Page 7 of It's Always Sonny
“Except Sundays,” I say.
“Sweetheart, you ain’t doin’ yoga right.”
I sniff a laugh.
“Let me massage some of the knots out.”
I suppress a whimper. I love massages. They are the four-inch heels of self-care. That couldn’t possibly make sense to anyone but me, but it’s the truth. I would do almost anything for a good massage. And I’m still sore after my mostly sleepless night.
“I couldn’t—” I start, hoping she’ll argue.
“You can and you will, hon. I was a massage therapist for ten years before I went to chiropractor school. A massage is the least I can do for y’all helping put me on the map the way I know you will.”
“No, the least you can do is pay us,” I joke. “But I’ll happily pay you for the massage.”
“How about we take it out of my bill?”
“Perfect,” I agree.
Her massage is a work of art. And because I don’t have another meeting until this afternoon, I let her take as long as she’s willing to. And I enjoy every minute.
Ready for a truth bomb? You can be hard on yourself and treat yourself at the same time. Trust me, I do both simultaneously on the regular.
When she finishes, I feel that unique kind of lightness to my body and heaviness in my head and face that only happens after a good massage. And Cecile’s massage was excellent. I change back into my clothes. She doesn’t have a mirror in the bathroom, so I run a finger under my eyes and lips and smooth my hair as best I can. The massage oil makes my blouse cling a bit awkwardly to my back and around my shoulders, which gives me pause. I don’t have another option, though. I didn’t bring a change of shirt, and I left my jacket in the car because winter in South Carolina is a joke.
It’s only a few dozen yards through the building and to the parking lot. I didn’t pass anyone on the way in, so chances are, I’ll be fine going out. And it’s not like the shirt is see-through now. It’s just … clinging. I flatten everything out and press my shirt down on my shoulders so that it’s sticking to me in what looks like a normal way.
Just in case, though, I’ll rush to the car. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.
I wash my hands and grab my bag and then step out to thank Cecile. Her satisfaction manifests in the lines of her face when she sees me. “Don’t you look comfortable?”
“I am. I feel a million times better. Thank you.” I stop just short of gushing. Gushing isn’t my style. “The team and I will get you next steps by the end of the week, but please let me know if you need anything anytime.”
“Will do,” she says, seeing me out.
Cecile’s office is on the second floor, so I take the stairs to lessen the chance of being seen. On the main floor, I stride through the lobby to get to my car as quickly as possible. Halfway through the lobby, I reach into my laptop bag to find my sunglasses, but they’re not in their usual pocket. I look down and spot them buried beneath my hairspray and keys. With my face still down, I start putting on my sunglasses and—
Bam.
“Careful!” a man says as I bump into him leaving another office. I’m instantly off-kilter, teetering on my sky-high heels.
I spin to try not to fall on him, but he’s on crutches and one of my feet gets tangled in a crutch, and the thing goes flying. I’m about to try a tuck and roll when a firm arm whips around my waist and catches me just before I hit the ground.
“Whoa, there,” a voice says.
Not just any voice.
A voice that’s low and hypnotic and sends shivers down my spine.
A voice that belongs firmly in my mind, and not here. Not now.
Because the universe hates me, the man I just crashed into, the man who managed to throw his crutches to the side, catch me, and not fall, the man I’ve thought and heard about over and over again already this morning, is the one man I desperately do not want to see right now.
Sonny Freaking Luciano.
Chapter Four
Parker