Chapter Five
Nicole
I'd been having dreams about Shawn's hands.
Not innocent dreams either. Dreams where those big, calloused palms roamed over places they had no business being.
Dreams where he worked out the tension in my body in ways that had nothing to do with therapeutic massage and everything to do with the throbbing ache between my legs that hadn't gone away since Monday night.
Dreams that left me waking up wet and frustrated and wondering what the hell was wrong with me.
It was Thursday, two days since our last session, and I was sitting in my office trying to focus on budget projections instead of thinking about how Shawn had looked at me when I'd admitted I didn't remember the last time I'd done something just because it felt good.
Like he wanted to personally remedy that situation.
The intercom on my desk buzzed, making me jump.
"Nicole?" It was Janet, my assistant. "David wants to see you in his office."
David. My boss. The senior partner who held my professional future in his hands.
I saved my work and walked down the hall to his corner office, smoothing my pencil skirt and checking that my blouse was properly buttoned. David Bradford was old-school corporate, the type who still believed women had to work twice as hard to prove they deserved to be in the room.
"You wanted to see me?" I knocked on his open door.
"Nicole, come in. Close the door behind you."
Never a good sign.
I settled into one of the leather chairs across from his desk, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. Professional. Composed. Ready for whatever criticism he was about to level at me.
"The Carleton account," he said without preamble. "They're not happy with the campaign direction."
My stomach dropped. The Carleton account was worth three million dollars and represented six months of work by my entire team.
"What specifically are they concerned about?" I kept my voice level, businesslike.
"They think it's too safe. Too predictable." He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "Their exact words were that it felt like it was created by someone who doesn't understand passion."
Passion. The word stung.
"I can revise the creative approach," I said. "We still have time before the launch date."
"I'm sure you can. But I'm wondering if maybe the problem is bigger than one campaign." His pale eyes bored into mine. "When did you last take a vacation, Nicole?"
Not this again.
"I don't need a vacation. I need to fix the Carleton campaign."
"What you need," he said, "is to remember that marketing isn't just about demographics and focus groups. It's about understanding what makes people feel something. And right now, your work feels like it's coming from someone who's forgotten how to feel anything at all."
The words stung because they were uncomfortably close to what Shawn had been saying. What my doctor had been saying. What I'd been trying not to admit to myself.
"I'll have a revised creative brief on your desk by Monday," I said, standing up.
"Nicole." His voice stopped me at the door. "Maybe spend the weekend doing something other than work. Something that reminds you what it's like to be human."
I walked back to my office in a daze, David's words echoing in my head. Someone who's forgotten how to feel anything at all. Was that really how people saw me? As some emotionless robot who'd traded her humanity for career success?
By late afternoon, I'd stared at the same spreadsheet for three hours without seeing it. My mind kept wandering to Monday night, to how Shawn's hands had felt on my back. How he'd made me feel relaxed for the first time in years.
How he'd looked at me like I was worth taking care of.
I was still thinking about it when I got home and heard music coming from his apartment. Not the usual workout playlist, but something softer. Jazz, maybe.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I knocked on his door.
He answered wearing jeans and a t-shirt, his hair loose around his shoulders. Casual. Relaxed. Everything I'd forgotten how to be.
"Nicole." He looked surprised to see me. "Everything okay?"
"I had a bad day at work." The admission slipped out before I could stop it.
His expression softened. "Want to talk about it?"
I should have said no. Should have gone to my own apartment, ordered takeout, and spent the evening reworking the Carleton campaign. Should have done anything except stand there staring at this man who'd been starring in my inappropriate dreams.
"Can I come in?"
He stepped aside, and I walked into his apartment. It smelled like whatever he'd been cooking, something with garlic and herbs that made my mouth water.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
"I had a protein bar for lunch."
He gave me a look that suggested protein bars didn't count as real food. "I made pasta. There's plenty."
"You don't have to do this."
"Nicole." How he said my name made me stop mid-sentence. "When did someone last cook for you?"
There it was again. That question that kept revealing how empty my life had become.
"I don't remember," I admitted.
"Then sit down and let me feed you."
The command in his voice made something flutter low in my stomach. I sat at his dining table and watched him move around the kitchen, serving pasta into bowls and opening a bottle of wine.
"Tell me about this bad day," he said, setting a plate in front of me.
I took a bite of the pasta and nearly moaned. It was better than anything I'd eaten at the expensive restaurants I sometimes went to for work dinners.
"My boss thinks I've forgotten how to feel," I said, then immediately wished I'd kept my mouth shut.
Shawn sat down across from me, his green eyes serious. "What do you think?"
"I think he's wrong." But even as I said it, I wasn't sure I believed it.
"When did you last cry?"
The question caught me off guard. "What?"
"Cried. Over anything. Happy, sad, frustrated. When did you last let yourself feel something strongly enough to cry about it?"
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again. When was the last time? Not when Richard broke up with me, because I'd been too shocked and then too angry. Not when my grandmother died two years ago, because I'd been too busy handling the funeral arrangements.
"I don't cry," I said.
"Everyone cries."
"I don't." I took another bite of pasta, hoping he'd drop it.
He didn't. "What about laugh? When did you last really laugh? Not polite business laughter, but actual, genuine amusement?"
I set down my fork, feeling exposed. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Because I'm trying to figure out what happened to you."
"Nothing happened to me. I'm exactly who I've always been."
"Bullshit." The word was gentle but firm. "Monday night, when I was working on your back, you relaxed. For maybe ten minutes, you let your guard down and just felt good. And you looked surprised by it, like you'd forgotten that was possible."
My face burned at the memory. "That was just the massage. It felt nice."
"It was more than nice." He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "You made these little sounds, like you couldn't believe something could feel that good. Like no one had ever taken care of you before."
How he was looking at me, like he could see right through all my defenses, made me squirm in my chair.
"I take care of myself."
"Working eighteen-hour days and living on protein bars isn't taking care of yourself. It's surviving." He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. "What scares you so much, Nicole?"
His touch sent electricity up my arm. "I'm not scared of anything."
"Then why do you work so hard to keep everyone at arm's length? Why do you act like needing anything from anyone is a sign of weakness?"
Because it was. Because the last time I'd needed someone, he'd left me for someone more fun, more spontaneous, more worthy of love.
"I don't need anyone," I said, but my voice came out weaker than I intended.
"Everyone needs someone." His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "Even you."
The gentle touch combined with his words was doing dangerous things to my composure. I pulled my hand away and stood up.
"I should go. Thank you for dinner."
"Nicole, wait." He was on his feet too, moving around the table toward me. "Don't run away."
"I'm not running away. I'm going home."
"Because I'm making you uncomfortable."
"Because this is getting complicated." I backed toward the door. "We're neighbors. You're training me. This can't be anything more than that."
"Can't it?" He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. "Or are you just scared it might be?"
"I'm not scared."
"Prove it."
The challenge hung between us, loaded with possibility. I should have walked away. Should have gone to my apartment and put up all my walls and pretended this conversation never happened.
Instead, I stepped closer.
"Prove it how?"
His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "Let me make you feel something."
My breath caught. "Shawn..."
"Just this once. Let someone take care of you."
The want in his voice was unmistakable, and it called to something deep inside me that I'd been trying to ignore. When was the last time someone had wanted to take care of me? When was the last time someone had looked at me like I was worth cherishing instead of just useful?
"I don't know how," I admitted.
"I'll show you."
He leaned down, and I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, his lips brushed against my ear.
"Trust me?"
The question was barely audible, but it felt like a roar. Trust him with what? My body? My heart?
My sanity?
"Yes," I breathed, and the word sealed my fate.
His hands slid down to my shoulders, then to my arms, his touch gentle but possessive. "Close your eyes."
I did, and immediately felt more vulnerable than I had in years.
"Now breathe. Just breathe and let me touch you."
His hands moved to my waist, then up my sides, barely skimming the outer curves of my breasts. Not sexual, exactly, but intimate in a way that made my pulse race.
"How does that feel?" he asked.
"Good." The word came out as a sigh. "Really good."
"Good." His hands continued their exploration, mapping the tension in my shoulders, the tight muscles in my neck. "You're so wound up, baby. When did you last let someone touch you like this?"
Baby. The endearment made my knees weak.
"I don't..." I couldn't finish the thought because his thumbs had found the pressure points at the base of my skull, and the relief was so intense it was almost painful.
"Don't what?"
"I don't let people touch me." The admission came out raw, honest. "Not like this."
"Why not?"
Because touch meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant getting hurt. Because the last man who'd touched me had told me I was cold and unfeeling, and I'd believed him.
"Because I'm not good at it," I said instead.
His hands stilled. "Not good at what? Being touched?"
"Being soft. Feminine. Whatever it is men want."
"Nicole." He turned me around to face him, his hands on my shoulders. "Open your eyes."
I did, and the intensity in his gaze nearly undid me.
"You're the most feminine woman I've ever met," he said. "And any man who made you think otherwise was a fucking idiot."
The profanity, delivered with such conviction, made something crack open in my chest.
"Richard said I was too cold. Too focused on work. That he needed someone who could actually connect with him emotionally."
"I don't care what Richard said." His hands tightened on my shoulders. "He was wrong."
"How do you know?"
"Because I can see you. Really see you." His thumb traced the line of my jaw. "You want to know what I see when I look at you?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"I see a woman who's so afraid of being hurt that she's forgotten how to feel pleasure.
I see someone who's convinced herself that wanting things makes her weak, so she's stopped wanting anything at all.
" His thumb brushed across my lower lip, and I shivered.
"But mostly, I see someone who's dying to let go and doesn't know how. "
"I don't know how," I repeated, the words barely audible.
"Then let me teach you."
This time, when he leaned down, he didn't stop. His mouth covered mine, gentle at first, then more insistent when I responded. I melted into him, my hands fisting in his t-shirt, my body coming alive in ways I'd almost forgotten were possible.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"That," he said, his forehead resting against mine, "is what feeling something looks like."
He was right. For the first time in years, I felt fully alive. Awake. Present in my own body instead of just existing in my head.
And it scared me.
"I should go," I said, but I didn't move away from him.
"Should, or want to?"
"Both."
He smiled, the expression understanding rather than disappointed. "Okay. But Nicole?"
"Yeah?"
"This doesn't have to be complicated. It can just be good."
I wished I could believe him. But as I walked back to my apartment on unsteady legs, I knew it was already too late for simple.
Because Shawn Reagan had just reminded me what it felt like to be a woman instead of just a professional success story.
And I had no idea how to go back to pretending I didn't need that.