is quick. No.

  Am I going to be your massage therapist?

  Another quick reply. Yes.

  Then I won’t be in your bed again. I don’t sleep with clients.

  Slipping my phone into my pocket, I decide I won’t reply to any more texts until I get some perspective… and a soak in some lavender-scented water.

  I’m kind of falling in love with him, but I won’t give him all the power.

  Like my mom said, men will do what they want until you
make them decide. I know Spencer, and I know he appreciates things of value.

  It all points to one clear path: I have to be something of value to him.

  Let me rephrase that. I am something of value, but he has to see it. Or he’ll lose me.

  My throat aches, but I have to be strong. As great as the orgasms are, he’s right. I’m a relationship girl. I do get attached, and he’s not going to change that about me.

  He’ll figure out what’s important to him, or maybe one day he’ll realize what he lost.

  Chapter 14

  Spencer

  “Well, it worked.” Miles blasts into my office, stoking my already foul mood. “I just got the fall lists from our top three accounts—a month early—and Heather has granted us an exclusive first-look photoshoot of the top items from their summer auction. It’ll be the cover of our June look book.”

  “Don’t you knock?” I’m irritable, but Miles is undeterred.

  “Antiques Today is Number 1! Take that, Link Sherlock.” He does a little fist pump.

  “We were never in danger of not being Number 1.” Not as long as I’m here.

  “Back still bothering you?” His eyebrow arches. “I saw Miss Winthrop is on your schedule for today.”

  His eyebrow arch pisses me off even more. “It’s a back massage. Nothing more.”

  “Oh, come now. You left a trail of fire in your wake when you pulled her out of the gala. Rick actually apologized to me for hitting on your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Sorry, sorry… I know, no girlfriends. Only protégés.” He holds up both hands as he turns for the door. “I suppose travel is out until you’re recovered? No worries. I’ll work it out with Grafton.”

  He’s gone and my jaw is tight. I flick a ball of paper after him, cringing at my lack of control. Joselyn is not my protégé. Calling her that makes it sound like I’m a lecherous old man, like my office has a casting couch. I’ve never slept with a woman who wasn’t begging for it, and I don’t groom them either.

  As it stands with Joselyn, we’ve been home a week, and other than appointment-related messages, we haven’t spoken. She doesn’t sleep with clients. I don’t do relationships. We’re at an impasse.

  Only, I’m pissed she’s taking some moral high ground. I broke my rule for her. Now she’s playing hard to get.

  Fuck that, she yelped like a puppy riding my dick a week ago. She’ll come around soon enough. The phone on my desk dings, and I flick the button.

  My secretary announces, “Miss Winthrop is here for your appointment.”

  “Send her back.” Standing, I round the desk as I shed my coat and loosen my tie.

  Pouring a tumbler of ice water, I compose myself. If she wants to play games, she’ll learn quickly I never lose.

  The door opens, and when I see her, the ground shifts. Her hair is styled in a ponytail on her shoulder, sending red waves down her full breasts, which are straining against rust-colored scrubs. Her face is so fresh and glowing, but her blue eyes are all business.

  It reminds me to get my shit together.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carrollton.” She rolls in a massage table and assembles it near the windows. “How’s the pain today? Can you rate it on a scale of one to five?”

  “First, you can call me Spencer. Let’s not be obtuse. As for my pain, it only hurts when I move in certain directions, and then it ranges from one to five, depending on whether or not I’m lifting something.”

  Her full lips press into a thoughtful line, and she nods as she taps on her phone. “This is your second treatment. Based on how you feel this week, we can decide how many more are needed and the amount of time between them.”

  I’ve already decided if she insists on continuing this act, it’ll be my last session with her, then I’ll take her home and spank her bottom. That fantasy makes me happy.

  I say none of this aloud.

  Instead, I lift my tie over my head and unbutton my dress shirt, feigning indifference. “How’s the client building going?”

  She takes out a small speaker, a bottle of oil, and several towels. “Pretty slow. Would you prefer lavender oil or peppermint?”

  “Considering it’s the beginning of the day, peppermint.”

  She nods, placing what looks like a saucer of rocks on my desk and plugging it in. I watch as she pours a small vial over it and steam begins to rise, filling my office with the crisp scent.

  Her eyes are averted as I take off my shirt, almost like she refuses to look at me. I’m about to comment on it until I turn back from placing the garment on the back of my chair, and I see her blink away fast, pink flooding her cheeks.

  That one little tell, that one slip changes everything. Knowing she’s drooling on the inside evaporates my frustration. It makes me want to toy with her.

  She thinks she has the upper hand, but two can play this game.

  “Should I remove my pants as well?”

  My question seems to startle her, so naturally I unfasten my belt. Let’s do this, Sin.

  “No!” She quickly holds up a small towel. “I’ll just tuck this in your waistband. It’ll protect your pants, and the oil is washable.”

  “I’d rather not walk around with oil stains on my clothes all day.”

  “It won’t happen. I’m very careful.”

  Hesitating, I decide not to push her too far on our first office visit. I’ve decided I do want her to return—this is fun. Going to the table, I lie on my stomach, closing my eyes as she carefully tucks the white terrycloth along my waist.

  She switches off the lights, and the noise of whales and pan flutes surrounds us. It’s very bothersome. The swishing sound of her scrubs alerts me to her approach, and I wait for her touch. It’s sweet torture, my skin tightening in anticipation until she places her palm feather-light against my skin.

  Relaxation filters through my bloodstream, and the tension leaves my brow as her pressure grows stronger. She’s silent, letting the fake whales preclude any conversation. Fuck you, whales. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since we’ve returned, and I want to hear her voice.

  “When you treated me in my hotel suite, you talked me through the entire procedure.”

  “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. Now that we’ve worked together, you can sleep if you want. It doesn’t bother me.”

  It bothers me.

  “What wrong idea would I get?” Yes, I’m pushing her to engage with me.

  “That I was attempting to violate your rules by doing anything inappropriate.” She’s being sassy. “Now you know what I’m going to do, and I have my own rule about clients.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Again, the whales fill the void, and I allow it.

  Her palms stroke my shoulder blades, sliding down my back to my waist. It makes me want to pull her close and kiss her long and hard, but I’ll respect her rules. I’ll wait until she’s ready to break them, perhaps with a bit of encouragement.

  I prop my cheek on my fist so I can see her profile. “It’s quite a move from flowers to massage therapy. What prompted that jump?”

  “It’s not such a jump if you think about it in terms of service. I’ve always wanted to lift people’s spirits, make them smile, or ease their suffering. Flowers led to aromatherapy and learning which scents eased anxiety and elevated the mood. That dovetailed into healing, which is how massage therapy works, and here I am.”

  As she speaks, she kneads her fingers into my strained muscle, and I hold my breath at the pain.

  “You need to breathe through it.” Her voice is soothing, calm.

  I do as she says, and she gently moves away, dragging her forearms down the large muscles in my back. I feel her breath against my skin, and it’s tantalizing. Her body heat surrounds me as she makes her way to the top of my back again, to my scar. Her palm covers it, holding steady, and I feel something like warmth transferring into my damaged skin.

  It’s a place I don’t shar
e with anyone, and her hand feels like it’s opening the lid on a box I keep sealed for a reason. Anger rises in my throat, and my playful mood is gone.

  I roll away abruptly. “Are we finished here?”

  “Yes.” Her tone is different, like she knows she trespassed. “I’m finished.”

  Heat burns in my stomach. I don’t need pity.

  “Thank you for your time.” The ice wall is firmly restored. “I’ll change in my bathroom.”

  “I’ll see you in a week.” She takes the towel from my slacks and uses it to wipe her arms.

  Her expression is calm, and I wonder how we went from me having the upper hand to her acting like she knows some secret I haven’t shared.

  She knows nothing.

  “Your payment will be in your Venmo account in the hour.”

  “Thank you.” Her soft voice carries as I shut the door.

  When I return, she’s gone, but the scent of peppermint lingers. She also left a bottle of water on my desk with a note. It reads “stay hydrated” and has a little smiley face.

  I swipe it off my desk ready to chuck it across the room when my phone buzzes. Glancing at the face, I see it’s a text from her. Sorry if I pushed you today.

  My thumbs move quickly with my reply. I don’t know what you mean.

  Several seconds pass, and she responds, It felt like things had changed in Oceanside. But you still don’t want to share your scars with me.

  My answer is quick. I mixed a pain pill with alcohol in Oceanside.

  It’s a dodge, but fuck it.

  She doesn’t immediately answer. Gray dots appear then disappear… appear, disappear. Finally, she replies, I don’t sleep with intoxicated men.

  I huff a laugh at her throwing my words back at me. I was angry just now, but she always manages to make me laugh. I don’t understand it. We’re going somewhere I’ve never been, and even when I fight, I still go back to her.

  I have to get on top of this.