5. Chapter 5 #2
The impression disappears as quickly as it arrived.
My hands stop.
Rocco’s head lifts slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
I center myself before touching him again. Whatever I felt belongs to him, and he expressly denied permission for me to interpret his reactions. A fragment is not an invitation.
“The tissue released more quickly than I expected,” I say.
“You stopped touching me.”
“I’m adjusting my position.”
It is not precisely a lie, but it is close enough to trouble me.
I move to his side and resume with lighter pressure. Rocco remains alert now. The fragile relaxation has withdrawn, but he does not tell me to stop.
My hands travel across the muscles beside his shoulder blade.
Beneath the injury, I feel something deeper than physical guarding.
His body has learned that safety is temporary and vigilance is survival.
Even here, face down and nearly relaxed, some part of him remains prepared for impact.
The observation rises to my lips before I can contain it.
“Your body has forgotten how to believe the danger is over.”
Rocco goes perfectly still. I close my eyes. So much for no energy commentary.
“Where did that come from?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. I agreed not to comment on your energy.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It was an observation.”
“Based on what?”
“The way you hold yourself. The way your muscles respond before I apply pressure. You remain braced even when nothing is happening.”
“That sounds physical.”
“Physical and emotional responses aren’t always separate.”
His right hand moves from beside the table. I reach for the folded towel near his arm at the same moment. Rocco’s fingers close around my wrist.
His grip is fast, firm, and entirely instinctive. I don’t pull away.
“Rocco.”
He releases me immediately and pushes himself halfway upright, dragging the sheet higher around his waist. His eyes are no longer tired. They are sharp, focused, and fixed on the place where his hand held me.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Loralee.”
The command when he uses my name is different now. It’s not control. It’s fear that he was too rough.
I hold out my wrist. There is no mark, only the lingering heat of his hand. Rocco turns my arm gently beneath the lantern light, inspecting the skin from both sides.
“I didn’t mean to grab you.”
“I know.”
“You approached from where I couldn’t see.”
“I reached across you without warning. I should have told you what I was doing.”
His gaze lifts to mine. “Don’t make that your fault.”
“I’m not. I’m identifying what happened.”
“I grabbed your wrist.”
“And released it when you realized it was me.”
His thumb remains lightly against my pulse. Neither of us appears willing to acknowledge that he is still holding my hand.
Rocco sits shirtless on the edge of the massage table, close enough that my knees nearly touch his. His hair falls around his face. The sheet covers his waist, but his chest and abdomen remain bare. A second tattoo curves across his ribs, and another scar marks the lower edge of his collarbone.
Attraction returns with enough force to make my breathing uneven. His gaze drops to my mouth.
This is not the playful tension from the booth inspection or the warm awareness of his body beneath my hands. This is sharper. Hungrier. Rocco’s thumb moves once over the inside of my wrist, directly above my racing pulse.
He feels it. His eyes darken.
“We’re finished,” he says.
The words are rough.
I look toward the clock on the cart. “You have six minutes remaining.”
“We’re finished.”
“All right.”
I step back, and he releases me. The absence of his hand feels colder than it should.
“I’ll give you privacy to dress.”
I leave the treatment area before desire overrides professional judgment.
The night air does little to cool me. I press both hands against the sales counter and breathe until my body remembers that I am a licensed professional standing in a temporary booth rather than a woman who nearly kissed a half-naked man beneath a maple tree.
The privacy panel moves behind me.
Rocco emerges wearing his shirt, although he has not fully pulled it into place. The fabric remains caught slightly at his right shoulder. He's controlled again, but the control no longer appears effortless.
“How does it feel?” I ask.
He rotates his shoulder cautiously. The movement is smoother than before.
“Better.”
The single word should not feel like a victory, but it does.
“You may be sore tomorrow. Drink water, use whatever heat or cold your doctor has recommended, and try not to catch any more falling signs.”
Rocco’s gaze moves toward my wrist again.
“You’re sure I didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m sure.”
He nods, but the guilt remains.
I want to touch him. Not as his massage therapist. Not to locate pain or interpret the energy beneath it. I want to place my hand against his face and show him that I am not afraid. I keep my hands on the counter.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
He turns to leave.
“Rocco?”
He pauses at the booth entrance.
“Your shoulder responded well. If you want another session while you’re here, ask me.”
His eyes hold mine across the lantern-lit space.
“No readings?”
“No readings.”
“No surprises?”
“I’ll announce every towel.”
The corner of his mouth moves. Then he leaves without answering.
I listen until his footsteps disappear beyond the booth. Only then do I look down at my wrist. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers, although no mark remains.
Rocco came to me because his shoulder hurt. But the pain is not what followed him onto my table. And it is not what nearly made him kiss me.