Chapter 13
Molly
Max’s eyes are on me as soon as I walk through the door with the kids.
He texted me earlier, asking how I was feeling and whether I wanted him to do the school pickup.
I declined, because if I tell Toby and Daisy I’m going to be there for them, then I’m going to show up, and they deserve to see their mum after a full day of school and after-school clubs.
But that doesn’t mean Max’s thoughtfulness doesn’t touch a soft, warm place in my heart.
My movements are slow. Careful. When my sinuses are playing up, I can’t really bend over or even squat down without rings of pain shooting around my skull. I lean cautiously to one side and drop the schoolbags to the floor, where they fall with a heavy thump.
Max strides across the kitchen, relieving me of my tote bag before I can get it off my shoulder.
‘Thanks.’ I wince. ‘Careful, there’s a bottle in there.’
He sets it on the table and comes back to me, folding his arms across his chest. He’s in a Sorrel Farm checked shirt and gilet, and they look great on him.
He didn’t shave this morning. He’s wearing what I estimate to be Day Three stubble.
I know from years of experience that it’s the perfect length to scratch with my fingers.
His shirt has a couple of buttons open at the neck, but thankfully I’m feeling too rubbish for the fine sight to have a dangerous effect on me.
‘Still in pain?’ he asks. The expression on his face says don’t try to bullshit me.
I give him the smallest nod I can manage. ‘Yes.’ I sniff. ‘Something smells amazing.’
‘I’ve made spag bol with the mince I found in the fridge. It won’t be as good as if you’d made it, but it’ll do.’
‘Wow. That’s—’
‘You need to get to bed,’ he tells me.
‘No way.’
‘If not bed, then you need to lie on the sofa or get in the bath. Which is it? I’ll sort the kids.’
I blink. I’ve been on my own for the best part of a year, and in that time I’ve had plenty of days where I’m feeling sub-par or downright rubbish.
And I get on with it.
Because I have no choice.
But right now, there’s a man standing in front of me, telling me he’s got this. Telling me to take a step back and do what my body needs.
I really hope I don’t swoon, because falling to the floor would really, really hurt my head.
‘I’ll lie on the sofa,’ I say meekly. ‘But the kids—’
‘—will be fine,’ he finishes. ‘Are they allowed a bit of TV before dinner?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘They can chill out till it’s time to eat.’
‘What do you need?’ he asks. ‘Ginger tea?’
That practically sends me over the edge, because he remembers. Fresh ginger tea is my go-to when I have a sinus infection, and Max used to brew it for me when we lived together.
‘That would be great.’ I barely trust my voice.
He nods abruptly before leading me into the formal living room, which is TV-free right now. Under the teary gaze of The Lady of Shallots, he fusses around, plumping up a cushion before positioning it like a pillow at one end.
‘This is too hard,’ he says.
‘Honestly, it’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll grab you a pillow.’ He goes to leave and stops. ‘Permission to go into your bedroom?’
I nod, too tired to argue, and lower myself gingerly onto the sofa as pain shoots around my head. Shit. I dig my fingers into the base of my skull to relieve the pressure and screw my eyes shut.
‘Do you have any facial oil upstairs?’ he asks in a softer voice.
‘In my bathroom. Brown frosted bottle,’ I say feebly, no longer giving a shit that Max will shortly be in my bedroom. My haven. Rifling through my personal things.
I attempt to lower myself to a lying position. He’s right. The cushion’s too hard. Also, my up-do is sticking into my neck. I get myself upright again and take out the pins holding it in a huge bun not dissimilar to a danish pastry. It uncoils in my hand into a long, golden plait. Better.
Moments later, Max is back. He slides a hand under the base of my skull and takes its weight as he tugs the cushion out from under me and stuffs my pillow in its place.
‘Be right back, he says, and returns a moment later with one of the kitchen chairs which he puts behind me, by the arm of the sofa.
‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.
‘Giving you a facial massage.’
I try to get up. ‘Oh God, no, you don’t need to do that.’
‘Hey.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder and lowers me back down. ‘You know it helps. Let me do this for you.’
I pause, conflicted. It’ll definitely help—it’s one of the few things that do—but it’s a lot to ask a man I haven’t been in a relationship with for years. Not to mention, it’s intimate. And it could trigger memories I’d rather forget.
‘It’s this, or I go and watch CBeebies with the kids,’ he says. ‘I know which I’d rather be doing.’
I manage a little smile. ‘Okay then. If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
I close my eyes and settle myself as he sits behind me. A moment later, there’s the sound of him unscrewing the bottle of botanical facial oil, and then of his hands rubbing briskly together, warming the oil.
He remembers every step.
Max puts his hands on me. They’re warm. Their touch is sure.
Confident. He smooths the oil over my forehead.
Down my temples. The sides of my nose. Across that swollen, throbbing area under my eye sockets.
His thumbs find the underside of my jaw and slide along it before his hands smooth down the sides of my neck.
He’s even remembered the importance of lymphatic drainage while he works out the toxins.
The man is a miracle worker.
Still, after all these years.
‘Relax,’ he tells me, his voice low. I take him at his word and settle further into my pillow as his magic fingers smooth and stroke and rub and massage. Teasing out blockages and soothing aches and relieving pressure. Circling my face. Knowing instinctively where to move. How to touch me.
It’s pure magic.
He works in silence, our breathing the only sounds I can make out over the distant tinkle of children’s TV. His exhales are warm on my face. My body grows heavier, but in a lovely way, as Max’s massage alleviates the worst of my tension headache.
‘You’re not congested?’ he asks.
‘No. But the sinuses are inflamed.’
‘Got it.’ His strong thumbs make circles in that spot under my eye sockets where most of the pressure has built up. Once he’s happy he’s worked some of it out, his hands move down my face and under my neck.
I make a low, happy noise at the back of my throat. The referred pain means the base of my skull is fucking agony, but now Max is honing in on that exact spot, and I want to weep with gratitude.
He tugs gently at my plait. ‘This is pretty tight. Can I let it out, so I can have a good go at your scalp? There’s a lot of tension here.’
I hesitate.
‘Come on, Mol. It’s just hair, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like I’m asking you to whip off your top.’
I sigh. ‘Okay.’ I know I’m being ridiculous. Hair isn’t boobs. It’s not private. I don’t know why I have such a hang-up about letting people see it loose. It’s fun when I’m in a relationship, and my man is the only person who gets to fully unravel me, but far more pointless when I’m single.
Besides, I know Max and his magic hands will make it worth my while.
I turn my head to the side so he can undo the plait. I’m aware of the faintest movements as he undoes it.
‘Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘It’s got so long.’
‘I know. I should really cut it.’
‘Don’t you dare. Trims only, remember.’
He taps me lightly on the shoulder. It’s supposed to be a joke, but it feels poignant. Heavy with memories.
Then his hands are moving through my hair right at the back of my neck, his fingers running through it, combing it out as he tugs it over the back of the sofa.
I wish I could see us from above. Me, lying like a wannabe Pre-Raphaelite maiden on the sofa.
This man bent over me. My blonde hair undoubtedly strewn all over his thighs.
I don’t know why, but it’s a tableau I’d like to see.
I’m aware of his sharp exhale as his hands move through my hair.
‘Shit. It’s as beautiful as ever,’ he tells me.
‘Thanks.’ I shift uncomfortably.
He sinks his fingers into my hair. They press into the base of my skull and massage, and I sigh with pleasure as they find a rhythm.
Circling my skull. Digging into my neck.
My shoulders. Rotating through my hair. Tugging at it gently.
The relief I’ve been trying to find all day through painkillers and shoulder rolls surfaces. This is heaven. Heaven.
Max’s fingers ease over my temples before returning to my scalp.
Why does the sensation of someone tugging at my hair feel so positively orgasmic?
If I wasn’t so ill, I’d be getting turned on.
As it is, I lie there in as close to pure happiness as I’m capable of, given my illness.
He’s massaging the pain right out of my body.
From his rhythmic breathing and the confident way his hands move over my skin, I’d say he’s hit his stride, shed any weirdness he may have felt over putting his hands on me after so many years.
I exhale. ‘God, this feels amazing,’ I tell him.
‘Good,’ he says gruffly. I flutter my eyelids open as his fingers comb through my hair and his thumbs knead my scalp. He’s looking at my hair, but his gaze flicks to my face.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.
‘Definitely better. The pressure’s fading.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ His thumbs rub against my sore skull in the most pleasurable way. ‘God, we passed a lot of time like this back in the day, didn’t we?’
I smile ruefully. ‘Unfortunately, yes. I was lucky to have you. You were so good at it—are so good at it.’
‘Did your husband use to do this for you?’ he asks. I have an upside-down view of his face, but I swear his jaw has clenched.
‘Not so much,’ I say, and then feel bad at short-selling Felix. He was very devoted, until he wasn’t. ‘He was great at foot rubs, though.’
‘Hmm,’ he says, unconvinced. ‘And painting, clearly.’ He glances up at the chimney breast. ‘I can’t get over that painting. It’s fucking incredible.’
‘He’s extremely talented,’ I agree.
‘He had excellent material to work with.’
His fingernails scratch along my scalp lightly, and I shiver with pleasure.
‘Your hands are honestly magic.’
Our eyes meet, and I instantly regret saying that.
‘I meant—’
‘I know what you meant. Don’t worry. I won’t get any ideas. When I’m done here,’—strong fingers work at the tight muscles of my neck—‘I’ll run you a bath, okay? I’ll give the kids their tea.’
I’ve surrendered too thoroughly to have the will to fight him now.
‘That would be amazing.’
‘It’s no problem. It’s nice to be able to do something. I always used to feel so helpless when you were like this.’
‘I know. But it’s making a massive difference. Not just the head massage, but having someone here to pick up some slack.’
‘It makes me feel less useless. And you know something?’ His fingers run through my hair again, lifting it, letting it fall softly behind me. He clears his throat. ‘Getting to do this to you is bringing back some pretty good memories for me, let me tell you.’
My breath hitches. ‘Seriously?’
He releases my hair and splays the fingers of both hands over my face, thumbs at my temples, fingers somehow smoothing over my aching forehead and cheekbones and jawline at the same time. My eyes drift closed in sensory bliss. I’ve missed this so much. Having a man’s hands on me.
No.
If I’m being completely honest, I’ve missed having Max’s hands on me. I loved my husband, but I’m not sure he ever touched me in this supremely assured way that Max did.
Like he could feel everything I was feeling.
Like having his hands on me meant he was home.
‘Yeah,’ he continues. His voice is so soft, I can barely hear it. ‘This is no hardship for me. No hardship at all. Getting to play with your beautiful hair… Fuck, I’ve missed your hair. Missed washing it. Feeling it slide through my fingers. Missed wrapping it around my hands.’
His hands move off my face, into my hair, smoothing it back and pulling it into a ponytail. The tug is gentle but confident, and it feels like ownership.
‘Missed being able to touch you.’ One hand grips my hair and the other presses along my jaw. He lets out a soft laugh. ‘Being here with you—it’s too much like old times. In fact, I’m going to disgrace myself when I get up off this chair.’
My eyelids shoot open. ‘What?’
Oh my God.
His smile may be upside down, but there’s no mistaking the sheepish expression on his face, as well as something else. There’s an intensity in his eyes that’s unmistakable.
‘Give me a break, Mol. It’s been a while.
And having my hands on you is doing weird shit to my brain.
And my dick, to be honest.’ He releases me and gets up stiffly, grabbing a cushion and stuffing it in front of his crotch.
‘I’m going to run you a bath and get my shit together. I’ll brew that ginger tea, too.’
If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d definitely sit bolt upright in some pretence of being shocked.
But who am I kidding?
If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d probably be as turned on as he is.