Page 30 of The Love Clause

"Right. Super romantic when you put it that way." I roll my eyes. "Turn around, please. Unless you've developed X-ray vision along with your superhuman control."

He turns with military precision, facing the wall. I quickly shed the robe, grateful that my underwear is at least matching today—simple black cotton, nothing special, but not the embarrassing period panties it could have been. I slide under the sheet on my assigned table, adjusting it to cover everything important before flipping onto my stomach.

"All clear," I announce, my voice muffled against the face rest.

I hear rather than see his movements—the soft rustle of fabric, the gentle creak of the massage table as he settles onto it. I keep my eyes firmly closed, resisting the urge to peek. After his "dangerous game" comment in the hallway, I'm not sure I can handle seeing Elliot Carrington in nothing but boxer briefs without spontaneously combusting.

"This is ridiculous," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

"What part, specifically?" I ask, turning my head slightly. "The fact that we're pretending to be engaged, or the fact that we're now nearly naked three feet apart after you warned me about playing dangerous games?"

"All of it." His voice is tight, controlled. "This entire charade has spiraled beyond what was agreed upon."

I'm saved from responding by the return of our massage therapists—a man and woman who introduce themselves in hushed tones that match the ambient music now playing softly in the background. They discuss pressure preferences and problem areas with professional detachment that almost—almost—makes me forget the absurdity of the situation.

Then the massage begins, and I stop thinking about absurdity altogether. It's been years since I had a professional massage—a gift certificate from a client whose three Saint Bernards nearly dislocated my shoulder—and I'd forgotten how good skilled hands can feel on tense muscles. The therapist finds knots I didn't know existed, working methodically from my shoulders down my back.

I melt into the table, a small moan escaping before I can stop it.

The rhythm of Elliot's breathing changes, a barely perceptible hitch that nevertheless catches my attention. I peek through my lashes, turning my head just enough to see him on the adjacent table. His eyes are closed, jaw clenched in what looks like concentration rather than relaxation. The sheet covers him from the waist down, but his back and shoulders are exposed—broader than I'd realized, the muscles defined beneath smooth skin. A lawyer shouldn't look that good. It feels unfair somehow, like he's been hiding this body beneath those perfectly tailored suits.

I close my eyes quickly when his massage therapist asks him to relax his shoulders, not wanting to be caught staring.

The massage continues, oil-slicked hands working down my spine, across my shoulders, down my arms. It feels amazing—and yet I can't fully lose myself in the sensation because every nerve in my body seems attuned to Elliot's presence beside me. Each breath he takes, each subtle shift of his body on the table, registers like a ping on my internal radar.

"Please turn over," my therapist instructs, lifting the sheet to maintain my modesty while I flip onto my back.

I comply, careful to keep the sheet secure across my chest, hyperaware that Elliot is being instructed to do the same thing. When I settle, I can't help glancing his way again. He's staring directly at the ceiling, his profile sharp in the dim light, a muscle working in his jaw. The sheet has slipped low enough to reveal the defined planes of his chest, a light dusting of dark hair narrowing into a trail that disappears beneath the sheet.

My mouth goes dry, and I quickly look away.

"Is the pressure okay?" my therapist asks, working on my legs now, skilled hands kneading muscles I didn't realize were tense.

"Perfect," I manage, though my voice sounds strange even to my own ears.

As the massage progresses, I find it increasingly difficult to relax. The therapist's touch, while completely professional, keeps reminding me of how long it's been since I've been touched at all. My skin feels hypersensitive, my body responding in ways that are mortifying in a professional setting. I pray the dim lighting hides the flush I can feel spreading across my chest and neck.

When the therapist works on my inner thigh—still completely appropriate but dangerously close to areas that have been neglected for far too long—I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would definitely not be appropriate for a spa setting.

I make the mistake of looking at Elliot again. His eyes are open now, watching me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. He looks away immediately when our gazes meet, but not before I catch something in his expression that mirrors my own struggle—desire, frustration, and the knowledge that we're trapped in a situation where we can do nothing about it.

The rest of the massage becomes an exquisite form of torture. Every touch sends my imagination spinning in directions it shouldn't go—what if it were Elliot's hands on my skin instead? What would those long fingers feel like tracing the curve of my waist, the arch of my spine? Would he maintain that careful control, or would it finally crack beneath the weight of whatever this is between us?

"Deep breath," the therapist instructs, pressing into a particularly tight spot between my shoulder blades.

I inhale shakily, closing my eyes to block out the sight of Elliot's body so close yet completely untouchable. It doesn't help. If anything, removing visual input only heightens my other senses—the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the essential oils, the sound of his measured breathing, the charged awareness that seems to arc between our tables like electricity seeking ground.

"How are we feeling?" the female therapist asks, addressing us both as the massage begins to wind down.

"Relaxed," Elliot answers, though his voice suggests exactly the opposite.

"Wonderful," I lie, wondering if they can tell how far from relaxation I actually am. Every cell in my body feels wired, hyperaware, practically vibrating with unresolved tension.

The therapists work in synchrony now, completing final stretches and gentle pressure points before stepping back. "We'll leave you to dress," they announce, exiting the room with practiced discretion.

The silence that follows their departure feels thick enough to cut. I remain on my table, uncertain of the protocol here. Do I wait for Elliot to get up first? Do we maintain the awkward charade of not looking at each other?

"That was..." I begin, searching for a word that isn't 'arousing' or 'torturous.'

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