there was that other problem, one Demi didn’t like admitting. She’d found herself reacting physically to touching Colin’s body, was too aware of his smooth skin, his remarkable athletic build, his masculine aftershave-and-soap smell. Found herself reacting emotionally to the way he betrayed discomfort only by tightness around his mouth or the occasional quicker-than-most breath. To the sleep-deprivation circles under his eyes, the low, sad set of his brows.
Demi prided herself on treating not only the injured part, but the whole person. Part of her job with Colin, as it had been with so many others, was to make him understand that injury didn’t mean the end of his life. Eventually he would be able to compete in triathlons again—though substantially shorter ones. He’d be able to work, marry, have kids—all things vital to being human. This was a message she’d had to deliver many times to many people. She’d just never before pictured herself doing it with her body curled around the client to comfort him.
Part of her had been relieved when Colin disappeared. With any luck when she saw him this time, the unwelcome feelings would have disappeared, too. Luckily painful childhood shyness had made hiding herself second nature. Colin would never know she considered him hot enough to boil water.
A glance at her watch told her a meeting of the five Come to Your Senses building residents started soon. She just had time to call her friend and former client, Wesley, for his inevitable told-you-so. After Colin’s dramatic exit in early September, Wesley had predicted with absolute certainty that he’d be back. Demi had been equally sure pride wouldn’t let him return. The stakes had been the usual: coffee or a beer at their favorite café, Joe Bar on Roy Street.
She dialed, grinning. “Hey, Wesley. Good news for you. Colin Russo just called. Wants to come in tomorrow. You win.”
“Ha!” Wesley’s voice was jubilant. Demi had won the last two bets: whether a mom at Angela’s bakery downstairs, where they were having coffee, would give in to her screaming toddler and buy him a cupcake—she didn’t—and whether Wesley’s ex-girlfriend would wear black to a mutual friend’s wedding—she had. “I knew I’d win this one. He wasn’t going to find hands like yours anywhere else.”
“I don’t know about that.” She felt herself blushing and was very glad Wesley wasn’t in the room. Something about Colin …
“Did he say why he was coming back?”
“Just that he was in pain and needed to see me. Must have been bad. He sounded as if he were talking through his teeth.”
“Furious he had to crawl back to you.”
“Could be.” She immediately had to banish an image of Colin, shirtless, on his knees … “I can’t talk long, got a Come to Your Senses meeting in a few. Just wanted to let you gloat.”
“I’m gloating, I’m gloating. When do I get my drink at Joe Bar?”
“Whenever you want it.” Like all introverts, she was protective of her alone time, but she always made the effort to see Wesley, a former marathoner. His running career had ended with a car accident—much worse than Colin’s fall from his bike—and head injury that ensured he’d never run again, though he credited Demi with helping him relearn how to walk. For a brief time, maybe two weeks after his therapy ended, they’d tried dating, but it had never felt right and they’d happily gone back to being friends.
“What’s tomorrow, Tuesday?” he asked. “I have a date. How about Wednesday?”
“Wednesday’s fine. You seeing Cathy again?”
“Yup. See if she can fall in love with a guy who shuffles instead of walks.”
Demi grimaced in sympathy. Wesley had been remarkably free of self-pity during his recovery, but it must be agony as a former athlete to walk as if he’d just learned how. Which he had in a way. “If she can’t handle a good shuffle, she doesn’t deserve you.”
“You’re a good person, Demi. Remind me why we’re not dating?”
“I think it was the lack of desperate need to jump each other.”
“Oh, right. That. We’re not quite old enough to settle for peaceful companionship, huh.”
Demi snorted. “I’m never going to be that old.”
Wesley burst out laughing. “That’s my sex fiend. Okay, go meet with your business partners. And don’t let that Bonnie woman get to you.”
“I promise.” Demi grinned. Wesley was always watching out for her. Whoever he landed would be one lucky woman. She hoped Cathy had brains enough to see that. “Bonnie isn’t terrible, she just doesn’t know what to make of me. The woman is totally out there, and I’m totally in here.”
“No excuse. She gives you any more trouble, let me know.”
“See you Wednesday.” She disconnected the call, put aside her knitting—a short-sleeved cotton sweater in an easy zigzag pattern for spring—and went in search of her shoes, which she found in her room, one on the floor, one on the bed where she’d kicked them off.
Ready. Sighing, she exited her second-floor apartment and headed down the hall. Bonnie had painted the walls with twining rose vines and, for Jack and Seth, who’d been disgusted by the girlie touch, a line of tanks along the baseboard. At the end of the hall was the apartment the five of them shared as a common area, though Demi didn’t spend much time there.
Jack, Seth, Angela and Bonnie had been four of the original five University of Washington alumni who bought and renovated the building, naming it Come to Your Senses when they realized their five businesses represented the five senses. On the first floor was Angela’s bakery, A Taste for All Pleasures. Across from that, Bonnie’s flower shop, Bonnie Blooms, smelling wonderful. Farther down the hall, Jack Shea represented sight with his photography studio, and Demi’s physical-therapy practice was all about touch. She’d bought the space from Caroline, one of the original five investors, who’d moved out of town to get married. Upstairs, Seth Blackstone—representing sound—lived and composed music in the largest of the apartments.
The other four residents were already seated in the spacious living room, drinking soda and/or beer from the refrigerator they all chipped in to keep stocked. Likewise they’d each donated old or unwanted chairs and tables to furnish the place. Feeling out of place and nervous as she always did around her building-mates, Demi grabbed a Sprite from the refrigerator and plunked down on the room’s newest and ugliest piece, a black-and-white, futuristic leather love seat she’d gotten from one of her sister Carrie’s I’m-bored-with-my-furniture remodeling fits.
Seth, Jack, Angela and Bonnie had been close friends for six years; they shared a boatload of history, in-jokes, stories—it was hard not to feel like an intruder. Given that Demi’s shyness made her feel like an intruder in pretty much every social situation anyway, this one was particularly difficult. Angela had been sweet to her, as had Jack and occasionally Seth. Bonnie would be the toughest to melt, but Demi hadn’t given up yet.
“Hey, Demi, how’s it going?”
“Fine.” She nodded stiffly at Angela; the chestnut-haired beauty was sitting on the beaten-up rocker in the corner of the room. The question always made Demi feel she should come up with thrilling new daily developments. The truth was, her life was pretty simple and pretty fulfilling—except in the romance department. It just didn’t make good press.
Jack
