Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Josie
There are few things more awkward than stripping down to your underwear knowing the man you've been fake-engaged to for three days and real-kissed exactly once will be lying nearly naked on a massage table three feet away from you. I clutch the plush white spa robe tighter around my body, scanning the dimly lit couples' massage room like I'm casing it for escape routes.
"The therapists will return in a few minutes," the serene spa attendant informs us. "Please disrobe to your comfort level and lie face down beneath the sheets." She lights another scented candle, adding to the ambiance that would be romantic under literally any other circumstances. "Would you prefer the privacy screen between your tables?"
Before I can say "yes, absolutely, and maybe a concrete wall too," Elliot answers.
"That won't be necessary."
The attendant nods, obviously charmed by what she perceives as our loving intimacy rather than the truth—which is that Elliot Carrington refuses to show weakness in any form, even if it means watching me awkwardly strip down while maintaining his lawyer poker face.
"Enjoy your experience," she says, floating out of the room on a cloud of essential oils and leaving us alone with two massage tables, flickering candles, and enough sexual tension to power a small city.
"So..." I rock back on my heels, the plush carpet soft beneath my bare feet. "How are we doing this?"
Elliot checks his watch—a habit I've noticed emerges when he's uncomfortable. "Efficiently, I imagine. We disrobe, lie down, and endure the prescribed relaxation."
"Right. Super romantic when you put it that way." I roll my eyes. "Turn around, please. Unless you've developed X-ray vision along with your superhuman control."
He turns with military precision, facing the wall. I quickly shed the robe, grateful that my underwear is at least matching today—simple black cotton, nothing special, but not the embarrassing period panties it could have been. I slide under the sheet on my assigned table, adjusting it to cover everything important before flipping onto my stomach.
"All clear," I announce, my voice muffled against the face rest.
I hear rather than see his movements—the soft rustle of fabric, the gentle creak of the massage table as he settles onto it. I keep my eyes firmly closed, resisting the urge to peek. After his "dangerous game" comment in the hallway, I'm not sure I can handle seeing Elliot Carrington in nothing but boxer briefs without spontaneously combusting.
"This is ridiculous," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
"What part, specifically?" I ask, turning my head slightly. "The fact that we're pretending to be engaged, or the fact that we're now nearly naked three feet apart after you warned me about playing dangerous games?"
"All of it." His voice is tight, controlled. "This entire charade has spiraled beyond what was agreed upon."
I'm saved from responding by the return of our massage therapists—a man and woman who introduce themselves in hushed tones that match the ambient music now playing softly in the background. They discuss pressure preferences and problem areas with professional detachment that almost—almost—makes me forget the absurdity of the situation.
Then the massage begins, and I stop thinking about absurdity altogether. It's been years since I had a professional massage—a gift certificate from a client whose three Saint Bernards nearly dislocated my shoulder—and I'd forgotten how good skilled hands can feel on tense muscles. The therapist finds knots I didn't know existed, working methodically from my shoulders down my back.
I melt into the table, a small moan escaping before I can stop it.
The rhythm of Elliot's breathing changes, a barely perceptible hitch that nevertheless catches my attention. I peek through my lashes, turning my head just enough to see him on the adjacent table. His eyes are closed, jaw clenched in what looks like concentration rather than relaxation. The sheet covers him from the waist down, but his back and shoulders are exposed—broader than I'd realized, the muscles defined beneath smooth skin. A lawyer shouldn't look that good. It feels unfair somehow, like he's been hiding this body beneath those perfectly tailored suits.
I close my eyes quickly when his massage therapist asks him to relax his shoulders, not wanting to be caught staring.
The massage continues, oil-slicked hands working down my spine, across my shoulders, down my arms. It feels amazing—and yet I can't fully lose myself in the sensation because every nerve in my body seems attuned to Elliot's presence beside me. Each breath he takes, each subtle shift of his body on the table, registers like a ping on my internal radar.
"Please turn over," my therapist instructs, lifting the sheet to maintain my modesty while I flip onto my back.
I comply, careful to keep the sheet secure across my chest, hyperaware that Elliot is being instructed to do the same thing. When I settle, I can't help glancing his way again. He's staring directly at the ceiling, his profile sharp in the dim light, a muscle working in his jaw. The sheet has slipped low enough to reveal the defined planes of his chest, a light dusting of dark hair narrowing into a trail that disappears beneath the sheet.
My mouth goes dry, and I quickly look away.
"Is the pressure okay?" my therapist asks, working on my legs now, skilled hands kneading muscles I didn't realize were tense.
"Perfect," I manage, though my voice sounds strange even to my own ears.
As the massage progresses, I find it increasingly difficult to relax. The therapist's touch, while completely professional, keeps reminding me of how long it's been since I've been touched at all. My skin feels hypersensitive, my body responding in ways that are mortifying in a professional setting. I pray the dim lighting hides the flush I can feel spreading across my chest and neck.
When the therapist works on my inner thigh—still completely appropriate but dangerously close to areas that have been neglected for far too long—I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would definitely not be appropriate for a spa setting.
I make the mistake of looking at Elliot again. His eyes are open now, watching me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. He looks away immediately when our gazes meet, but not before I catch something in his expression that mirrors my own struggle—desire, frustration, and the knowledge that we're trapped in a situation where we can do nothing about it.
The rest of the massage becomes an exquisite form of torture. Every touch sends my imagination spinning in directions it shouldn't go—what if it were Elliot's hands on my skin instead? What would those long fingers feel like tracing the curve of my waist, the arch of my spine? Would he maintain that careful control, or would it finally crack beneath the weight of whatever this is between us?
"Deep breath," the therapist instructs, pressing into a particularly tight spot between my shoulder blades.
I inhale shakily, closing my eyes to block out the sight of Elliot's body so close yet completely untouchable. It doesn't help. If anything, removing visual input only heightens my other senses—the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the essential oils, the sound of his measured breathing, the charged awareness that seems to arc between our tables like electricity seeking ground.
"How are we feeling?" the female therapist asks, addressing us both as the massage begins to wind down.
"Relaxed," Elliot answers, though his voice suggests exactly the opposite.
"Wonderful," I lie, wondering if they can tell how far from relaxation I actually am. Every cell in my body feels wired, hyperaware, practically vibrating with unresolved tension.
The therapists work in synchrony now, completing final stretches and gentle pressure points before stepping back. "We'll leave you to dress," they announce, exiting the room with practiced discretion.
The silence that follows their departure feels thick enough to cut. I remain on my table, uncertain of the protocol here. Do I wait for Elliot to get up first? Do we maintain the awkward charade of not looking at each other?
"That was..." I begin, searching for a word that isn't 'arousing' or 'torturous.'
"Thorough," Elliot supplies, his voice sounding strained.
"Right. Thorough." I risk a glance his way, only to find him still lying perfectly still, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to the universe.
"You should dress first," he says, not looking at me. "I'll wait."
"Such a gentleman," I mutter, though I'm secretly grateful for the reprieve. I sit up carefully, keeping the sheet wrapped around me as I reach for my robe. "No peeking."
"I assure you, I can control myself," he says stiffly.
The statement—so perfectly Elliot in its formal denial—makes me want to test exactly how much control he actually has. Instead, I slide into my robe as quickly as possible, securing the belt with a double knot. "All clear, counselor. Your turn."
I make a show of examining my nails while he dresses, though I can't resist stealing a glance from beneath my lashes. The brief glimpse I catch—broad shoulders, narrow waist, legs far more athletic than a desk job should allow—does nothing to calm the riot in my bloodstream.
"Ready?" he asks, fully robed once more, composure apparently restored despite the lingering intensity in his eyes.
"Born ready," I quip, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile.
We exit the spa in uncomfortable silence, making our way back toward our suite. Other guests pass us in the hallway, smiling knowingly at our matching robes, obviously assuming we're taking our "relaxation" back to our room for an entirely different kind of couples' activity.
If only they knew the truth—that we're both wound so tight we might snap, trapped in this bizarre limbo of fake engagement and very real attraction that neither of us seems willing to acknowledge directly.
Elliot swipes the key card to our suite, holding the door for me with formal courtesy that feels absurd given we were nearly naked together five minutes ago. Barney greets us enthusiastically, oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke on.
"I should get dressed," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. "The picnic lunch is in an hour."
"Of course." Elliot nods, maintaining a careful distance. "I'll use the gym until then."
Of course he will. Running away—or in this case, working out—rather than addressing the elephant in the room. The elephant being that underneath our careful pretense of professionalism, we both know exactly what would happen if either of us were brave enough to cross that line.
I gather my clothes—my own this time, thankfully returned by the laundry service—and retreat to the bathroom. The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. I look aroused, which is mortifying yet completely accurate.
Splashing cold water on my face, I give myself a stern talking-to. This is business. A transaction. The fact that Elliot Carrington has a body that would make Greek statues envious doesn't change anything. The fact that I now know exactly what he looks like with only a thin sheet preserving his modesty doesn't change anything. The fact that I'm having increasingly vivid fantasies about what might happen if I marched back into that room and dropped my robe—that definitely doesn't change anything.
Except it changes everything, doesn't it?
I press my forehead against the cool mirror, exhaling slowly. One more day. One more night. Then this charade ends, I get my money, and Elliot Carrington becomes nothing more than an unusually attractive blip in my financial recovery plan.
So why does that thought make my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with physical attraction?
I straighten, pushing away from the mirror. Whatever this is, it isn't real. Can't be real. I need to remember that, no matter how convincing our performance becomes—even to ourselves.
But as I dress for the picnic, I can't help wondering if Elliot is having the same internal battle. If beneath all that iron control, he's imagining what might have happened if those massage tables had been just a little bit closer. If the therapists hadn't returned. If one of us had been brave enough—or reckless enough—to act on this current running between us.
And I can't help wondering what might happen when that control finally breaks.