Chapter 10
10
[Vale]
P arents have the option of lingering during baseball practice.
Rogue River isn’t that far away from Sterling Falls, but also not close enough for me to run some of the errands on my list, so I sit in my SUV because of cooler temps today and wait out Hudson’s practice.
As much as I’d like to read the latest hot romance on my Kindle, my mind keeps drifting, along with my eyes, toward the practice field, where Cort is coaching Hudson on pitching.
Cort doesn’t look over at me once.
As I’ve had time to reflect on his sudden appearance in the bar the other night, playing savior against Henry’s rudeness, I realize Cort might have eventually been flirting with me.
And I’m rusty on flirting.
My last date was almost a year ago.
I can’t remember when I last had sex.
I don’t have the energy or desire to hang out in a bar and play flirting games.
Plus, there aren’t that many single men in this area that I haven’t already dated, or that didn’t date a friend once, or marry one of them first, and there is just something about being second fiddle that strikes a chord with me.
Most days I tell myself I cannot expect there to be a man in his thirties or forties who hasn’t experienced love with someone else first. I think I’m the anomaly.
By Wednesday, I’ve replayed my brief interaction with Cort last week in Milton Roadhouse over and over and concluded .
. . nothing. My decision becomes clear—pretend it didn’t happen.
So, when Cort enters the massage room, I’m as professional and distant as I can be.
But dammit, he looks so good in faded jeans and a dark Haven Exteriors T-shirt that hugs his chest and strains over his biceps.
Why does he have to be so pretty?
“I’ll give you a minute,” I say, after he nods in greeting at me.
Because I’m the one needing a minute for another strong pep-talk about professionalism.
He’s a patient. He’s injured.
You will not lust after him .
And the final punctuation on the internal speech is the reminder he cannot get you off.
That should do the trick .
Only, when I re-enter the room, and see the expanse of his back, my self-talk falls to the ground like a heavy brick.
His trapezius is a work of sculpted art.
His rhomboid muscles are defined.
His latissimus dorsi cause the perfect valley along his spine leading to his gluteus maximus.
But even the technical terms are no distraction from the perfection of him and how badly I want to run my hands over his shoulders, upper back, and ass in more than a medicinal manner.
Bad, Valentine. Very, very, bad .
“How is your lower back?” I ask, reaching for my tablet to gather myself.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being unbearable.”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a five. The massages help but by the end of a week, the pressure is back. ”
I glance over at Cort and catch him watching me, his head awkwardly turned on the donut pillow.
“I’m sorry that happens to you.” I clear my throat, noticing my voice is too robotic.
I do feel bad for him.
Back pain is no joke.
“You’ve been approved for more visits so let’s see if we can keep working out the kinks.”
Cort’s eyes widen, and a flash beams outward at me, like a beacon roaming over a dark sea.
Ignoring the spark, I step to his side and begin the calming work of introduction.
With my hands settled on his mid-back, I can feel his thumping heart, but he doesn’t stiffen as much as he did the first time.
And I have a question for him.
My heart says asking Cort something personal is crossing a line; my head says it’s the professional thing to do.
“Cort, may I ask you something?” The second I question him, tension occurs in his back, but I keep my hands still and my determination plows onward.
“Do you have touch aversion?”
“What’s ‘touch aversion’?” he mutters into the pillow surrounding his face.
“It’s when you don’t like to be touched by anyone. Touch makes you uncomfortable. Possibly, you even have a fear of it.” The thought that he’s afraid of my hands wounds me and yet I know it’s possible.
“Technically, it’s called haphephobia.”
Silence follows my explanation, and I move my hands during the awkward quiet.
Beneath my touch, Cort takes a deep breath.
I wish I could see his face, maybe read his eyes, but I can’t.
With his back to me, I’d been hopeful the disconnect might make it easier for him to answer me.
A painfully long minute passes before he says, “I don’t know.”
While not a confession, it is an admission that touch bothers him .
“Is it me?” Because if it is, I’m willing to pass him to another therapist, like I’d mentioned during his first visit.
Cort shifts, rising up on his elbows and craning his neck to glance over his shoulder.
His eyes catch on mine.
“No, Vale. It isn’t you.” He turns his head away from me and stares at the wall in front of him.
“It’s me.”
He offers no further explanation, and I lick my lips as he settles back into position so I can begin his massage session, concentrating on his left lat, while balancing the work on both sides.
“Did something happen?” I quietly ask, not expecting him to tell me his darkest secrets, but hoping that if he’ll open up a little bit, so I’d be better equipped to help him.
As I anticipated, he doesn’t answer, and I continue to work his muscles beneath the soft hum of calming music piped into the room.
“Can I ask you a question?” Cort finally says, breaking into my concentration on the magnificence of his back.
Even that scar on his upper right shoulder blade is hot.
“Sure.” I smile to myself.
“Where’s Hudson’s dad?”
My hands falter in the rhythmic pressure I’d been applying on his lower back.
I don’t often talk about Hudson’s father.
Not that he was a bad man, just an absentee one.
He was one more misplaced hope for love mixed with a bottle of Tanqueray and a short vacation.
There’s probably a love song written about such situations.
“He’s not in the picture,” I admit, pausing a second, deciding how much I’m willing to open myself up to Cort.
“He didn’t exactly want to be a dad, but then he occasionally sends Hudson stuff.”
Ken never calls; he simply sends unmarked packages.
He hit a few birthdays, missed the mark on a few others.
I’ve toyed with telling him to disappear completely because the grains of sand he gives Hudson don’t add up to a beach of warmth and affection.
Most times, those pebbles are like that nasty pea in The Princess and the Pea fable.
They disrupt Hudson’s life, making him wonder why his dad doesn’t want to come around.
Strangely, Ken also sends me gifts on Mother’s Day every year.
The sad truth is that I slept with Ken in hopes to get over the heartbreak of having sex with Cort.
Ken never demanded a paternity test, he simply asked not to be written on Hudson’s birth certificate.
He never intended to be an involved father.
I am Hudson’s only parent.
And I’m enough.
“He works on an oil rig, so he’s offshore for long stretches of time, and lives in Alabama when he’s on land.”
At least, that was his life twelve years ago during that dang girls’ trip to the Alabama shore after my friends all graduated from college and before I headed back to school for the final year of my physical therapy degree.
I met a cute guy with a you-look-like-you-love-me smile, which simply meant he was open to a vacation fling, and I’d been young and foolish once again.
“Anyway, Hudson is my whole world, and I’m grateful to Stone for taking us in and giving me some time with Hudson when he was a baby.”
I’d gone back to school after that reckless summer, not having known yet that I was pregnant, and had Hudson three months before my graduation.
Zero stars. Do not recommend being a new mom and finishing college at the same time.
After graduation, I took a year off from job hunting and mothered my son.
Like most of my life, it took a village in the beginning and Stone has always been the president of strength.
I glance at the back of Cort’s head, wondering what he thinks of me.
Wondering also if he ever thinks about Stone and the friendship they once had.
How they were brothers from another mother, doing everything together from birth to age twenty-two.
I’d worry mentioning my brother might upset Cort, but then I recall him walking away from me the other night when Clay and Knox entered Milton Roadhouse.
Definitely does not want to discuss my brothers .
Suddenly, I feel as if I’ve been rambling, telling him much more than he wanted to know.
Another set of awkward minutes follow my babbling, before Cort says, “I’m glad Stone was there to look after you.”
I’d scoff, but I know what he means.
Stone’s been watching over me like a guardian angel since I was born, and even though he flew the coop for a few years, he came home when it didn’t seem like there was any other option for us.
At least, not an option Stone was willing to let happen.
“Got another man in your life doing that now?”
I chuckle at the not-so-smooth transition to another topic.
“Cortland Haven, are you asking if I have a boyfriend?”
He snorts, causing his shoulders to flinch.
“Guess I am.”
I smile but instantly chastise myself because this is not a professional conversation to have with a patient.
However, the truth slips free.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” For some reason, my cheeks heat and my fingers stiffen against Cort’s back.
Glancing at the timer on my phone, I notice our session is almost over and shift to the final stages of the massage.
A calming activity where I smooth my hands over the parts I’ve concentrated on.
“And we’re finished.” I step away from the table turning for the tablet on the counter to type up my notes for today in preparation to leave the room and provide Cort privacy to dress.
But when I turn back to address him, he’s pushing himself upright, twisting himself into a seated position by swinging his legs over the edge of the table while pulling the sheet over his lap.
With such a quick movement, I wouldn’t even guess he has a back issue.
My mouth falls open at the glorious outline of muscle on his chest and smattering of hair over his pecs before I lift the tablet like a shield before my face.
Holy hell . “I’m just going to—” I motion toward the door with the tablet, keeping my head turned to the side despite the magnetic pull my eyes feel to inspect Cort one more time.
His fingers circle my wrist, and I lower the tablet-shield to meet coal-dark eyes, sparking here and there with a flame.
My breath hitches at the warmth of his palm on my skin, and I glance down at where he’s touching me.
“Does shit like what happened with Henry, happen often?”
He’d asked me a similar question the other night.
He’d also told me I was beautiful, and I have not forgotten how it sounded coming out of his mouth.
I can’t seem to find the words to answer him.
The heat of his hand.
The warmth in his eyes.
The concern in his rugged voice.
The combination is scrambling my thoughts.
“I’m gonna be watching out for you, too.” He’s referring to how my brother was there for me.
How my brother has always taken care of me.
But I don’t want his pity.
His sympathy for me not having a dad, just like my son doesn’t.
His empathy that my brother raised me, like he helped me raise my child.
The idea that I need some sort of protection.
“I don’t need that,” I tell him, noting the edge in my tone.
“I take care of myself.”
Cort stares at me long and hard, like he again knows a secret about me, or maybe he can just see into the depths of my soul.
Where it says I’m a strong woman but I’m still lonely.
I’m still craving something no man has ever given me.
“At the practices, and games at least, I’ll have one eye on you. ”
I scoff.
“Oh, like you’ve been ignoring me at said practices since seeing you at Milton’s last week.”
His brows hitch, eyes widening.
“I’m not ignoring you, Vale. I’m keeping my distance out of respect for your brothers. There’s a difference.”
“Well, I don’t account to my brothers.” And why is he still holding my wrist?
Still stroking his thumb along the sensitive flesh on the underside.
Still pressing against my accelerating pulse.
“Little Bee,” he whispers, soft and concerned.
“I’m not a child,” I counter, sounding very much like a little girl.
“I’m well aware.” With those dark eyes piercing mine, my breath hitches, and catches a second time when he slides his hand from my wrist to my palm before circling three of my fingers: pinky, ring finger, and middle one.
He gives a little squeeze before he lets go, and I want to chase his touch.
Like a pollinator seeks out the sweet nectar in pretty flowers.
Only, I’ve already been drunk on Cort, and I won’t be smothered in false honey again.
Cort can never again be the buzzing awakening I experienced at ten or a blinding blip of hope I had at twenty-two.
It isn’t fair to him.
And it isn’t fair to me.