If It Fornicates (Market Garden, #4)(3)

“You okay?” Spencer asked. “You are really, really tense.”

Nick wanted to answer automatically with “I’m fine” or “I’m just tired,” but Spencer’s hands were like tactile truth serum. Gentle but firm pressure that completely destroyed Nick’s resolve—and maybe his ability—to bullshit his way out from under the conversation.

He exhaled, tilting his head forward so Spencer had more access to his neck. “I don’t know what it is. The last couple of weeks or so, I’ve just . . .” What? Approached everything, especially my job, with all the enthusiasm of a kid opening up a pack of socks and underwear on Christmas? He sighed and shook his head. “Maybe I just need a holiday.”

“You just took one a few weeks ago.”

Nick stiffened. Right. That “holiday to Spain” he’d supposedly taken. Guilt clawed at him; he still hadn’t been entirely truthful to Spencer about that. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think it was enough. Maybe I, um, need another.”

“Maybe you do.” Spencer’s hands slowly climbed Nick’s neck, sliding under his longish hair in search of the tension Nick obviously couldn’t keep hidden from him. “You’ve got a physically demanding job.”

“I’ve had a physically demanding job for a long . . . ooh.” He shivered as Spencer’s thumb pressed into a particularly tense spot.

“That hurt?”

“Yes,” he said through his teeth. “But keep doing it.” Man, he really was tense. He hated the feeling of someone massaging out a particularly knotted muscle, hated that persistent pain as muscle fought fingers before finally giving in and relaxing. Right now, though, that obnoxious sharp pain was the promise of relief, so he pressed back, pushing against Spencer’s fingers even though his eyes watered.

After some work on Spencer’s part and swearing on Nick’s, the muscle gave. The pain faded to a dull ache, and Spencer worked his way back down to Nick’s shoulders.

“Anyway.” Nick released a breath. He carefully tilted his newly relaxed neck to one side, then the other. “It’s not like I’m new to this job. After all this time, you’d think I’d be used to it.”

“Maybe you’re burned out.”

“I don’t know.” Nick had studied burnout in-depth at university, but was that what this was? He sighed. “I don’t know what it is. Like I said, it’s not my body that’s tired.” Nick turned his head as far as he could, just enough to bring Spencer into his peripheral vision. “That’s what I meant when I said it felt like I’d been at your job all day.”

“Brain stuffed with wet wool?”

Nick laughed, facing forward again. “Yeah. Exactly. I mean, maybe it is burnout. I just . . .” Feel like there’s more to it than that? Maybe he was overthinking it. Trying to self-diagnose something strange and obscure like every psych student eventually did.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed Spencer’s magic hands as they travelled down his back. Spencer’s thumbs pressed in on either side of his spine, and his fingers kneaded the outer muscles until they relaxed. Nick completely lost track of time, and very nearly forgot where he was until Spencer stopped.

Rolling his relaxed shoulders, Nick turned again. “Fuck, you’re good at that.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you.” Nick realised right then how close they were, but just when Nick thought a kiss was inevitable, Spencer stepped back. He had a good sense of physical space. Nick couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever crowded him. And the man was bigger and taller than he was.

“Well, let’s see what our dinner guest looks like now.” Spencer grabbed two oven mitts again and opened the oven. A waft of oily, citrusy, rosemary-scented heat escaped. He took hold of the roasting pan, lifted it out of the oven, and put it down on two slate plates.

Nick eyed the immense bird. “I think they sold you a goose.”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Spencer stabbed the alleged chicken with a two-pronged fork and moved it onto a carving plate. In short order, he’d cut and carved the monster and put plenty of white meat on two plates with honey-roasted carrots and green salad. “I’ll just get the wine.”

Nick lifted an eyebrow. “You sure about the wine?”

“It’s a good bottle. Gift from a client who’s investing in wines.”

No sex, then? Or at least no games. “I’m not that tired,” Nick defended.

“What? Oh. Well, we . . . we don’t have to do anything tonight.”

“If I’ve had more than a little to drink, we can’t. Anything more than a glass.”

“That’s all right. Tomorrow?” A hint of strain in his voice suggested that he very much hoped it would be tomorrow. But Spencer wasn’t pushing for it. He wasn’t a needy sub manipulating his way to a beating or sex.

“Okay.” Nick grabbed the plates. “You deal with the wine.”

With the chicken served and the wine poured, they took their seats at the table. Spencer gestured at the food. “Please, by all means.”

Nick nodded. “Thanks.”

The chicken was surprisingly moist and tender. “If I’d known you were this good a cook,” he said, “I’d have suggested this sooner.”