The Masseuse Read Online Free PDF Page B

to force my shoulders to relax.
    “You have a background in the field, don’t you? I thought that’s what Amy said.”
    Of course, that’s what he meant. Relieved to avoid a glimpse into the troubled past of Anna Rossi, I picked up my chopsticks, set them down again. I knew Amy had told him about my last line of work; it was why she’d set us up in the first place. It was just a matter of time before one of us brought it up.
    “Sort of,” I acknowledged. “Nothing like your practice.”
    “Ah, minimization,” he said, entertained. “The favorite cognitive distortion of all nice people.”
    I snickered. “I’m not that nice, believe me.”
    He waited. Or rather, used therapeutic silence—a technique I’d learned in college—to let me work through my thoughts. The idea was that it could make even the most stubborn people share.
    “Social work,” I said, giving in. “That was a long time ago.” Maybe he wasn’t that bad of a psychologist after all.
    “Oh.” His brows flattened as he leaned back in his seat. “Social work. The society of bleeding hearts. What did you do, stamp welfare checks?” He laughed like this was some sort of inside joke.
    “Not exactly,” I said stiffly.
    He leaned forward, elbows on the table. His fingertips found my hands and began to trail lightly over them.
    “That was rude,” he acknowledged without an apology. “I got my Ph.D. so I wouldn’t have to do the dirty work. You’re a better person than I am, Anna.”
    A better person wouldn’t have let her personal life leak all over her professional life. A better person wouldn’t have quit.
    “I don’t know about that,” I said. “There were a lot of kids I couldn’t help.” Strange that after all this time I could still see their faces and feel like a failure.
    “You can’t save everyone.” He made a face. “All those crack babies and abusive parents fighting over custody. Sounds like a nightmare. No wonder you burned out.”
    He made the same assumption most people did—that child protective services was only about snatching babies out of bad homes, not about bringing families back together, and that I couldn’t stand the heat. The truth was, that kind of work hit too close to home, but I wasn’t about to open that can of worms here and now.
    I subtly pulled my hands away and waved to the waiter for the check. It was almost eleven, and the place was going to be closing soon. One of the downfalls of being a masseuse was a lot of late hours. Psychologists also set their own schedules, and as Randall informed me, he enjoyed sleeping in and seeing clients in the afternoon and evening.
    We could have worked. If I’d felt something.
    “Well,” I said. “Nothing lasts forever.”
    “One check or two?” interrupted the waiter, a cute artsy guy around eighteen.
    “Two,” said Randall without looking up.
    The water raised a brow at me.
    “Two checks would be perfect,” I said.
    *
    Having known I was going to have a glass of wine, I’d taken the trolley to Channelside and walked the rest of the way. It was late, and downtown was fairly quiet on weeknights, so I decided to wait for a cab.
    I turned to say good-bye, ready to cut ties, when Randall invaded my personal space and kissed me.
    For one flash of a moment I wavered and considered taking him to bed. Randall would be a good lover, if maybe a little selfish. He had a nice body—one hardened by treadmills and free weights and personal trainers, no doubt. He’d keep me from thinking about my family and, best of all, he’d be easy to push out the door in the morning.
    But I couldn’t shake the memory of another man’s body pressing mine up against a bookcase. I couldn’t get those piercing eyes or his voice out of my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about what he would feel like, driving into me as I scratched my nails down his back.
    Randall seemed like a poor substitute, and it wasn’t fair to lead him on.
    Too late to fully escape, I turned, and