Chapter 12
They fell asleep on the rug before the fire like two free-love hippies at Woodstock, until the next morning when the fire was nothing but ash and Old Man Harrison woke up and mumbled about how damn cold it was.
He got up to rekindle the fire. Amy thought she better check on Duchess, so she grabbed the Texas Longhorns blanket they’d used as their only source of warmth and hurried back to her room.
Harrison stumbled to his room and turned on a piping-hot shower.
The sun had come out, which automatically lifted his spirits.
Once he warmed up, he felt great. Sex had that effect on him.
It put a spring in his step, made him feel like the Hulk—like he could lift entire buildings.
And when he had great sex with someone like Amy, who wasn’t shy about her wants, he thought he might have grown another foot tall.
He would very much like more of that kind of sex. A lot more. He didn’t quite know how to ask for it because he hadn’t had to ask for it in a very long time. And he didn’t quite know what it meant that he wanted more. He hadn’t come here to find a woman he clicked with, but here he was.
Which just made his internal debate about what came next that much harder. If he went to Scotland, say, he’d have to leave here when his rental was up and fly to Florida immediately. But if he didn’t go, maybe he could hang out with Amy a little longer. Just stick around in town for a few days.
The moment the thought popped into his head, he grimaced at his own absurdity. She had a family and a life. She wasn’t looking for a fling with him.
Was it a fling? It had to be, right? It wasn’t as if he was thinking that something could come of this.
No. That was silly. It was a fabulous intermission in his life, and to think it was anything more was insane.
Damn it, he’d thought some peace and quiet would help him muddle through his many options, but now he just felt even more undecided.
When had making decisions become so hard?
After his shower, he kept wandering into the kitchen and stealing looks out the window at the studio.
He could see Amy’s head in front of a canvas, could see her arms move, but that was it.
He was very curious about her painting. He wanted to go out there, but that would be rude and a little presumptuous.
Sex did not equal an invitation into her space.
She wanted this time to create, and the worst thing he could do was bother her.
And yet, he really wanted to see what she painted. He thought it would be a window into her head. Not that he’d be able to interpret it, but still.
It was just that he really liked being with her.
He grew more restless, wandering around, humming along to the Christmas music, and checking out the kitchen window.
He was beginning to drive himself a little nuts when he heard a knock on the front door.
That was odd. He walked to the cavernous entry and could see long blonde hair through one of the sidelights.
He opened the door and stared with surprise at the woman standing there.
“Hey, you,” she said cheerily.
Harrison could hardly make his mouth function. “Hillary?” As in Hillary Green, a conditioning coach who followed the PGA tour around. His impression of her was that she was a golf groupie who happened to be good at her job. He’d used her a couple of years ago for some tendinitis in his elbow.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” she said, leaning to one side to see past him.
She was wearing Nike running tights and a pink, zip-up, furry hoodie.
It was open and revealed a formfitting tank top that outlined her very shapely body.
She’d propped a folded massage table against her leg and had a gym bag slung over her shoulder.
She looked like she did on tour when she was working.
He frantically sorted through his mental inbox for a note, a message, a calendar reminder of her coming to Texas. But there was no such thing.
“What are you—”
“Clay!” she chirped before he could finish his sentence. “He said you’d be surprised.”
He was more than surprised. And he was immediately pissed.
“I honestly would have preferred he call you before I got here, but he said you love a good surprise. Is that true?”
“No, it is not,” Harrison said gruffly. “I’m sorry…you’re telling me that Clay sent you here?”
“Yep.” She beamed at him and picked up her massage table. “He said you need help, and I had the time, and he is paying me a lot.”
Which meant that Harrison was paying her a lot.
“He said I should have my rate doubled because it is the holidays. Is there someplace I can set this up?” With her chin, she indicated the massage table.
“Hillary…I am so sorry that Clay sent you all this way from…from where?”
“Detroit.”
“Detroit. But I don’t need help. I mean, I do, but nothing that warrants him sending you here during the holiday season.”
“I don’t mind! It was snowing buckets and was so cold in Detroit. Do you mind if I come in? I really need to set this up.”
Harrison looked at her massage table. “It’s just that I don’t—”
“How’s your knee, anyway?” she asked, and somehow managed to slip right by him into the foyer with her massage table.
His knee hurt, especially after last night’s activities, and he knew that Hillary could help him. He sighed with defeat. “This is highly unorthodox.”
Hillary laughed. “Okay, professor.” She walked into the house and paused in the grand foyer to look around. “Wow! Is that Bing Crosby I hear?”
“Yep,” Harrison said. “He sings here a lot.”
“Look!” she said, pointing up at a giant clump of mistletoe, festooned with red ribbon. “I’ll be careful to avoid that.” She giggled and ducked around it, swept by the nutcrackers, and entered the living room.
Harrison noted with some chagrin that he and Amy had not picked up the evidence of last night.
“Did you have a slumber party or something?” Hillary asked with a laugh. “Look at that tree! That thing is massive. And Santa and his sleigh! So awesome,” she said, admiring the sleigh and eight reindeer hanging from the ceiling.
Harrison opened his mouth to answer, but the sound of Duchess barking interrupted him, and here came the weenie, running straight into the wall before self-correcting and letting her nose find Hillary.
“Look at you,” Hillary crooned, and knelt to receive Duchess’s kisses. “I didn’t know you had a dog. Is she blind?”
“Very,” Harrison said. “Her name is Duchess.”
“Hello, Duchess, what a sweetie you are. What a sweet, sweet pup you are, aren’t you?” Hillary sang as she rubbed the belly Duchess had instantly presented for a rub.
She finally stood up and let Duchess sniff her table.
“Where shall we set up? I’d say in here, but…
” she gestured to the pillows and toy Santas and snowmen.
“It’s not too cold. We could go on the deck.
Oh my Lord, look at the view!” she cried, picking up her table and heading for the sliding-glass doors.
Harrison had no choice but to follow her. He stepped out onto the deck and glanced at the studio. He didn’t want to disturb Amy but didn’t know how they would avoid it. For starters, Hillary’s massage table was massive. And she was a talker.
“You have a club handy, right? I can’t imagine a golfer anywhere in the world without a club handy. Do you?”
Duchess had also followed them out and was sniffing her way back to the studio. Harrison worried about the stairs.
“Do you?” Hillary repeated.
“What?” Harrison couldn’t force himself to look away as Duchess began to navigate the steps. “Yes, I do. Somewhere.”
“You should get one.”
Duchess made it down the steps, much to his relief. He turned back to Hillary. “Pardon?”
“Grab a club. I need to check your swing.”
Harrison stood there, hands on hips. He didn’t like that Clay had sent Hillary, but then again, he wouldn’t mind if she checked his swing. “They are in my room. Hold tight.”
“You’ve got it, boss,” she said cheerfully.
When he returned, Hillary had set up an artificial turf pad that mimicked the feel of the earth under a club. Duchess had taken up a spot under her table, seemingly unbothered by the cold.
Hillary wouldn’t let Harrison take a swing without first checking his form, reminding him to stand with feet hip distance apart, core tight.
Harrison resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
He’d been playing for years, and he knew proper form.
“Good,” she said, when she was satisfied he was centered over his hips. She stood back, nodding. “Okay. Swing.”
Harrison swung, and immediately grimaced at the pain in his knee. It was possibly worse than when he left Florida, which wouldn’t surprise him, seeing as how he hadn’t kept up with his physical therapy. Man, he hated when Clay was right.
“That does not look good. First of all, you have a ridiculous pelvic tilt,” Hillary announced, then stepped behind him, put her hands on his hips, and shoved his hips forward. “See that?”
“Umm…”
“You need to find a neutral spine, Harrison. How did you let yourself get so out of whack?”
It was a fair question.
“Okay, try and hold that position and swing again.”
Harrison did as instructed, because there was still that little kid inside him who was afraid of coaches. The swing felt more natural. And his knee didn’t hurt quite as much.
“Okay, let’s work those quads and hips,” Hillary said, and gestured at the table. “Hop up here, boss.”
He silently debated telling her he was not her boss, and if anything, she was his at the moment, but she was talking again, so he just did as he was told.
“I’m glad you’re wearing sweats,” she said. “Generally, I’d have you take those off and put a towel over you, but it’s too cold for that.” She dug her fingers into his right quad, and Harrison very nearly came off the table.