The Unhoneymooners(42)

“And you seriously dig it?”

He shrugs, lifting a distractingly muscular shoulder. “I always wanted a job where I could just play around with numbers all day, looking at them in different ways, try to crack algorithms and anticipate patterns—this job lets me do all of that. I know it sounds super geeky, but I genuinely enjoy it.”

Huh. My job has always just been a job. I love talking science, but I don’t always love the sales aspect of the position. Basically, I tolerate it because it’s what I’ve been trained to do and I’m good at it. But Ethan talking about his job is surprisingly hot. Or maybe it’s just the water, which continues to bubble between us. The heat is making me drowsy, slightly light-headed.

Careful to keep the boobage below the surface, I reach for a towel. “I feel like I’m melting,” I say.

Ethan hums in agreement. “I’ll get out first and let the therapists know we’re ready.”

“Sounds good.”

He uses his finger to indicate that I should turn around. “Not that we haven’t seen everything already,” he says. I hear him drying off, and the image of it does weird, electric things to my body. “The Bathroom of Doom sort of took care of that.”

“I feel like I should apologize,” I say. “You did throw up directly afterward.”

He laughs quietly, under his breath. “As if that would be my reaction to seeing you naked, Olive.”

The door opens and closes again. When I turn to ask him what he meant, he’s gone.

? ? ?

ETHAN DOESN’T COME BACK TO get me, and as soon as Diana, our new massage therapist, leads me down to the couples’ massage room, I see why. He seems to be frozen in horror, staring at the massage table.

“What’s with you?” I ask out of the corner of my mouth as Diana walks across the room to dim the lights.

“Do you see two tables in here?” he whispers back.

I look back and don’t get what he’s saying until— Oh. “Wait,” I say, looking up at him. “I thought we were each getting a massage?”

Diana smiles calmly. “You will, of course. But since I’ll be teaching you, and you’ll be practicing on each other, we can only do one at a time.”

My head whips up to Ethan, and we share the exact same thought, I know it: Oh, hell no.

Diana mistakes our terror for something else, because she laughs lightly, saying, “Don’t worry. Many couples are nervous when they come in, but I’ll show you some different techniques and then leave you to practice them, so you don’t feel like you’re being graded or supervised.”

Is this a brothel? I want to ask, but of course don’t. Barely. Ethan stares bleakly at the table again.

“Now,” Diana says, walking around the table to lift the sheet for one of us to climb under, “which of you would like to learn first, and which wants to receive the massage?”

Ethan’s answering silence has to mean that he’s doing the same mental calculation I am: Do we have to stay?

Particularly given his exit line about reacting to seeing me naked, I have no idea how this question shakes down in Ethan’s brain, but given my newfound fascination with his collarbones, chest hair, and abdominals, I’m actually tempted to go through with it. And I’m wondering whether it would be easier to receive a massage first so I don’t have to touch him and pretend to be unaffected. That said, one look at his enormous, strong hands and I’m not sure having those fingers oil-slicked and rubbing all over my naked back would be that much easier.

“I’ll learn first,” I say, just as Ethan says, “I’ll massage her first.”

Our wide eyes meet.

“No,” I say, “you can climb in. I’ll, um, do the rubbing.”

He laughs uncomfortably. “Seriously, it’s cool. I’ll massage first.”

“I’m going to grab some towels,” Diana says gently, “and give you time to decide.”

Once she’s gone, I turn to him. “Get in the sheets, Elmo.”

“I’d really rather do the . . .” He mimes squeezing, like he’s going to honk my boobs.

“I don’t think there will be any of that.”

“No, I just mean—” He growls, wiping a hand down his face. “Just get on the table. I’ll turn around so you can slip in. Naked, or whatever.”

It’s dim in here, but I can tell he’s blushing. “Are you—oh, my God, Ethan, are you worried about getting a boner on the table?”

He lifts his chin, swallowing. It’s a good five seconds before he answers. “Actually, yeah.”

And with that one single word, my heart gives an aching jab against my breastbone. His response was so honest and real that my throat becomes tight at the thought of teasing him.

“Oh,” I say, and lick my lips. My mouth is suddenly so dry. I look over at the table and feel my skin grow a little clammy. “Okay. I’ll get in the sheets. Just—I mean, just don’t make fun of my body.”

He goes totally silent, totally still, before whispering an impassioned “I would never do that.”

“I mean, sure,” I say, feeling acutely the way my voice comes out a little strangled, “except when you have.”

He opens his mouth to reply, brow furrowed in deep concern, but Diana returns with her stack of towels. Ethan huffs out an incredulous breath through his nose, and even when I look away, I can tell he’s trying to get my eyes back on his face. I’ve always appreciated my body—I even sort of like my new curves—but I don’t want to be in a position where I feel like anyone has to touch me and doesn’t want to.