himself that it wasn’t Bret’s fault that he was charming and glib; he could shovel manure and make you think it was spun gold. He’d been born that way. But he couldn’t work the numbers the way Reece could.
Bret had gotten in over his head with this project, and if Reece were spiteful he would let Bret drown in his own incompetence. But that wasn’t his way.
“Oh, hi,” Sara said reservedly. “How’s it going?”
“Slow. Did you calm Miss Greer down?”
“She’s fine. In the end she wasn’t really mad at you. It’s just that you made her think about things that made her uncomfortable.”
“I got that.” He put down his pen, took off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
Sara pulled out a chair and sat beside him. “Headache?”
“It’s nothing. I probably just need new glasses. I’ll take something.”
She stood and moved behind him. He tensed because he didn’t know what she was going to do. But when she placed her fingertips on his forehead right at the hairline and began moving them in slow, firm circles, he quickly surrendered to it.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, an annoying voice reminded him that letting Sara touch him like this wasn’t such a good idea. They were alone in the house-all of the guests had checked out today.
But another, less rational part of him told the annoying voice to shut up. This felt too good to stop.
She moved her fingers to another spot, began the slow massage again, and the muscles of his face relaxed.
“This is much better than any medicine you could take.” Her voice was soft, low in her throat.
“I thought you were mad at me.”
“Nah. I’m always shooting my mouth off when I shouldn’t, but I get over things quickly. No use holding on to anger.”
“That’s a nice philosophy. Speak your mind, then let it go.”
“Yeah. Most people don’t get that. They get very attached to their grudges.”
Did he hold grudges?
She moved on to his temples, then the top of his jaw. She massaged his ears, then behind his ears. She dug her thumbs into the back of his neck.
Reece let out an involuntary moan.
“Did I hurt you?”
“God, no.”
She moved her thumbs down his upper spine, finding each little tight spot and working it loose. She moved on to his shoulders. Her hands were firm, and she seemed to know exactly what she was doing.
Could he hire her to come to New York, stand behind his chair at work and do this…oh, maybe once an hour?
She reached around to his chest and unfastened the top button of his shirt. By now he was such a mound of Jell-O that it didn’t register for a few seconds that she was taking off his shirt.
“Um, Sara?”
“Massage is much more effective skin to skin.”
The annoying voice started up again, but Reece mentally put a clamp on it as Sara yanked out his shirttails and dragged his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms past his elbows, baring a good part of his upper torso.
She massaged his upper back and arms, digging her thumbs under his shoulder blades. “You’re just loaded with tension knots. I can work them loose, but it will hurt a little.”
“I don’t think you can hurt me-ouch.”
“Sorry.”
It was a bit uncomfortable as she worked the balled-up muscles, but it was a good kind of hurt, if there was such a thing.
“You have good muscles for an accountant.”
“Too skinny,” he mumbled. All his life he’d had to work to keep meat on his bones. His brother had played football in high school, and the family always made a big deal about attending the games and cheering him on. Reece hadn’t had the body type for football and so had opted for soccer, but he couldn’t remember his parents coming to any of his games. His father, though he never said it, clearly thought soccer was for sissies.
“You’re not skinny,” Sara said firmly. “You’re lean. There’s a difference. Do you work out?”
“A little.” Not as much lately, though. He used to run, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d put on his running shoes.
“How’s your headache?” she asked.
“It’s…it’s gone.”
She ran her fingers lightly over his back as she finished up the massage, giving him wonderful chills. “Now, see, wasn’t that better than taking some stupid pill that would just mess up your stomach anyway?”
“I would never take another pill in my life if you could cure all problems like that.”
She laughed as she pulled his shirt back up onto his shoulders. She gave his upper arms an affectionate squeeze, and she might have even pressed her face against the back of his head, but he wasn’t sure about that.
“I’m glad to oblige.” Then she moved to pick up her purse where she’d dropped it onto the table. “I’m going to put my things away and change clothes. Any thoughts on dinner?”
“Uh.” She was walking away? He’d kind of thought the whole massage thing might be the beginning of a seduction, and he’d been willing to go along with it. Or rather, he’d been helpless to stop it.
But apparently a therapeutic massage was all she’d had in mind.
“Well, you think about it,” she said breezily, and she headed for the stairs.
Reece buttoned his shirt and tucked it back into his jeans. Dinner. He was hungry, but could he endure another of Sara’s concoctions?
By the time she returned downstairs, Reece had shut down his computer and arranged his papers into neat stacks. He could work on this some more after dinner, but he didn’t want to risk the headache returning until he’d eaten.
“I could make BLTs,” she said.
That sounded pretty safe. “Okay, thanks.”
“On yours I’ll use white bread, mayonnaise, iceberg lettuce and nothing weird.”
“You make me feel very boring, you know.”
“I consider you more of a challenge than boring. The first time I saw you, I remember thinking I wanted to ruffle your hair, mess you up a little.”
He couldn’t tell her what he’d thought when he first saw her. She would probably slap him. “What time does your party start?”
“Oh, later. Nine or ten o’clock. Sure you don’t want to come?”
“Actually, yeah, I’d like to.”
She flashed him a brilliant smile. “You mean it? Excellent.”
After she disappeared into the kitchen, Reece called his brother on his cell.
“Have you figured out what the problem is?” Bret asked, his voice tense with anxiety.
“I have an idea, but I’m not there yet. Bret, I’m sorry, but it won’t be done by tomorrow morning.”
Long silence. Then, “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” It was probably a shock to Bret. Reece always lived and died by his deadlines. But given the choice between a deadline and Sara, Sara won hands down.
“YOU DON’T NEED your car keys,” Sara said as Reece came down the stairs, keys in hand. “We’re taking the trolley. That way no one has to be the designated driver.”
He’d changed out of his button-down shirt into something a little more party-esque-a golf shirt, green cargo pants and running shoes. Not bad.
“I don’t mind being the designated driver,” Reece said.
“But the trolley is more fun. Come on. It’s just a short walk to the stop. If we hurry we can make the nine o’clock.”
