The Masseuse Read Online Free PDF

surprised. I guess he hadn’t seen me come in.
    Randall was handsome and he knew it. With his semi-ridiculous dirty blond hair swept across his forehead and dark lashes, he looked more like an ex–boy-band member than a psychologist. He had just the right amount of stubble, which no doubt he’d planned, and wore a beige sweater to complement his brown eyes.
    We’d been out only once before, a setup by Amy. On that first date he’d informed me he was in the top one percent of educated Americans, and one of the youngest psychologists in the state with his own private practice. He certainly wasn’t modest, but Amy had convinced me that was just the nerves talking.
    “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “A client ran over.”
    He finished typing something before replying, and I ordered a glass of red wine, trying not to focus on the fact that this was the second man today who’d chosen to look at his cell phone rather than me when I was talking.
    “Thanks, just had to finish that e-mail,” he said, placing the phone in his pocket. “Wow. You look nice.”
    Nice
wasn’t exactly what I’d been going for in the black skirt, knee-high boots, and turquoise halter top, but from the look on his face I could tell the word didn’t convey what he really thought. He was trying hard not to stare at my cleavage.
    Normally I would have been pleased to have him right where I wanted him, but the lust in his eyes barely roused the butterflies in my stomach. Probably just hunger, combined with the call from my dad and thoughts of my mom.
    I needed a distraction.
    A distraction with penetrating blue eyes, chiseled shoulders, and a dirty mouth.
    I’d thought of Mr. Stein’s sexy security guard when I’d picked out my outfit. Originally I’d planned on wearing a bright pink button-up blouse and silver flats, but when I’d thought of those eyes, I’d changed course to something less conventional—an impulse buy I’d picked up last month that I had planned to hand over to a much sassier Amy.
    “What’s good here?” I asked, perusing the menu.
    “The spring rolls are good,” he said. “Or the shaking beef. That’s what I had.”
    I glanced at his plate, which had yet to be cleared. “You already ate dinner?”
    He swiped his hair out of his eyes. “Yes, but don’t feel like you have to hurry on my account. My last patient canceled, so I got here a little early.”
    Miffed, I leaned back in my chair, noting that the butterflies were beginning to growl. They had their diva moments.
    “I’ll just get some spring rolls then,” I said, shifting gears. “So what’s new with Dr. Randall?”
    A lot, apparently, was new with Randall. He told me all about his week, his practice, the new insurance billing program that was gouging him, his depressed housewives and alcoholic retirees who’d thought that Florida was going to be everything they’d dreamed it would be—beaches, sunsets, perpetual vacation—only to find it was just like anywhere else but with palm trees and a really hot summer.
    I didn’t mind his nonstop chatter; it was better than talking about what was going on with me.
    When I’d finished my second glass of wine, the spring rolls, and a bowl of pho, he finally paused for breath.
    “I’m boring you,” he said. “I spend so much time listening at work, sometimes it’s nice to have someone else do it for a change.”
    “Your practice sounds fascinating,” I said, watching as he again shoved back his hair. I wanted to shove back Neighborhood Watch’s hair. I wanted to grip it with both hands as he kissed me, sliding his tongue between my lips and grinding his hips against mine.
    “There are a lot of people out there who are hurting.” He sat forward in his chair. “How about you?”
    I felt my spine zip up straight. Randall the date had changed; the tone of his voice softer, more empathetic, his brows furrowed with concern. He was Dr. Randall now, looking for my vulnerabilities.
    “I’m sorry?” I had