I have no problems being understood when I’m interested in a woman.
Those words had meandered through her mind every night since, like a playlist on repeat. What had he meant? He could be so literal. Was he saying he would tell a woman if he was interested in her and since he hadn’t said anything, he wasn’t? Or, as she’d been foolish enough to dare to hope, had he meant the exact opposite?
And even as that hope stirred to life, she squashed it down. Nothing could happen between the two of them. How many times did she have to repeat it to herself before she believed it?
As many times as it took.
He was her client, her ticket to the promotion she’d wanted her entire life. Nothing was more important. Not even a tall, gorgeous, brilliant man who managed to look inside her soul and pull at emotions she hadn’t anticipated.
“What’s that?”
Chelsea jumped. Adam stood watching her. Her heart raced. He was a visual guilty pleasure. His dark hair was damp and swept back from his face. A sleeveless dark gray T-shirt hugged his broad shoulders, and a pair of loose athletic pants hung from his hips. He looked strong, healthy, and powerful. Yet she knew, no matter how capable he looked physically, the most dangerous muscle in his body was his brain.
And she found that sexy as hell.
“What’s that?” he repeated again, pointing at the object in the middle of the room.
Chelsea wiped her hands down the sides of her pants.
Relax and breathe. The irony of the self-directive wasn’t lost on her. When she’d initially planned this course of action, she’d imagined bringing someone in to perform this exercise. But his insistence on not inviting anyone else to his home, plus his unavailability all weekend, left her with little time and even fewer options. She’d considered deleting the activity from her agenda, but a stubborn part of her refused to believe she couldn’t get through the lesson with her professionalism intact.
“A massage table,” she managed, proud when she sounded lucid instead of flustered.
He walked over to it. “Who’s getting a massage?”
“You.”
His fingers trailed against the navy blue terry cloth and the muscles in his bicep ticked.
She swallowed. “Maybe.”
She needed to pull herself together. How was she supposed to teach him to relax when she was a jittery wreck?
He shot her another of his patented, probing looks. “You always travel with one of these?”
“No.” She forced a laugh. “There were two of these at the Andersons’ house. I grabbed one because I thought it would help us with today’s lesson.”
“Which is?”
“Relaxation.”
His brow creased. “When will your lessons involve concrete tasks I can complete?”
“Concrete?”
“Yes, concrete. Pertaining to or concerned with reality rather than abstractions.”
She didn’t try to contain her laugh. “Everything we’re working on will have tangible effects on your presentation. That includes relaxation. It’s important that you stay calm and focused during the presentation. If you project confidence, your audience will lean into the experience.”
“That’s touchy-feely nonsense. This presentation is the most significant occurrence of my career. I’ll be worried about my clothes, interacting with Mike, and engaging with the press. There is nothing relaxing about that scenario.”
He had a point, but . . . “That’s exactly why you’ll have to do it. The press can be like a pack of rabid dogs. They’ll take their mood cues from you. They’ll be coming to the presentation having watched your last press conference and expecting you to behave in a similar manner. In fact, most of them will already have that meltdown as the lead for their story. They won’t care about the launch of the new device. They’ll want to release another story about how you deal with the press. Let’s not do their work for them. We want them excited about the HPC so they have no other option but to write about the device.”
“You make a persuasive, compelling argument.”
A major compliment, coming from him. “I can get you through this launch successfully. Do you trust me?”
She tried and failed to ignore the burn in her throat when she said “trust me.” He stared at her for a long moment. The thick lashes of his eyes, the only softness on his face, were too beautiful for a man. One could be forgiven for believing a man with the planes and edges of his bone structure would be callous. But no one who possessed those lush lashes could be heartless. Finally, his lips curved upward.
“Yes, I trust you.”
The implied vow echoed through his words. They’d crossed a milestone. And her stomach plummeted with the knowledge of the lie she carried.
“Great.” She exhaled and pasted on another smile. At this point, she’d be lucky if her face didn’t crack by the end of the day. “You mentioned spending most of your time at your computer. Are you doing any stretching? Yoga? Pilates?”
He laughed, the sound a bark of masculine amusement. “Yoga?”
“Don’t knock it. Yes, yoga is known for its relaxing properties, but certain versions of it can provide a very strenuous workout.”
“If you say so,” he said, his condescension as high as his ego.
“So, you don’t do yoga. Any type of stretching at all?”
“For exercise? No.”
She scanned his body and her heart threatened to burst from her chest. “You’re obviously in very good shape. You don’t get that body”—she waved her hand in his direction, not meeting his gaze—“by sitting in front of your computer sixteen hours a day.”
“I run.”
She blinked. “You have a treadmill here?”
“No, outside.”
“You have a treadmill outside?”
“I run outside,” he said with exaggerated enunciation.
She craned her head to peer around him and through the large windows. All she saw were trees and the rooftops of houses down the mountain. “Is there a track or something around here?”
He laughed again, the action brightening his eyes and producing appealing crinkles at the corners. The flash of white teeth against the darkness of his beard sent her pulse soaring.
“There are trails throughout the mountains. I run those.”
She thought of the steep, curving road she’d been driving this last week. There were very few flat stretches on the public road. Most of his run on the trails had to stretch uphill. His legs were probably like rods of steel.
“Does that relax you?” she asked, feeling anything but relaxed, as she attempted to stay on task.
“I’ve never considered the relaxation component. I do it consistently and experience the known endorphin rush, so my body finds it beneficial. As for my mind, if I’m working through a problem, going for a run usually helps.”
She nodded. “It sounds like, even though it might not be relaxing in the way I was thinking, it does work for you. I would suggest you go for a run the morning of the presentation. A nice, long, steady run to prepare your mind for what you’re about to do.”
“I can do that.”
“Good.” She clasped her hands together in front of her chest. “Can you take a seat on the table?”
He did, and she moved to stand in front of him. His head was level with hers and the heat from his body darted out and singed her. She took several steps back.
“I want to show you some simple deep breathing exercises that will help you calm down and focus in the moments before you take the stage. Are you willing to try them?”
“Yes.”
No arguments, questions, or conditions? He really did trust her.
“These are also beneficial if you need a moment during the Q & A to gather your thoughts or choose the right words after an antagonistic question. N
ow, close your eyes.”
His lashes swept down, casting a silky shadow on his cheekbones.
“Inhale slowly and hold it, one . . . two . . . three . . . four. Now, exhale, slowly, one . . . two . . . three . . . four. That’s it. Again.”
He drew in a breath and contained it to her tally, then released it and repeated the process.
“Your mind shouldn’t wander. Concentrate on the numbers and count to yourself as you inhale and exhale. Good, one more time.”
His chest rose and fell and her gaze slipped to his mouth as his lips parted to let the breath escape. God, he was unbearably attractive. His face had lost some of the tension it normally held, something she hadn’t realized until this moment, when she saw his forehead smooth and his jaw relaxed. Her fingers itched to trace his features, find out if the scruff on his face was soft or coarse, and slide her fingers through his long, dark hair.
“When was your last haircut?”
She slapped a hand over her mouth. That’s not what she meant to ask.
His eyes opened. “January.”
Three months ago. That would explain its length. She wondered if he always went several months between haircuts or if something special happened in January.
His look probed into her soul and she resisted the part of herself that wanted to let him in. She shook her head and tried to remember what she’d actually meant to ask him.
“Have you ever received a professional massage?”
“No.”
“A massage is an effective way to help you relax. They can ease pain, manage anxiety, and stimulate your mind. I’m going to give you a basic one, so you’d know what to expect.”
“Are you a licensed therapist?”
“No. I’ve picked up a few moves over the years. Part of my job is to know a little bit about a lot of things.”
“I can see how that would be useful.”
“You might like it enough to schedule one for yourself. They’re especially good at the end of a long day in front of the computer.”
“I’m aware of ergonomics. It’s the reason my workstation is set so my monitors are all at the optimal distance and angle and my chair is custom-designed for proper spine and hip alignment.”
The memory of sitting in that chair almost produced a moan. And speaking of sounds of pleasure . . . How was she going to do this?
“Take off your shirt.”
He grasped the hem of his shirt, and in one smooth motion ripped it over and off his head, tossing it on the floor.
Her mouth went dry. His chest was spectacular. Golden skin stretched over solid muscle but not so many that he looked unreal. A smattering of dark hair covered his chest and trailed down over the ridges of his abs, to disappear beneath his waistband. She groaned inwardly. What would he do if she reached out and let her fingers follow the path?
“Lie down on your back.” The words squeezed their way from her throat.
The corner of his mouth twitched but he swung his legs onto the table and did her bidding. His muscles rippled with the movement, said abs contracting and releasing as he flattened.
“While you relax, think about what you’re going to say at the presentation.”
She moved until she stood at the head of the table. Before her, the windows of his great room showcased the amazing view, but it was no competition for the vision of his long, lean body stretched out on the massage table. She dropped her chin and flinched, startled to find him staring up at her. She wanted to look away, but his gaze held hers captive, like he was searching for the answer to some elusive equation that could only be found in their depths.
Inhaling, she sank her fingers into his hair and the crisp strands tickled her fingers. She stroked her fingertips along his scalp and down either side of his head to his nape, then shifted her hands until her palms cupped his head and her fingers channeled back up to his forehead. She repeated the process several times, enjoying the feel of his hair against her skin. His eyes fluttered shut and his chest rose and fell evenly.
What was she doing? She’d never thought of herself as a daredevil, but how else to explain this reckless compulsion to brush the fire and risk getting burned? She let her thumbs trace a path across his thick brows, down his temples, around his ears, and to the back of his neck, her fingers like experimental teenagers disobeying her brain’s command to stop. On the next pass, she gently squeezed his earlobes. Over and over her fingers worked until she’d smoothed the creases from his countenance.
She lifted his head, the weight of it warm in her hands, and turned it first to the left, then to the right. She placed it gently back down on the bench and closed her eyes. This was supposed to be relaxing, but she was panting, trying to draw air into her deficient lungs. She felt light-headed and overheated. Praying that Adam was reaping the benefits, she glanced down at him and froze. If the impressive ridge growing in his sweatpants was any indication, she was failing on that score, too.
“Turn over,” she whispered, her usual crisp tones softened into husky, mushy notes. When he reached down to adjust himself before turning over, her belly dipped.
She could do this. Stopping now would be an admission that she couldn’t handle it.
She reached for her bottle of body oil and poured some in her palm. Moving back to the head of the table, she rubbed her hands together, then placed her palms on the wide expanse of his upper back, her fingertips pointed toward his hips.
“Is that oil?” he asked, gruffly.
“Yes, why?”
“Grab a towel. Oil stains.”
She stiffened and her desire dissipated like fog with the rising sun. She flashed back to the night they’d met. First his T-shirt, and now his floors? Seriously, she found his obsessive need to keep his possessions in pristine order unflattering. Heaven forbid a little oil dripped on the floor.
“What?”
Had she said that aloud?
He lifted his head. “What did you say, Chelsea?”
Damn. She had. “Nothing.”
“You think I care about the floor?” His tone implied only an idiot could believe the statement was true.
Annoyance flared through her. “I’m trying to help you!” She removed her hands and held them in front of her. “A little rain, some oil. I’d hope you’d consider the big picture and conclude a spot on your floor or the ruination of your precious ‘talk nerdy’ T-shirt would be worth it.”
The muscles bunched in his shoulders as he turned over and rested on one elbow. His stare immobilized her. “I don’t care about the floor. You’re wearing a beautiful outfit and I was concerned the oil would stain your clothes.”
She glanced down at her garnet-red slacks and black sweater.
Oh.
Wait, what? He thought she looked beautiful?
“And I didn’t give a damn about that T-shirt. I told you I didn’t wear it, so you could do whatever you needed to for you hair not to end up looking like a ‘ball of frizz.’ Your words, not mine.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. What could she say? Oops, my bad? Could she really be blamed for thinking what she did based on what he’d said?
Who was Adam Bennett? Was he the cold and distant computer genius she’d seen on the video of his press conference, or was he actually thoughtful and considerate, as his recent admission seemed to suggest? It bothered her that she couldn’t get a grasp on him. She prided herself on quickly sizing up people and situations, yet this man refused to be defined.
Not knowing how to respond, she placed a palm on his shoulder and pushed, indicating he should resume lying flat. He resisted briefly, the muscles in his back flexing, before submitting. Once again, she was treated to the view of his broad, powerful back. She shifted her weight onto her hands and leaned forward, slowly gliding her palms down his skin in one long stroke. Each time she touched
his strong, well-built body, a heady flush of power tingled through her. She repeated the motion several times more and a moan of pleasure rumbled from him.
She stilled. Should she stop? No. He was benefiting from the massage, and recalling this feeling of relaxation on the day of the launch would be valuable. So she had to continue . . . and attempt to ignore the deafening cacophony of her pounding heart.
Her fingers danced over his skin, sliding down his lower back and then up the sides of his rib cage and back to the base of his neck. She massaged, in broad circular strokes, from his hip joint to the base of his spine, up along his spinal column, and to the base of his neck. His back was a series of mounds and valleys that ended at a firm ass that teased her from the waistband of his pants. Over and over, she kneaded, rubbed, and smoothed his glorious body. She alternated the pressure of each stroke and by the time her hands fell from his hips, her touch had lost the firmness of a massage and was more of a light caress.
“We’re done.” She was breathing heavily and her body trembled with need. She moved away from him, grabbing a nearby towel and wiping her hands. This wasn’t what she’d intended when she’d begun this exercise.
“Chelsea?” She turned and found him sitting up on the table, his legs over the side. His eyes burned into hers and he held out his hand. “Come here.”
Her nostrils flared and, unable to refuse, she took his hand, letting him pull her into the space between his thighs. She was so close she could see the streaks of black that radiated out from his irises. The heat from his body warmed hers. Still, she couldn’t help the shiver that rocked her body from his nearness.
“I’m not relaxed.”
She knew it, could tell from the muscle ticking in his cheek, the flush on his cheekbones, the feverish glow in his eyes. His hand released hers and settled against her hips, his fingers flexing into her skin and pulling her forward. Her body melted, reacting to the desire that flowed off him in waves.
“Social interaction can be difficult for me.” His voice was low and her gaze dropped to stare at his lips as they formed the words. “Facial expressions and tones of voice act as a second language, one in which I’m conversant but not fluent.”
Love On My Mind Page 11
