by Liz Johnson
Get up. Get up. Get up.
The chant in her head didn’t make it so.
She had to. God might not mind if she stayed in bed, but there was no way the rest of the lobstermen in town wouldn’t talk about her absence. Oliver would absolutely notice that the pew in front of him was empty. And word was bound to get back to her dad.
By sheer force of will, she rolled herself from bed and dragged her feet across the fluffy rug, onto the hardwood floor, and into the tiled bathroom. Her feet barely registered the change in flooring, but at least they had some feeling. That was more than she could say for the rest of her body, which felt only pain, could register only the torture of muscle movement.
Somehow she managed to turn the shower on and waited for it to begin steaming before stepping under the spray. It didn’t help. She couldn’t lift her hands above her elbows.
Well, who needed to get clean? And another day of unwashed hair wasn’t the end of the world. It could be camouflaged in a messy bun. Reaching her hair proved to be harder than she’d anticipated, and finally she bent over, tipped her head forward, and threw a scrunchie around her hair.
By the time she wriggled into the least constricting piece of clothing she owned—a shapeless gingham sundress—and glanced in the mirror, she didn’t have time to care that she looked almost as bad as she felt. Her growling stomach, however, refused to let her leave the house without at least a protein bar. It was one of the nasty, gummy ones that Oliver always had on the boat, but it was better than going hungry. And she was always hungry these days.
By the time she reached the little white chapel of Grace Community Church, the parking lot was full and the double doors were closed. She parked along the side of the road, pulling off into the grass and praying she could beat Kevin and his parking tickets outside after the service.
She hobbled up the steps and waited outside the big wooden doors. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and forced herself to be silent and still for just a moment. Silent and still wasn’t a guarantee that all eyes in the sanctuary wouldn’t turn in her direction. But anything less was a guarantee they would.
She opened the door, and the last notes of “Amazing Grace” drifted out.
Oh, great. Whenever they sang “Amazing Grace,” it was the last song before Pastor Dell stepped up to the podium. She couldn’t wait. And she couldn’t let her displeased muscles dictate her speed. Sucking in a quick breath, she forced herself down the center aisle at a quick pace.
Left. Right. Left. Ri—ow, ow, ow.
She grimaced but kept going, ignoring the weight of every gaze in every pew that she passed. As she fell into her family’s row, she caught one gaze with her own. Oliver’s eyes were clear and filled with concern.
“You okay?” He mouthed the question just as Pastor Dell invited the congregation to open their Bibles.
She nodded quickly, spun toward the front, and held as still as possible.
Oliver spent the whole sermon trying not to watch Meg shifting in the pew before him, but every twitch of her shoulders and strain of her neck was all too familiar. He could almost see the cringe on her face with every movement. And he knew if he didn’t do something about it, he’d be risking more than he could afford to lose.
Whitaker had never said it, but he wanted Meg to succeed. He’d wanted her to want to carry on his legacy all along. That was no secret. And now that she’d finally shown an interest, Whitaker wanted her to enjoy it, to have a successful season.
Which left Oliver little choice. He had to help her.
But if he’d learned anything about Meg Whitaker in the last week, it was that she didn’t want help. Or at least she didn’t want help from him. She seemed plenty happy to work with Kyle—they were pretty much doing the same job, after all. However, the minute Oliver offered to lend a hand, she put on her hard shell.
This was different though. This was about survival. And no one survived without a few tips and tricks. Like the right clothes, the right gear, and the right creams.
He stuck his elbow into Violet’s side just as Pastor Dell began his closing thoughts. Violet let out a little yelp, and Meg froze. The Harts behind them probably did too. He shot Violet a hard glance.
“What?” Violet mouthed. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her eyebrows were not nearly as pious.
He nodded toward Meg’s back, and Violet shook her head, clearly not understanding.
“Sore.” He said the word on a breath, and her eyebrows dipped together. She made a motion with her hand like it was a kite soaring on the wind.
He shook his head and glanced up at the pastor, who was still going. Oliver squeezed his own shoulder, mimicking a massage while sending a pointed gaze in Meg’s direction.
Violet still didn’t get it, her face crinkling up like he was crazy. Finally she rolled her eyes at him and turned back toward the front just as Pastor Dell started to pray.
Oliver tried to focus on the words, but it was hard to do when his eyes kept opening, his gaze landing on the messy knot of golden hair before him. He imagined he could smell her soap from his seat, but that couldn’t be real.
Suddenly the sanctuary filled with voices, and everyone around him had risen. He jumped up as Meg stiff-legged her way toward the aisle. He wanted to grab her hand, hold her in place. But he didn’t dare touch her in her current state. Instead, he reached around Violet’s back and snagged his mom’s elbow.
Mama Potts leaned forward to see down the row, her head tilted in question.
“Meg looks . . .” He kept his voice low but ran out of words. How to describe her condition without alerting the wagging tongues to her pain. She didn’t need anyone else thinking they couldn’t hack it. There was enough doubt between Little Tommy Scanlan and his buddies to make the season harder than it had to be.
Oliver knew he could do the job. He could run the business. But he had to prove that to the other crews. And he couldn’t do that if he lost a man—or in this case, a woman.
Mama Potts frowned, her eyes narrowing.
He gave a hard nod toward the center aisle and Meg’s hobbled steps. Mama Potts turned, and even though he couldn’t see her face, he could see the moment she recognized what he had been trying to point out. Waving a hand in his general direction, she slipped past Levi and chased Meg down.
“Where’s she going?” Violet asked.
Oliver allowed himself a little grin. “To make sure I don’t lose a deckhand.”
Mama Potts’s voice was too low to carry over the hum of the room, but her eyes were kind as she talked with Meg. She nodded several times and pointed at her own neck and back. Meg’s deflating sigh said it all. Help had come.
There. Good deed done. He’d helped Meg solve her problem. At least one of them.
The knock on the kitchen door later that afternoon nearly made him spit out his iced tea, and Oliver was still choking when he got to the window. He brushed back the lace curtain to see Meg standing outside, her arms hanging limp at her sides, her face a tight grimace of all things painful. He was sure everything ached.
Opening the door, he leaned an arm against the frame. “Meg.”
“Oliver.” She matched his tone, her eyes holding a bit of reserve. “Is Mama Potts around?”
He shook his head, squinting into the sagging sun. “She had to run over to the studio. Her kiln is in a bad way again.”
“Oh.” Meg hung her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“You want to come in? I think she left the muscle cream on the table.”
For a moment he could have sworn she was going to say she’d wait outside. But finally she said, “All right.”
A gentleman probably would have held the door open for her to lead the way in, but he figured it might take a few weeks for her to make it inside, so he marched into the kitchen and stared at the empty table. Putting his hands on his hips, he did a slow turn until he spied a small glass jar on the white-tiled counter. Its pale contents and metal lid would ha
ve made most people think it was some sort of lemon jam. No one would make that mistake again if they spread it on toast.
Not that he’d done that more than once.
With her slow stride, Meg made it into the house just as he picked up the cream and held it out to her. “This should do the trick. I use it the first week of most seasons until my muscles remember what it’s like.”
Her gaze raised from the jar, her chin still low. “You use this?”
“Sure.” He crossed his arms and felt the familiar pull of his back muscles relearning their job. He stayed active all year long, but the first week of the season was the hardest. He’d given her everything to prepare except Mama Potts’s famous muscle relief cream. “Figured you could use the same. After all, I’m using that face cream.” He rubbed a hand over his cheek. “Makes my skin feel brand-new.”
She laughed, a stiff chuckle that kept everything safely in place. But still, he’d made her laugh. That was twice in a month. It wasn’t exactly a trend, but he’d take what he could get and be thankful for it.
Meg held up the jar. “I tried ice packs and heating pads. I even turned on my electric blanket and wrapped up in it like a cocoon. I still hurt. Everywhere.”
“I know the feeling. This’ll work.”
“Tell Mama Potts thanks.” She unscrewed the lid and lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She sighed.
He knew that feeling too, like somehow just the smell of eucalyptus and mint could unwind a body’s insides. The scent alone was a relief.
He didn’t have another second to dwell on the familiar aroma as the jar slipped from her loosened grip. She reached for it but jerked to a stop halfway, and he dove to catch it before it could shatter on the floor. Grabbing it just in time, he held it up with pride.
Meg was hunched over, hands on her knees, breathing in shallow gasps.
“Whoa. Meg. You all right?”
“Sure.” Only she didn’t look up, couldn’t seem to move.
He set the jar on the table and shuffled her into a chair. When she finally looked at him, her face was red, her eyes glassy.
“Tell me it gets better,” she whispered.
“It will. I promise.” He nodded toward the still-uncovered jar. “Do you have someone to help you get your back and shoulders and all the hard-to-reach places?”
“Of course . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Actually, no.”
Her mom and dad were in Toronto, and Meg lived alone. He knew that and shouldn’t have asked.
“Let me help.”
Her eyes flashed bright, then grew stern. “No thanks. I’ll manage.”
“You can barely move. Don’t be stubborn.”
This time her eyes flashed with fire. “I’m not being stubborn.”
“Really. And what would you call this?” He pointed at her stiff chin and rigid neck. “Are you being relaxed and casual?”
“Kind of.” She grimaced.
“Okay, so what happens when you get home and can’t reach the part of your back between your shoulder blades?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Liar,” he said on a laugh.
“Fine. Okay. Help me. Please.” She nudged the jar toward him, and it stopped in a patch of sunlight filtering through the kitchen window.
“If you insist. But just know, you’re going to have to wash these clothes and your sheets twice to get the smell out.”
“Will I be able to lift my sheets?”
He scooted his chair behind hers and pulled the cream to within arm’s reach. “Yep.”
“Then do it.”
He dipped his fingertips into the translucent cream and scooped up a small amount before rubbing his hands together. It was cool on his skin, tingling and soothing. It made him feel both alive and tranquil in the same breath. He stared at her pale back for a long moment, noticing the freckles between the skinny straps of her dress, watching the shallow rise and fall of her breathing.
Then he pressed his hand to the back of her shoulder, and the whole world was on fire.
Her skin was taut and strong and smoother than her face cream. And he was touching her.
That wasn’t the point. It couldn’t be the point. But somehow it was.
He tried to focus on the motion, watching as his thumbs ran the length of her shoulders and then glided up the sides of her neck. He reached to the outline of her dress but never further, rubbing the magic cream until it disappeared into her skin. Her chin dipped forward. He stole another scoop of cream and massaged it into her upper back, right where he knew it hurt the most. Around and around he rubbed it in, pressing into the knots until they released their hold.
Meg gasped and then let out a soft hum of approval.
Goose bumps broke out across his arms. He closed his eyes. Fought for a breath.
Only then did he realize his nose was nearly pressed to the nape of her neck, buried in the sweet smell of her. She’d left her hair in a knot on top of her head, and the little hairs that hadn’t stayed secure in the band tickled his face, whispered soft promises, and put terrible ideas in his head.
Like, would it really be so bad to press his lips right there?
“Let me help.”
It was all so innocuous, so simple. He was just going to help her reach the places that she couldn’t. But this was not harmless.
Everything inside of her quivered as his enormous hands kneaded and rubbed what ached. It was like he knew the sore spots, knew where to press to make her let go of control. His fingers spanned nearly all the way across her back, somehow able to work both her shoulders and the spot in the center of her back at the same time. Strong and agile. The pressure of his thumbs forced her to let out the breath she’d been holding. It came out on a moan.
Her ears burned, her face flashing hot. At least Oliver couldn’t see her expression. And he didn’t stop, so maybe he hadn’t heard. Or maybe he just understood.
She bit her lip to keep any other potentially embarrassing sounds from escaping. But it didn’t do much in the way of wrangling her wayward musings.
Mama Potts’s cream made her tingle everywhere he touched her. But another thought snuck in. That sensation might have nothing to do with the cream and everything to do with the man rubbing it in. It was too terrible to imagine.
He worked first her right arm and then her left, his body warm at her back. He was always warm. Even on chilly mornings before the sun came up, she could sense him on the boat. A beacon. A fire.
That’s what his touch felt like. A warm fire on a cool night, a lazy Sunday after a long week.
No. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t supposed to think that.
He was not a warm fire. He was four o’clock alarms and lobster pinches.
His thumb hit a twinge by her left shoulder blade, and she nearly whimpered.
So. Good.
She was going to have to pay someone to do this next time. No way could she rely on Oliver Ross to massage her unmoving muscles. But for this minute, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. His fingers were strong, concentrated. He honed in on the knots in her back like he had a radar right to every single one of them. And when he pressed into them, she felt like a limp noodle. Even worse, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
His hands dipped from her shoulder toward her elbow, well into the places she could reach on her own. A tiny voice in her mind told her to pull away, to grab the cream and go home.
She told it to shut up.
This was heaven, and his fingers worked miracles.
But suddenly they stopped. She wanted to whimper. Couldn’t he keep going? Just another hour. That was all she asked.
His chair scraped along the floor until he could have looked directly into her face. He didn’t though. Thank goodness. Head bowed, hair like a curtain over his cheeks, he tugged on her right arm. She gave it willingly, and he pulled and kneaded the muscles from her elbow to her wrist and back again.
When he wrapped her hand in both of his, her mouth w
ent dry, and she could only focus on their connection. His hands were tan and strong, his knuckles thick but nimble. Her fingers looked tiny in comparison, fragile and weak. But when he pressed his thumb against her palm, rolling it back and forth, she felt like she could take on the world.
He slipped his fingers between hers, squeezing their hands together palm to palm, and her gaze shot up. He was already watching her, and their eyes locked.
Something like lightning zipped between them, up her arm and straight to the base of her neck. She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage against the cotton in her throat.
His pale blue eyes flashed so bright that she could see a darker ring of blue around his irises, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. If the swath of black hair sweeping over his forehead and across his left eye bothered him, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even flinch. He just kept staring at her, locking her into place.
And making her stomach dive straight through the floor.
Everything inside her screamed that this was wrong. Whatever she was feeling wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Sure, she hadn’t wanted to strangle him in a while. Maybe they’d even developed an uncontentious coworking relationship. Perhaps they were even approaching mutualism—each benefiting from the other. But this . . . awareness . . .
She squinted at him, trying to block out the curve of his broad shoulders.
Nope. She did not like this one bit.
But her traitorous hand didn’t budge.
At least not until someone cleared their throat.
Meg jumped to her feet like she’d sat on a firecracker, her entire body at once languid and on high alert as she spun toward the kitchen door.
Violet stood there, one hip cocked to the side, her hand resting on her waist. “So . . .” She dragged the word out, filling the silence. “What have you kids been up to? It smells like . . .” Her nose twitched and her lip curled.
“I have to go.” Meg hobbled for the exit, stopping only when Oliver called her name.
“Forget something?” He held up the jar of muscle cream.
