Touch Me Now. Donna Hill
from his right hand to his left and shook hers. “Maurice.”
Her hand was enveloped in the warmth of his. “Nice…to meet you I mean. You’re a guest?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yes and no. I’m a working guest. I’m the new massage therapist. Layla Brooks.”
“Hmmm.” He nodded his head.
They stood there momentarily frozen in that “what now” moment that was mercifully broken by another guest needing to squeeze by in the narrow corridor.
“Nice meeting you,” Maurice said.
“You, too.”
He moved past her and tried to ignore the pain in his leg and limped away with as much dignity as he could summon. He wanted to vanish and not have her watch him as he tried to pretend that he was as whole as any other man.
Layla didn’t realize that she’d stopped breathing until a burst of air rushed from her chest. Her heart was beating triple time and although she was much too young for hot flashes, her entire body was flushed with heat.
“Humph, humph, humph. That is one specimen of a man, cane and all,” she whispered. She definitely wanted him to sign up to be on her client list so that she could see for herself just how hard those muscles really were. She gave a short shake of her head to clear it.
It was still a little too early to drive into town. She took a slow stroll around the property, reacquainting herself with the layout and then around to the back of the main building to the outdoor lounge, drawn by the aroma of breakfast. Her stomach responded.
A few of the white circular tables were occupied and the waitresses were busy filling juice glasses and coffee cups. She found a table that was near the buffet, put down her bag and walked over to check out the breakfast offerings. She started down the length of the table and filled her plate with fresh fruit, eggs and wheat toast. She walked back to her table and was thinking about her close encounter with tall, dark and handsome Maurice when the plate in her hand rattled. He was on the other side of the buffet table.
Maurice was settling down in his seat. Alone. He braced his cane against the table and she could see from where she stood the relief wash over his expression as he took the weight off of his leg.
She wondered what had happened to him. Was it an accident? Surgery? She watched the expression on his face tighten. For a moment he closed his eyes while he massaged his thigh. What would that thigh feel like under her expert fingers? She knew she could take the pain away.
“Um, excuse me.”
Layla blinked. A smile flickered across her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I’m daydreaming,” she said to the couple standing behind her that was waiting for her to move along. She walked with her plate back to her table, taking furtive glances in Maurice’s direction.
He was reading the paper and sipping on a cup of coffee. Maybe she should go and join him. No sense in the both of them eating alone, she thought. A dozen different scenarios played in her head on how she should approach him and what she should say and what he would say to her in return. The minutes ticked away.
Maurice put down his coffee cup and turned slightly in her direction then away before doing a short double take and looking back again. He lifted his chin in salute. Layla waved. Her heart pounded. Maybe he would come over. Maybe he would ask her to join him. Should she go over and sit down? What if he was waiting for someone and she looked silly?
Maurice folded the paper, finished off his coffee and reached for his cane.
He was going to come over. She could hardly breathe. She swallowed over the tightness in her throat.
Maurice stood slowly offered her a brief smile and walked out.
Layla felt as if she’d been pumped full of air and then suddenly stabbed with an ice pick. As the air in her balloon dissipated, so did her appetite. She pushed her food around on her plate until it was sufficiently cold then gathered up her things and went out to get her car for the drive into town.
Maurice returned to his room. He’d wanted to say something more to Layla. But what was the point. He tossed his cane into a corner. He plopped down on the couch. Even if he was attracted to her, what would she want with him? She probably felt pity for him just like everyone else.
He stretched out his injured leg and absently massaged the never-ending ache.
It had been longer than he would have liked since he’d been with a woman, through choice as well as circumstance. After his injury and then rehab he continued to struggle with what happened that night. The guilt was almost as painful if not more so than the injury that ended his career. The therapy sessions helped, but only so much. He still could not get beyond the feeling that had he done something differently, lives would have been saved and he would be one hundred percent man. Without his career as a Navy SEAL, the job he’d worked so hard for, trained for, lived for—all of that was gone. Being a SEAL defined who he was. The loss of that combined with his debilitating injury was almost more than he could stand. He didn’t feel like a man anymore. And if he didn’t feel it, what woman would feel it? He leaned his head back against the cushion of the couch and closed his eyes against his inescapable realities.
Layla spent the better part of the morning shopping for supplies for the suite. Her car’s trunk was loaded and it took several trips back and forth to unload and get everything inside the suite. She’d purchased plants, artwork, oils, lotions, CDs, mats, small bowls, oil burners, hand sanitizers, disinfectant, cases of fruit juice and water, and soft lightbulbs. She’d placed an order for a dozen terry cloth robes and shower slippers. The boutique where she’d made her purchases promised that her items would be delivered within the next two days.
She spent the next couple of hours organizing her supplies and rolling towels to be stacked. She hung pictures and poured the aromatic oils into the burners. Aromatherapy was just as important in creating the perfect atmosphere as the treatments.
Layla took a look around and was finally satisfied with what she’d accomplished. She took some pictures of the space for the flyers, then locked up and walked back to the main building in search of Desiree.
“It looks fabulous,” Desiree was saying. “Let me download them to my computer.”
Layla touched a few icons on her iPad and sent the images to Desiree.
Within moments Desiree was loading them into her graphics program. “You’ve been busy,” she said while she worked.
Layla laughed. “To keep my mind off of other things.”
Desiree looked up at her friend for a moment. “Other things like what? Don’t tell me New York.”
Layla sat on the edge of Desiree’s desk and folded her arms. “No. Not New York.” She leaned closer. “Do you know that guy…with the limp?”
Desiree frowned in concentration. “Limp?”
“Yes and gorgeous.”
Desiree grinned. “Oh, Maurice Lawson.”
“Him.”
Desiree crossed her legs. Her right brow rose with her question. “What about him?”
“What do you know about him?”
“Hmm, not much. He checked in about three days ago. Booked his cottage for six weeks. That’s about it really. I see him around from time to time.” A slow smile moved across her mouth. “And you want to know all this because…”
Layla blew out a breath. “I wish I knew. Well, maybe I do know. It’s hard to explain. I mean, I only saw him for a minute a couple of times…but…” She looked away as if searching for the answers somewhere in the corners of the room. Finally, she shrugged. “No big deal. Forget it. He looked like he’d rather be alone.”
Desiree stared at Layla’s profile. “Hey, this is the twenty-first century, girl. If a woman is interested in a