Chapter 17 #2
She glanced at the caulk gun sitting on the tailgate. “It’s thick.”
He nodded, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. “Makes a tight squeeze.”
He excelled at innuendos and she smiled nervously.
“Don’t worry, Wren.” The corner of his mouth curved upward. “One way or another, I’ll make it fit.”
She laughed and had to look away, her cheeks on fire. “You’re trouble.” She handed him back his coat. “I’m taking my cracks back inside where it’s warm.”
When she looked over her shoulder, he unapologetically watched her walk away. Heat trailed down her spine as his gaze followed her movements, making her hyperaware of every sway of her hips. Maybe she should work a cold plunge into her day. She needed to cool off.
By that evening, Greyson had fixed every possible thing that needed repairing and then some.
He caulked all the cracks in the molding, patched the greenhouse roof, replaced the wooden steps to the sauna that had rotted, oiled the squeaky doors, pumped up the wheelbarrow tire, tightened the window latch on the third guest cabin so the cats stopped getting in, fixed the drip in the faucet, leveled the drying rack for the herbs that had been sagging, tidied up the woodpile, drilled new hooks into new posts for the hammocks, picked up a pallet of fuel for the lanterns and stocked it on the shelves in the shed where he’d also built a new wall rack for Bodhi to hang all his rakes and shovels.
But that wasn’t all!
He walked the grounds with Bodhi, giving her father the time and space to voice his concerns for the cats.
Greyson listened to every point he made and kept a meticulous list. Then he carefully checked off every needed repair.
The cats would be dry and warm for the snow this week, because Greyson ensured it.
Wren felt blown away. Greyson always worked hard, but never before had he attacked a punch list with such focused intensity. Was he trying to prove something? Show his commitment to her and The Haven? Did blowjobs possess this kind of power? Or was this something more?
The intensity felt almost desperate, as if he needed to demonstrate his value through sheer productivity. Whatever drove him, she found herself both impressed and slightly concerned about his motivation.
A box of new trail markers arrived, and she needed to replace the old ones. She bundled up for a long walk in the woods and told her staff she’d be back in an hour.
On her way back to the property, she felt surprised to see Greyson’s truck still there and all his tools still out. He typically cleaned up around four-thirty and left by five on the days he worked.
Her flashlight cast a dome of light over the ground as she walked briskly toward The Haven, her mind focused on a hot cup of ashwagandha and lemon balm, when she came across Greyson, hunched over and rubbing his back as he worked on some sort of gutter protruding from the foundation.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
He stood up and winced. “I’m fine. Where were you?”
“The new trail markers arrived.” She held out the box of old faded markers. “And you’re not fine. What happened?”
“It’s nothing. I must have wrenched my back moving logs.” He tried to play it off, but when he twisted to unplug his drill charger from the wall, she saw him flinch again.
“You’re in pain.”
“I’m fine, Wren.”
“Nothing’s wrong with admitting you’re hurt, Greyson.” She set down the box of trail markers and approached him. She rubbed a hand along his back. “Where’s the boo-boo?”
“I’m telling you, I’m—” He hissed in a breath. “It’s just tight.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She stepped behind him, trailing her hands slowly over his broad shoulders and down his spine. “Here?”
He grunted. “Yeah.”
“That’s your QL.”
“My what?”
“Quadratus lumborum. It’s a deep stabilizer that runs from your iliac crest to your lowest ribs.
” She traced her fingers along his ribs for a visual.
“It’s a common strain for people who do a lot of lifting and rotating, especially if your glutes aren’t firing properly.
” She pressed two fingers gently above his hip and he flinched. “Exactly as I suspected.”
He stepped away as if to maintain professional boundaries, but this wasn’t sexual. This time, his reluctance centered more on masculine pride. When he straightened his shoulders despite the obvious pain, his jaw set in stubborn determination.
She rolled her eyes. “You know, I can fix it for you.”
He cleared his throat. “A hot shower should do the trick.”
“It won’t, but if you want to try that and suffer for the next few days in pain, go for it.
Just know that when the inflammation gets worse and you start overusing your thoracolumbar fascia, the opposite side’s going to tighten and the pain will likely spiral because you’re overcompensating with other muscles. ”
He just stared at her. “How do you know all that?”
She laughed. “I’m more than a pretty face, Grey.” She nudged him toward the building. “Come inside and lie down so I can work it out for you. You’ve been fixing my stuff all day—let me fix this for you.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“You’ve got hypertonicity in the QL and a little compensatory tension in the multifidus.”
“Right.”
“We can try to fix it in one session, but it depends on how long you’ve had the injury. My guess is you’ve been trying to treat it for a while without much long-term relief.”
“Pretty much.”
She clicked her tongue. “Greyson, why wouldn’t you come to me?”
“I don’t know. Massages aren’t my thing.”
“Fifty percent of our clients are men.”
His expression hardened. “You mean River’s clients?”
“Relax.” She laughed. “I’m very professional with all the men who get naked on my table.”
He growled as she took the drill out of his hand and pulled him gently toward the spa. “Come on, big, strong man. I promise I’ll be gentle.”