Chapter 18
POPPY
“Oh my God…” I bury my face into my forearms, stifling my groan.
“Oh, you poor darling,” the massage therapist, Riya, coos sympathetically, scraping the Gua Sha up the back of my thighs so slow it’s excruciating. “You have so much swelling here, hon.”
“Shit.” I hear Brookes mutter from where he’s sitting on the edge of the sofa next to where Riya set her table up in the living area of the suite. “Is there anything I can do? I-I feel really bad.”
I turn my head, resting my cheek on my arms and meeting his concerned gaze.
“No…” I whimper. “You’ve done enough,” I grit out.
And I mean that in a good way because a late-night house call from a top therapeutic masseuse is not cheap, but Brookes explicitly told the hotel concierge to spare no expense, and he did it all without hesitation.
This is more than anyone has ever done for me.
“So, this is from flying?” Brookes asks, his gaze trailing down my body, zeroing in on where Riya is manually draining the fluid from my legs.
“Flying exacerbates the swelling and the pain, so I try to avoid it as much as I can.”
His eyes flare. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
The reason I didn’t tell him is because I knew travel was a big part of the job description and I couldn’t really say no.
I wanted this job, and I knew the risk. But, of course, I can’t say that in front of Riya so, instead, I just offer him a knowing look that he thankfully seems to understand, nodding once, a very pissed-off look in his eyes.
“I was diagnosed with lipedema when I was a teenager. It took a while because my mom kept dismissing it, telling me I was just fat.”
Brookes shakes his head, but when he opens his mouth to say something, I quickly interject. “But I knew there was more to it because I was in constant pain, and I bruised so easily. Finally, I begged Mom to take me to the doctor, and he was able to diagnose me almost immediately.”
“Lipedema,” Brookes says it as if he’s sounding out the word.
I nod. “It’s a chronic condition that causes an abnormal and excessive buildup of fat and connective tissue, predominantly in my legs, my hips, and my… butt.”
Brookes nods, his eyes roving down my body again. “There’s no cure?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately not. This helps,” I say, indicating Riya.
“I should be getting massages weekly at least, but it’s expensive and, well…
I don’t have insurance.” I murmur that last part, noticing the way Brookes’ jaw ticks.
“There’s no cure. Apparently liposuction can help by removing the abnormal fat, but even if I could afford that, I’m too much of a wuss because have you seen what they do?
” My eyes widen on a grimace at the thought of having my fat unceremoniously sucked out of me.
“I’m sorry, Pops.” Brookes frowns.
I flash him a half-smile combined with a wince when Riya starts scraping my other thigh. “It’s okay. I’ve learned to live with it. It’s just… part of who I am.”
“I can show you how to help,” Riya suddenly says.
Brookes looks up at her, a small crease knitting between eyebrows.
“There’s some really effective manual techniques I often show my clients’ partners that they can do to help, especially in urgent situations like this.”
Brookes shifts in his chair, looking from Riya to me and, I can’t be sure, but I’m almost positive I see his cheeks tinge pink.
“Oh, I don’t… I wouldn’t want—” Clearing his throat, he stumbles over his words. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You won’t hurt her,” Riya says with a light laugh. “I won’t let that happen. I promise.”
Brookes spears me with a wide-eyed look, lowering his voice. “Is it okay with you?”
It would be weird to say no, since he’s supposed to be my boyfriend. So, I bite my lips together to stop myself from laughing and, with a quick nod, I bury my face back into my forearms to hide my own flaming cheeks.
“Uh, sure…” Brookes says, and I hear him rise from the sofa.
“Rub some oil between your palms and stand here, like this,” Riya instructs, and all I can think of is Brookes currently standing over me while I’m lying here in nothing but a thong, my oiled, swollen body on full display in the worst kind of way. Death might actually be less painful than this.
“Now place your thumb here and fingers here, and then stretch the skin, like this.”
Even with my face buried, the moment Brookes’ fingers touch my skin, I feel it everywhere, like an electric current that soars through every last part of me.
“Like this?” Brookes’ low voice asks.
“Yes, that’s it. And now you want to lower your wrist down and pump in an upwards motion. Not hard, but firm, like this.” Riya shows him how to do it on my left leg.
“Is this okay?” Brookes asks, and I groan at the feel of his hand as it works up the back of my right leg. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” He quickly pulls his hand away.
“No, it’s good,” I say, my voice muffled by my arm. “Don’t stop.”
“Oh…” Brookes’ hand returns and he does it again, continuing up higher and higher, finding his rhythm until I feel him pause at the curve of my ass cheek.
“Um, what do we do… here?” he asks, his voice tentative and laced with awkwardness while his hand hovers just over my heated skin.
Riya giggles. “Well, this is where we keep going. We need to massage all the way up.”
“Oh… kay…” Brookes hesitates again, and I almost expect him to stop, but then after a few seconds, I feel his hand trail up over the curve of my ass cheek.
“You good, baby?” he asks, and I know what he’s really asking. He’s checking if it’s okay that he touches my ass—if I’m okay with him touching my ass.
I turn my head so that I can see him, our eyes meeting as something passes between us, and with a small smile, I nod. “I’m okay.”
And that’s the truth. I am okay. And it’s almost confronting, because at this very moment, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever felt more okay with a man’s hands on my body, and for someone who has been through all that I have, this is a huge deal.
The hotel pool is closed for the night. But, of course, Brookes being Brookes, he made some special arrangement with the night manager to bend the rules.
While Riya was teaching him all he needed to know to be able to help me for if or when I’m ever that swollen again, she also told him a few quick-relief home remedies, one of them being swimming.
Now, here we are, past midnight, the two of us doggy paddling from one end of the indoor pool, to the other.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I say after a few silent laps.
“Who are you, my mother?” Brookes retorts.
I deadpan. “You’re literally in the middle of a golf tournament.” I don’t add that tomorrow is the cut, because I really don’t think he needs the reminder, especially not after today’s final score.
He scoffs. “I won the Championship after teeing off less than two hours after leaving the clubs, Pops. Trust me. I’m fine.”
I roll my eyes and, in return, he flashes me that cocky, arrogant smirk he wears so well, but there’s something there in his eyes, something that makes me not sure if I believe him, so I try for a different approach.
“Truth or dare?”
Brookes arches a brow. “Seriously?”
“You know the rules,” is all I say in return, grinning mischievously.
“Truth,” he says on a bored sigh.
“Are you scared?”
“Nope,” he says a little too quickly in my opinion, smugly popping the p.
I meet his eyes again, searching his gaze.
After a few seconds, he relents like I knew he would, and, with another sigh, he says, “Okay, fine. Yes. I am scared. I’m terrified, in fact.”
I pull up to the side of the pool, taking a seat on the shallow ledge and watching him as he continues doing laps without me.
“What are you scared of the most?” I ask. “Not winning or failing?”
He sniffs a laugh. “There’s a difference?”
“Of course there’s a difference.”
“Not where I come from, there’s not…” He scoffs. “If you’re not first, you’re last. A loser.”
I frown at that. “You’re scared of losing?”
Brookes swims toward me, pulling himself up onto the shallow ledge next to me and pushing his wet hair back from his face while huffing an exhale.
“Losing,” he says. “Failing. Not making the cut. Or, making the cut only to make a goddamn fool of myself like I did at Hilton Head.” With a scoff, he adds, “Hell, I’m scared of everything.
I just don’t show it. Because fear is weakness.
And only the strong survive, or at least that’s what I was raised to believe. ”
I’m taken aback by the surprising and uncharacteristic fragility in his tone, watching him from the corner of my eyes as he continues with a humorless laugh. “I’ve got major daddy issues, Pops.”
“Tell me about him,” I urge, and when he meets my eyes, I nod. “Your dad.”
“What do you wanna know?” He sniffs another derisive laugh, shaking his head to himself as he gazes out over the water.
I shrug my shoulders. “Whatever you feel like telling me.”
Brookes hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his jaw tics, his gaze turning hard as he stares straight ahead at nothing. And, for a moment, I think he’s going to shut me out, say nothing. But then he starts talking.
“When I was in first grade, I stole another kid’s spelling test because he scored a ten out of ten and I only got six out of ten.
I took it home, showed my folks, pretended it was mine.
My dad was so happy. He hung it up on the wall in his office.
” Brookes shakes his head to himself, a sad smile ghosting his lips.
“And in my entire time at school, that was the only time he was ever truly proud of me. The only thing that he ever deemed worthy to have up on his wall and… it wasn’t even mine. ”
I look down, noticing the goosebumps that prick my skin.
“Growing up, I wasted so many years trying to make that man proud, doing whatever I could to experience some semblance of fatherly love. But I never succeeded.” He shakes his head again, huffing another derisive, self-deprecating scoff.
“So, when I was fifteen and the golf pro at my family’s country club discovered my raw talent, I decided to stop trying to win my father’s affection and focus instead on golf.
Because if I was good enough, then I knew one day I’d be able to go off and live a life where I wouldn’t need him or the Devereaux name to succeed. ”
“And you did,” I say, reminding him because I feel like he needs the reminder right now.
Brookes nods, meeting my eyes before quickly averting his gaze. “Yep. I did. And when I got accepted to college on a full scholarship, I went no contact with my father. And I haven’t spoken to him since.”
I frown again because although I know it’s sad, I also understand in a way most wouldn’t.
Brookes turns to me again, meeting my eyes, only this time he doesn’t look away. “But for as long as I live, I will never forget what he told me when I was just eight years old and I came second in my first ever chess meet at school.”
I wait for him to continue, the look in his eyes stark and heartbreaking.
“If you’re not first, you’re last, son. You’re a loser.” He smiles, but it’s sad, and it doesn’t come close to meeting the darkness that flickers his eyes. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”