Until We Touch (Fool's Gold #15)(46)

THE NORTHERN SPOTTED Owl didn’t look the least bit amused by the process of being moved. Wildlife sanctuary workers had maneuvered her into a smaller cage, which she hadn’t liked at all. She screeched out her displeasure, her large wings flapping against the bars of the cage. Jack kept his distance and hoped the opening was secure because when that bird was finally free, she was so going to take out her bad temper on whoever was closest. He wanted to make sure that wasn’t him.

The guys dismantled the larger cage, then carried it out to their truck. On their second trip into the house, Larissa followed them.

She was dressed as she always was. Yoga pants, a short-sleeved T-shirt and athletic shoes. Her long blond hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. Her face was clean and free of makeup. He happened to know she would smell like whatever scented body lotion she was currently using. For the past couple of days it had been a sweet kind of garden-y scent she said was verbena. Whatever the hell that was.

The week before it had been lemon and the previous month she’d gone on a vanilla binge. Regardless of the lotion, under the verbena, the lemon or the vanilla was the essence of Larissa herself. A warm, welcoming fragrance that had always been like home to him. Although these days it was home with an edge.

The taller of the two owl-retrieval guys—probably in his mid-twenties—dropped his gaze to Larissa’s ass. His eyes widened appreciatively. Jack told himself it was okay for them to look and that his urge to put his fist through the guy’s face wasn’t an impulse he was going to act on. Still, he moved closer to her.

“Hey,” he said, putting his arm around her.

She looked up at him. “Wendy’s leaving already?”

“Wendy?”

“The owl.”

“I got that, but why Wendy?”

“I don’t know. She looked like a Wendy to me. They called a bit ago and said they were taking her back.” She sighed. “I’m glad she’s better, but I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked.”

Jack normally would have teased her about the name and wanting to spend time with an owl whose idea of a party was eating small animals. But he was a little distracted by how good it felt to pull Larissa close. She was tall, but shorter than him. Slender—almost fragile. He knew she was strong and capable but at that moment, she seemed...delicate.

“There’ll be another owl,” he told her. “Or some other woodland creature you can bond with.”

She laughed. “Did you just say ‘woodland creature’?”

“I did.”

The two guys carried the transport cage to the truck. Wendy glared as she squawked and threatened. Larissa sighed.

“She’ll be released later today. That’s good. I mean the purpose was to provide her with a place to stay and you did that.”

He’d done nothing but provide housing, but if she wanted to make him a hero, he was willing to go with it.

Once Wendy and her escorts had driven away, he closed the front door, then walked into the living room. All the furniture had been pushed to the outside walls. The tarps on the floors had protected the flooring from Wendy’s need to spit up bones and fur.

Jack went to the largest sofa and reached down to shift it back into place. It moved easily, but as he shifted positions, he felt a familiar burning in his right shoulder. The one that told him all the scar tissue was tight and that it was going to be a very long night.

The cause was simple—too much football and not enough healing. He couldn’t change the reality of either problem. He’d made his choice to play the game and he didn’t regret one second of his time in the sport. As for the healing, well, there was only so much any one body could do.

While Larissa pushed the smaller chairs into place, he tackled the second sofa. They walked to the big, square coffee table at the same time.

“It’s too heavy for you,” he told her.

“I’m tough. Besides, I’m not the one who’s hurting.”

He wasn’t surprised she’d noticed. Larissa knew his body as well as he did. Usually that wasn’t a problem. Her familiarity with his aches and pains meant that when she worked him over, he was good for a couple of days. But lately he’d been avoiding her. Or rather her massages. Time on the table had become uncomfortable and it had nothing to do with his destroyed right shoulder.

They carried the coffee table into place. A couple of lamps later, the room was back to normal. She headed for the kitchen.

“Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “You know you need this.”

He hesitated only a second, then trailed after her. While she went to the half bath to get a bottle of lotion, he unbuttoned his cuffs, then moved to the front of the shirt. By the time he sat down in the kitchen chair she’d pulled out, he had his shirt in his hands. She took it from him and tossed it onto the table. She moved to his right side and pressed her fingers into his shoulder.

The relief was nearly as powerful as the ache. She knew exactly how hard to press and where the scar tissue thickened. She was able to dig deeper, to find the places that bothered him the most, and release the buildup of acid and pain. Massages with her weren’t gentle and they weren’t pleasant, but when she was done, he was healed. At least for a couple of days.

He relaxed into the familiar burning, knowing he would sleep better because of it. At the same time, he half expected her to yell at him for avoiding their sessions. Or at least ask why he had. Only what was he supposed to say to that? The truth was impossible. No way he could admit he was terrified he would get turned on again. Talk about humiliating.