everything handled,” he observed.
She shifted on the stool, flexing her neck back and forth, wincing. “It’s not going to be that big of a deal. I’m a pretty efficient project manager. The only difference is, this time the project is me.”
Hunter wasn’t convinced project management was the right approach. There was something in the art and spirit of beauty she seemed to be missing. But he was happy to have got her this far, and he wasn’t about to mess with his success.
She lifted her wineglass and the small motion caused her to flinch in obvious pain.
He motioned for her to turn around.
She glanced behind her. “What?”
“Go ahead. Turn.” He motioned again, and this time she complied.
“You painted too long,” he told her as he loosened her robe on her neck and pressed his thumbs into the stiff muscles on her shoulders.
“I wanted to finish.”
“You’re going to be sore in the morning.” He found a knot and began to work it.
“I’ll live. Mmmmm.”
“That’s the spot?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He’d promised himself he’d stick to business, and he would. But his body had reacted the instant he’d touched her. Her skin was warm from the bath, slick from the bath oil, and fragrant from the water and the candles. But he scooted his stool closer, persisting in the massage, determined to keep this all about her.
To distract himself, he glanced around at the freshly painted room. It was small, but the windows were large, and he could see that it had potential to be cozy and inviting. In fact, he preferred it to the big, Osland family house on Long Island.
He stayed there whenever he was in town, but with just him and a couple of staff members, it always seemed to echo with emptiness. Right now, he wished he could invite Sinclair over to fill it up with laughter. “Have you always lived in New York?” he asked her instead.
She nodded. “Kristy and I went to school in Brooklyn. You?”
“Mostly in California.”
“Private school, I bet.”
“You’re right.”
“Uniforms and everything?”
“Yes.”
She tipped her head to glance up at him. “You must have looked cute in your little short pants and tie.”
“I’m sure I was adorable.” He dug his thumb into a stubborn knot in her shoulder.
“Ouch. Was that for calling you cute?”
“That was to make you feel better in the morning.”
She flexed her shoulder under his hands. “Did you by any chance play football in high school?”
“Soccer and basketball. You?”
“I edited the school newspaper.”
“Nerdy.”
“Exciting. I once covered a murder.”
He paused. “There was a murder at your high school?”
She gave a long, sad sigh of remembrance. “Mrs. Mitchell’s goldfish. Its poor, lifeless body was found on the science table. Someone had cruelly removed it from its tank after hours. We suspected the janitor.”
Hunter could picture an earnest, young Sinclair hot on the trail of a murder suspect, all serious and no- nonsense, methodically reviewing the evidence.
“Did he do it?” Hunter asked.
“We couldn’t prove it. But it was the best headline we ever had. Broke the record for copy sales.” She sounded extremely proud of the accomplishment.
“You were definitely a nerd,” he said.
“I prefer the term intellectual.”
“I bet you ran in the school election.”
“True.”
“There you go.” He’d made his point.
“Billy Jones beat me out for class president in ninth grade.” She put a small catch in her voice. “I was crushed. I never ran again.”
“I’d have voted for you,” said Hunter.
“No. Like everyone else, you’d have fallen for Billy’s chocolate coconut snowballs-”
“His
“Chocolate and coconut on the outside, marshmallow cream on the inside. He brought five boxes to school and handed them out during his speech. I didn’t have a chance.”
“Marshmallow cream, you say?”
Sinclair elbowed him in the chest. “Quit salivating back there.”
“I’d still have voted for you.”
“Liar.”
He chuckled at her outrage and eased her back against his body. “Oh, I’d have eaten the snowball. But it’s a secret ballot, right?”
“Traitor.” But her muscles relaxed under his hands, and her body grew more pliant.
Finally, he stopped massaging and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I bet you were a cute little nerd.”
She rested her head against his chest. He didn’t dare move. He barely dared breathe. All it would take was one kiss, and he’d be dragging her off to the bedroom.
She tipped her head to look up at him, all sweetness and vulnerability.
“Hunter?” she breathed, lips dark and parted, eyes filled with passion and desire.
He closed his, fighting like hell to keep from kissing her lips. “I don’t want to be that guy,” he told her, discovering how true that was. Because he didn’t want to screw up their budding friendship.
“That guy?”
“That guy with the bath and the candles and the shoulder massage.”
“I liked that part.”
He opened his eyes again. “It’s Seduction 101 for losers.”
“Are you calling yourself a loser?”
“I’m saying if I make love with you, I’ll feel like I cheated.”
“There’s a way to cheat?”
He reflexively squeezed her tight. “I cheated, and you never had a chance.”
“As in, I don’t know my own mind?”
“Is there an answer for that that won’t get me in trouble?”
“Not really.”
He ruthlessly ignored the feel of her in his arms. He wasn’t willing to risk that she might regret it in the morning.
“You’re tired. You’re vulnerable. And we haven’t thought this through. We turn that corner,” he continued, “we can’t turn back.”
“I know,” she acknowledged in a soft voice.
He leaned around her, placing a lingering kiss on her temple. “I’ll see you at the office?”
“Sure.”
He forced himself to let go of her. Then, using every ounce of his strength and determination, he stood up and walked away.
By 7:00 a.m., Sinclair was in her office.
After Hunter left last night, she’d lain awake, remembering his soft voice, his easy conversation, and the massage that had all but melted her muscles. She would have willingly made love with him. But, he was right. They hadn’t thought it through. It was hard enough ignoring what had happened six weeks ago, never mind rekindling all
