Page 8 of Breaking the Ice
“Have you been standing there for long?” I ask. For some reason, he makes me nervous. The way he's studying me with those dark eyes feels eerie.
“No,” he answers matter-of-factly, and I don't know why, but I'm certain he's lying.
“Okay, so I assume you sent me the text message,” I say, feeling apprehensive, and move toward him. “I'm Emma,” I introduce myself as I stand before the man, who's about six-foot-three, and extend my hand. I don't want him to sense my insecurity, so I smile at him nonchalantly.
“Caleb,” he says, shaking my hand. The sensation of his warm skin against mine is almost uncomfortably intense, causing me to retract my hand quickly. This has never happened to me in my twenty-one years.
“Okay, so you need a massage?”
“Yeah, I'm about to head to the weight room.” While Caleb speaks, I position myself casually at the head of the massage table – putting some safe distance between us. I don't know what it is, but this man has something about him that makes me nervous. Maybe it's his voice, which slips beneath my skin stealthily, like a mosquito bite. Or maybe it's the way he's looking at me. With that gaze that conceals his thoughts. He definitely irritates me, and I don't like it. No one can easily throw me off balance; then why am I reacting this way to him?
“Which muscle group are you planning to work on?”
“I'm working on my legs.”
“Particularly the calf muscles, I presume?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Alright, please take off your jeans and socks and lie down,” I say, gesturing toward the bathroom, and turn to the oil shelf. As I search for a circulation-enhancing oil, I hear him unfastening his belt behind me. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. What's he doing? Why is he changing in here with me? I turn to face him, about to suggest the bathroom, when he sits on the massage table and lies down on his back. Out of courtesy and because it's a golden rule in my profession, I avoid looking at his intimate region. “I actually meant for you to lie on your stomach,” I say, prompting him with my suggestion, as he gives me an expectant brow furrow.
“Patrick always started face up.” And from Caleb's tone, it seems he insists on keeping it that way, I note. What's his problem? Why is he acting this way? Is he trying to provoke me? Even if he is, I won't let it affect me. Mr. Flake demands that his guys get what they want. So fine, I'll adapt. I force a smile and approach him at the table. Keeping my back to him, I stand at hip height next to him and put some oil on my hand. It carries a faint scent of arnica. Then I place both hands on his right thigh. The touch triggers a fluttering sensation in my chest, which I ignore. With smooth strokes, I work my way down his muscular leg. Caleb says nothing, and I stay silent too. Instead, there's an electric tension in the air between us. Who knows, maybe I'm just sleep-deprived and emotionally unstable as a result.
Minutes pass as I force myself to concentrate on my work. As I stand at the foot of the table to attend to his feet, allowing him to see my face, he unexpectedly initiates a conversation.
“So, you and your dad are new to the city?”
I lift my head, meeting his inquiring gaze.
“We arrived yesterday, yes.”
“And where are you from?”
“Aberdeen.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Did the Devils provide you with an apartment?”
“Yes.” What's with this interrogation? First, he barely says a word, and now he's bombarding me with questions out of nowhere.
“And a car?”
Okay, what's this supposed to be? Your own one-man quiz show? Sorry, buddy, that's not going to work with me; It's time to turn the tables.
“Yep, that was part of it. We need to be available at all times. What about you? You're not from Portland, I can tell by your accent. Where are you from?”
“Two Rivers. And do you have family and friends back in Aberdeen?”
“Loads of them. But I'm sure you can relate, right? It probably wasn't any different for you,” I remark, my hands pausing in their motion – I've stopped massaging. Instead, I'm giving him a challenging look.
“And did you leave a boyfriend behind?”
Caleb's directness borders on impudence. I'm about to answer when he continues, “I'm sure someone like you is already taken, right?” The guy seriously has a nerve. And I'm just as guilty because somewhere deep in my subconscious, a voice wonders what it would be like to be his girlfriend. That's insane, though! Why am I thinking something so absurd? I don't have, nor do I want, a boyfriend. Life is too short to be bothered with men. No, I'd rather just flirt with them and spare myself the relationship drama.
“Are you always this straightforward?” I steer around his question. After all, it's none of his business whether I'm taken or not.