Who did you really go see?
There’d also been a moment, just one, when I almost answered truthfully. Maybe it was the lack of judgment in his face…or maybe the heat had melted my brain. That was far more likely.
My lids drifted closed as our massage therapists reentered the room and worked out our knots, but I couldn’t shut off my brain. How many emails had piled up in my inbox in the past hour?
I’d never gone this long without checking my phone. What if my office was on fire? That was the thing about working in a skyscraper. You were subject to the idiocy of other tenants, many of whom didn’t understand the basic tenets of fire safety.
Speaking of idiocy, what if Asher Donovan crashed another car? Did Jillian remember to send Ayana our terms of engagement? Was Isabella feeding The Fish properly?
Isabella wasn’t an idiot, but I had specific instructions for taking care of my pet goldfish, and she tended to get lost in her own world when she was in the middle of writing a book.
Anxiety spurred my heart rate into an agitated gallop. “You’re very stressed,” my therapist said softly. Her hands worked magic on my back and shoulders, but the poor woman would need a full week to loosen all my knots.
“I’m from New York,” I said as an explanation. Everyone was stressed. The only people who weren’t were the lazy—
“That’s not an excuse.” Xavier’s interjection destroyed my cocoon of attempted bliss. “I’m from New York, and I don’t walk around with headaches every day.”
I lifted my head to glare at him, but my therapist’s warning tsk forced me back down. “First of all, you’re not from New York. You’re from Bogotá. Second of all, you know nothing about my health. Third of all—”
“Turn over, please,” my therapist said.
I obeyed with more force than necessary. “Third of all, you’re not stressed because you don’t do anything. You just sit there, spend your family’s money, and look pretty.”
It was harsh, but a trust fund kid lecturing me was my last straw. Yes, I’d also grown up with money and all the privileges that came with it, but I gave that up when I left my family. Everything I had now, I’d earned.
Xavier never had to work for a single thing in his life. He had no right criticizing my choices, stress levels, or anything about me.
“So,” he said, “you think I’m pretty.”
“You—”
“Breathe.” My massage therapist pressed down on my shoulders. “That’s it. Release the tension from your shoulders…”
Her gentle tone slowly smoothed the edges of my irritation. I inhaled a deep breath and swallowed an acerbic reply.
I prided myself on maintaining my composure at all times, but Xavier was the only person who could make me lose my cool.
“Seriously, you have enough money to step back and let your staff take the reins,” he said. “Why kill yourself at your job?”
Don’t take the bait.
“I like my job.” For the most part. But between Xavier and Asher, who had a penchant for fast cars and reckless driving, I was pushing my friends’ therapy skills to the limit.
I used to have a professional (non-massage) therapist, but she retired and I’ve hated every new one I tried after her. Maybe I should resume my search. God knew I needed one.
“What do you like about it?” Xavier must’ve missed the memo that massages were meant to be silent.
“Everything.”
“Bullshit. You don’t like me.”
His response was so frank and unexpected, I almost smiled.
Almost.
“Fine. I like fixing things. Solving problems no one else can solve.” Crisis management was only part of my job, but it gave me the biggest thrill. Writing press releases and managing media relations was fine, but I could do those things in my sleep.
“So you like to be needed.”
I turned my head before my therapist could stop me. Xavier met my gaze with a knowing one of his own, and…there it was again. A little skip in my chest, followed by the unnerving sense that he could see right past the shields I’d painstakingly built over the years.
Then I blinked, and the moment was gone.
I faced forward again and waited for my heartbeat to normalize before I spoke. “Don’t you get bored of doing nothing?”
I didn’t touch on the keenness of his observation or the truth behind it.
I expected Xavier to brush off my question with his usual flippancy, but he answered with surprising honesty.
“Sometimes,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically subdued. “But I’m good at doing nothing, so I stick to it. It’s better than fucking things up.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the faint crash of waves outside the window and the deep, steady breaths of the man next to me.
We didn’t talk again after that.
Three hours, one facial, one lunch, and one extremely awkward aromatherapy soak for two later, I emerged from the spa marginally less stressed than when I walked in.
