She gestures to the phone. “So what’re you going to do?”
“I guess I’ll try to call him to let him know it’s here so he can come pick it up.”
We check the system for his contact information and discover he’s only left one number. Instead of letting Bernadette do the calling, I use my personal cell, and the phone in my hand rings. I assume he’ll come to the conclusion that it’s here and return for it—but who knows how long that could take.
I only have twenty minutes left for dinner now, so I run across the street, grab a sandwich and a Sprite and scarf it down as quickly as I can before my next appointment.
I follow my rushed meal by working on a man with the worst bacne ever. It’s a stark contrast to Lance’s flawless, freckled, tattooed skin. I try to stay out of my head and remain focused on what I’m doing with my hands, but back acne isn’t all that pleasant, and mostly I’m just trying not to gag.
My final client of the evening, Debbie, is fifteen minutes late for her appointment. She relies on an independent transportation company to get her here because she can’t drive, so I always try to build in extra time in case they’re late, as they sometimes are.
This means I’ll be the last one out of the clinic. April wants to go to a pub for snacks and details about Lance’s massage, but I tell her not to wait. I’ll catch up with her.
It’s after nine by the time I finish my last client, and I know I’ll be responsible for cashing her out because Bernadette always leaves at eight thirty. I wash my hands and wait for Debbie to appear.
“Any plans for tonight?” she asks as we walk down the hall.
“I think I’ll curl up with a bowl of popcorn and watch Vikings.”
“Great idea! I have the best dreams after I watch that show. Ragnar is sex—” She comes to an abrupt halt.
I’m confused until I see what she sees. Lance is sitting in the exact same place he was earlier today. He’s wearing a pair of jeans now instead of sweats, and a T-shirt with his team logo instead of a hoodie. His hair looks like his hand has been in it. He proves my theory correct when he looks up from his lap and runs his fingers through it again. No man should have the right to look this good, especially as beat up as he is.
“Hi.” Wow, my brain is on point right now.
“Hey.” His knee bobs a couple of times.
“Holy Jesus,” says Debbie. She grabs my arm and does this swoony thing, falling into me for a second before she pushes away and flaps her hands in front of her face. “Oh my God! You’re Lance Romero! You play for Chicago!”
I suddenly feel far less ridiculous about my reaction to this man.
She takes three steps toward him and then two steps back. “I’m so sorry. I just—can I please have your autograph? I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t be this close to you and not ask.” The whole time she talks, her hands are flapping. She looks to me. “That’s Lance Romero. I’m in love with him.” I think she means to whisper the last part, but she doesn’t.
The side of his mouth quirks up. “I’d be happy to sign anything ya want.” That hint of Scot drops.
More hand flapping follows, and she turns to me imploringly. “Can I get a piece of paper and a pen?”
“Of course.” I move around the empty receptionist desk, trying not to be smug about the fact that this woman is losing it over Lance and I’ve had my hands on his ass today.
“Why don’t I sign this for ya?” He spins the ball cap in his lap around his finger—he can’t have been wearing it, based on his lack of hat head.
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“You have no idea how much I appreciate this! Seriously, isn’t he the best?”
“That’s the rumor,” I mutter.
“Pardon?” Debbie asks.
“He sure is.”
I pass him a Sharpie from Bernadette’s desk. Lance signs the cap and hands it to Debbie. She squeals and hugs it, then puts it on so she can get a selfie with him. Apparently Lance isn’t great at taking selfies, and her arms are too short to be able to get his whole head in there, so I’m commissioned to take the picture. Lance flinches as she wraps her arm around his waist and hugs his side—I remember the bruises on his ribs, the ones I avoided as I massaged his back. She promptly posts the picture to all of her social media sites.
Once she’s done fawning over him, and talking to him about how much of a team player he is, and blah, blah, blah, she thanks him half a dozen more times for being so nice.
As soon as she’s gone, Lance exhales a deep breath and taps on the counter. And I’m alone with him, again. For the second time today.
“I’m so sorry, and thank you. You really didn’t need to do that, but I’m pretty sure you made her entire year.”
“It’s cool. I’m used to it.” More desk tapping.
I try not to fidget or touch too many of Bernadette’s things. “I’m sure you are.”
“I didn’t mean for that to sound cocky.”
“It doesn’t. I assume you’re here about your phone?”
“Aye. The receptionist lady said you had it.”
“Yes, I meant to leave it with her, but I forgot.” The lie feels thick on my tongue. Despite the awkwardness of this entire situation, I still wanted to be the one to give it back. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“I would’ve waited to see you either way, so it doesn’t really matter.” The last part comes out heavily accented, sounding more like It does nae reee-lly mah-ter.
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say to that. I don’t understand why he’d wait to see me, unless he wanted to make sure I didn’t jailbreak his phone.
He looks down and smoothes his hand across the counter. His knuckles look sore, and his nails are bitten to the quick, a bad habit I used to share, but have worked hard to curb. There’s nothing quite like wearing your worry on your hands for everyone to see. He makes a fist when he notices me looking and drops his hands to his sides.
When he doesn’t say anything else, I shut down the computer and push up from the chair. “Well, I’ll just go get your phone for you.”
I beeline for my massage room and try not to freak out on the way there. His phone sits where I left it: on top of my pile of towels, where I could see every message come in while I massaged my other clients.
Lance is standing in the same place when I return with his phone. He has thirty-seven new messages, six missed calls, and two voicemails from DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I only know because the tally appears every time the phone lights up again.
I pass it over to him. “You missed a lot of calls.”
At the quirk of his brow, I rush to explain. “I wasn’t snooping. It just went off a lot.”
The phone buzzes again. His grin drops and his eyes go wide as he scans the screen and does some scrolling.
“Fuckin’ell.” He jams the device in his pocket and shakes his head. “I, uh—thanks for holding on to my phone for me.”
“Of course.” I’m anxious now. His proximity does things to me that I don’t know how to handle. And he’s staring. “Did you forget anything else?”
“You.”
I blink a couple of times, certain I’m misunderstanding. My heart does this stupid fluttery thing. “I’m sorry. Pardon?”
Lance shakes his head. “My teammate Miller says I know you, but I don’t remember, and I should.”
“I don’t—”
“I should remember someone as beautiful as you.” It sounds very much like a line, but he taps the desk again. He’s agitated, his frustration obvious. “I want to remember you.”
I look away, because I don’t want him to see my hurt. I should be relieved, but I’m really not. “It’s not a big deal. You meet a lot of peop—”
Lance interrupts me. “I hope I wasn’t an asshole. I get that way sometimes; when I’ve been drinking I’m not always nice. I wouldn’t have wanted to be a dick to you.”