He nodded, smiling a little. I really, really wanted to see him smile like he did on my table a few minutes ago. That big smile made me crave another.

A phone started to ring, and I pulled mine back out of my pocket. It wasn’t mine. Kael swiped his finger across his phone and put it back in his pocket.

“Well, I hope everything was okay with your treatment today.”

“Thanks,” he said, but didn’t answer my question.

I rang him up and handed over the credit card slip to sign. I’d never felt anxious seeing a client scribble his name across that little black line before, so this was new. And, of course, Kael wasn’t giving anything up, which left room for me to fill in the blanks. First, I wondered if he’d come back for another massage. Then it was What’s going to happen after he stops crashing on my couch?

He left me a twenty-dollar tip on a forty-five-dollar massage. It was more than generous. Certainly more than I usually got. I felt a little weird about it, like he was giving me charity or something. Or paying for my time, which I guess he was. But I did need the money, so I took it with a smile. Okay, the smile was mostly forced, but he couldn’t tell. At least, I didn’t think he could.

I thought about how I had talked through half of his massage. It probably didn’t make for the most relaxing experience.

“Sorry I talked so—”

Kael cut me off before I could finish. “No,” he said, and offered me a friendly shrug. “No more sorrys. It’s cool.”

Moving on to something else, I pointed to the dark green walls. “I want to change the color.”

He studied them and asked, “Well, what color do you want to paint them?”

“Something more neutral and modern. Do you think it’s overly decorated in here?” I asked.

He looked perplexed.

“Do you feel like you’re in an expensive spa in a big city, instead of here, in this strip mall?”

“I guess.” He shrugged. Kael answered with a word or two now and then, but mostly it was my voice that filled the lobby. We were in a public area—not exactly a private therapy room—but he was still playing the strong, silent type.

“Do you want a receipt?” I read the prompt from the credit card machine.

“Of course.” He held out his hand.

“Of course? Such certainty over a credit card receipt?” I teased him. I was beginning to love doing that. He reacted differently nearly every time. It was fascinating.

“Responsible,” he said. He almost smiled as he tucked the receipt into his wallet. It was leather, light brown, and obviously well used.

“Sure,” I said, and snorted. “Whatever you say.”