Chapter 4
Emee
When fate hands you rotten eggs, it’s prudent not to crack the shell. Or, is it? How ‘cuddling’ can release deep-seated emotions and put clients on the track to better tomorrows.
I grimace at the headline for my blog post for the Cuddlist Collective of Michigan, leaning back in my desk chair, upset at myself for not having it turned in early.
The office space is cool in the mornings, and a ripple of goosebumps rises on my bare arms. The chill is welcome, considering my apartment thermostat is broken, and it was eighty degrees in there last night.
I have to get out of that place. My lease is up in ninety days and I do not want to spend another year living below Mr. and Mrs. Stern, who are hard of hearing and fight about what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner every freakin’ day.
But, staying in that low-rent, decaying apartment building allowed me to save the money I needed to start my own practice. Always having money in the bank equals freedom and opportunity. Two things I craved growing up, trapped in the trailer park with no one telling me someday I could have something better.
I regret giving in to Milton yesterday. Financial benefit aside, my anticipatory displeasure at having another reticent and more than likely rude hockey player on my roster today isn’t helping my mood.
Finding out Frank was married was a gut punch, but not for the reasons most would think.
It was more that I let it happen.
I’m a smart girl.
I was summa cum laude and valedictorian at Brighton High. I got a full ride for both my undergrad and masters, and completed both in five years by doubling up on classes. I never missed a lecture or an assignment, and never took summers off. It was hard, but I did it. All while working two jobs and paying not only my way, but usually Benjamin’s as well. It didn’t help when our parents both passed away within six months of each other my freshman year.
Losing them was horrible, but in my heart, if I’m being honest, I was a little relieved.
I promised myself long ago that I would never put myself in a position where I had to rely on someone else for my livelihood. Especially a man. That’s what my mom did, and my childhood painted a picture of exactly how I didn’t want my life to turn out.
The clock on my desk flips to 7:45.
Fifteen minutes until I’ll buzz Milton’s ice warrior referral through and start my day.
If he shows and if he’s on time.
Sleep was elusive last night. It took me hours to fight off the looming panic attack the chaos in the bar triggered. On top of that, the two, three and four AM half-coherent texts from my brother didn’t help. Something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth and King Hertzof being the goose that laid the golden egg.
The interruptions left me confused, but also worn and droopy-eyed, which does not allow me to be at my best for my clients.
Even with everything else on my mind, it’s overshadowed by that single glimpse of the man in the hoodie that knocked douchebag Frank to the floor of Don’s last night, while taking a beer bottle to the side of his head.
There was an edge to his blue eyes that fluttered through my fitful dreams. That crooked nose worthy of a heavyweight boxer was sexier than it should be.
But it was more than that. There was… I don’t know. A sort of buzzing in my ears when I looked at him, even without seeing his entire face.
I write it off to adrenaline and PMS, feeling that pinch just inside my left hip bone that tells me my hormonal crazy train is about to pull into the station.
I take a swig from my glass water bottle with one hand, while opening my top drawer and fishing out two Advil Gel Caps from the little jar inside with the other. Popping the caps into my mouth, I take another long draw of the cool water.
I’m working up to swallow when the doorbell chimes from the small lobby outside my office.
I sputter and choke, the smooth pills feeling like jagged pebbles as I throw my head back and force them down with a grimace.
I have the worst gag reflex ever, but I need to ward off the worst of my mid-cycle symptoms because no matter my personal opinion of hockey players, I owe each and every client my best.
Cuddling is not as easy as most people would think. As society becomes more and more isolated, the lack of empathetic and platonic human touch is feeding anxiety, depression and yes, even violence.
“Show time.” I lock my computer, then stand, a little surprised and annoyed that he’s early, but I do my usual stretch to the sky, wiggling my fingers, then bending at the waist into a quick hamstring stretch, reaching forward to grab a mint from the bowl on my credenza before I spin and press the button under my desk, releasing the lock on the door.
“Come in,” I call out, doing a shoulder shrug, then rolling my head around as the familiar click of the handle and soft swoosh of the heavy door opening are my cue to get into character.
My eyes flick to the shadow of the Coke stain on the carpet for a second, distracting me, then I notice the classic white Adidas, no socks showing, and bare ankles, then trail my gaze upward, finding a new appreciation for gray sweatpants.
I force my usual welcoming smile to my lips, taking in the whole of him.
He’s solid, tall, and ripples of muscle move in his arms that show from the short-sleeved white t-shirt as he runs his fingers through his rich, caramel-colored waves. A casual scruff covers his lower face, framing lips that should have sonnets written about them.
“Fuck,” he says, as I swallow against an instant tightening in my throat, realization spilling over me, and my tongue suddenly feels like sandpaper.
Wait.
It’s him.
Those eyes.
That nose.
“Welcome to…” I start, my greeting stalled as sapphire blue eyes pierce my soul, a wild rush of blood crashing through my eardrums, muffling my voice inside my head. “I’m… Emee Bristol.”
The door closes behind him with a thunk as I admire the hard lines of his face, that unmistakable crooked nose sending my brain and my ovaries into a tailspin.
“It’s you,” he says, stepping forward as he hisses an urgent breath through bared teeth. “Red dress.”
His tongue snaps behind his lips, poking into his cheek as he presses his fingertips to his eyes for a moment, before focusing on me again as if trying to wake from a dream.
Or a nightmare.
“I… It’s you. Blue hoodie.” I press my own fingertips to my lips as my heart stutters, an odd but pleasurable feeling snaking through my belly, wriggling around in the area between my hip bones, forcing my muscles to clench.
Calm down.
He looks over his shoulder toward the door, then around the room. “You here alone?”
The way he says it feels more like concern than opportunity. “Yes.”
He shakes his head on a frown. “And you don’t have a peephole in your door.” He looks around the room. “No cameras?” Tension gathers on his brow, his square jaw hardening.
I brush a tickling hair from my forehead, unsure where this is heading, so I take control and try to get things back on track.
“I hope you weren’t hurt last night in all that chaos,” I offer, thinking of the beer bottle that shattered on the side of his head.
“Nope. I’m unscathed.”
“Good.” I struggle to thread a string of brain cells together and finish with, “Please, come in.”
He steps forward, my eyes sneaking another glimpse downward, and I swear, that loose cannon under the gray fabric is getting bigger.
He doesn’t go for one of the chairs, or my desk, or off toward the window like most clients, but straight at me. His eyes connect to mine and there’s a tug in my chest like a line pulling me forward. As I lean into the vibration, my balance falters in more ways than one.
“I’m in,” he grumbles in a thick, gravely tone that shakes me down to my bones. “I’m King. Dr. Hoffman said you could help me.”
“Yes, I hope so.” The words come out dry and flat, the thumping heartbeat and gathering heat in my chest sucking all the air from the room. I clear my throat, noticing his hair is damp, and for a split second, I imagine his soapy hand moving up and down on his—
“So, red dress is the cuddler,” he mutters on a disbelieving head shake and a sniff. “Damn, karma’s on my side for once.”
He reaches for my face, as my brain comes back online. I step back, an involuntary sound slipping from my lips, as I re-group and get whatever chemical imbalance he’s causing inside me under control.
“Yes, I am, but… But…”
Girl, your brain is not a potato, stick to the program.
With a hard swallow, I fall back on the introductory speech I’ve delivered to at least a hundred clients before today. “Let’s go through some things first.”
The floor suddenly feels like it’s made of marshmallows as I retreat another two steps, a swirl of some sexy male pheromone making the room wavy around the edges.
“What do we need to go through?” His voice reaches out and licks at my skin, his face a battleground of scars and broken bones, which only amplifies his sex appeal. A chip on his front tooth sets off a battalion of butterflies in my belly.
“First,” I cough, the edge of my desk biting into my ass and stalling my retreat, but I manage to right myself before I turn into a whimpering puddle, “it would be prudent for us to clear things up about what happened last night, so we can start fresh.”
“Yes.” He continues forward, pushing inside my personal space, waves of heat flicking at my breasts. “We do need to do that. Are you okay? I’ve been worried.”
“You’ve been… What? Am I okay?” I repeat, blinking once, twice, three times.
“Yeah. Are. You. Okay? Are you in any pain in here?” He brushes the backs of his fingers over my sternum, picking up the gold yin and yang pendant around my neck as my skin comes alive under his touch. He drops the gold emblem, raising his fingers to tap on my forehead. “Or in here?”
I forget how to speak as he brushes my hair behind my ear in a motion so sweet and intimate, my toes curl in my sneakers as I stare up at his perfectly imperfect face, a tsunami of arousal coating the inside of my panties.
“I’m—I’m, yes, I’m fine.”
“I mean, finding out your boyfriend is married. That’s…” He shakes his head, nostrils flared, with a menacing darkness in his eyes that should scare me. Instead, it only makes me want to reach up and trace my fingers down the long, ragged scar on his left cheek. “A gut punch.”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” I correct in an urgent burst.
Rule number one of the Cuddlist Code... Don’t share personal information.
“Good thing. Then, you weren’t…with him?” The question implies more than if we were sharing physical space. I shake my head, ignoring rule number one.
“No. It was that dating app, Hollar. Third date. I didn’t even really like him.”
Good job, Emee not sharing anything personal.
“That dress you were wearing said otherwise.”
“What do you think it was saying?”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t saying it to him, but it was saying it to me, ‘Take me. Own me. Save me. Keep me.’ And I intend to do all of those.”