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“Happy.”
Happy? He’d always seemed like a very happy man to me.
“He's always been a happy guy,” she continued, as if she’d read my mind. “Friendly. Charming. Always making people laugh. But with you it’s…”
She paused.
I waited. And waited. Apparently, massage therapists were professionally trained in suspense.
“Different,” she finally said. “He's different.”
“Different how?”
“Lighter.”
I swallowed. “Lighter?”
Marie continued the massage without missing a beat. “More himself.”
I didn't respond. Because what was I supposed to say?
Actually, we're pretending to date so my cousin can enjoy her wedding without stressing about my ex being in it?
That probably wouldn't go over well.
“He's never really claimed a girlfriend before,” she added. “Not publicly, anyway.”
I stared at the floor beneath the massage table.
“Well, maybe he's growing up.”
“Maybe.” Her voice softened. “Or maybe he finally met the right woman.”
My pulse picked up. Apparently, my cardiovascular system hadn’t got the memo that we weren’t entertaining that possibility. The right woman? Right. Because I was clearly an excellent candidate. I lived three thousand miles away, worked approximately ninety hours a week, and had enough emotional baggage to require its own airport carousel.
My phone vibrated on the little shelf beside the table. I lifted my head.
Marie stilled. “Do you need to get that?”
“Probably.”
I checked the screen. Work. Again. I declined the call.
“You must be very busy.”
“Comes with the territory.”
“Must make having a personal life difficult.” There was no judgment in her tone. Which somehow made it worse.
“Sometimes.”
She resumed working on my shoulders.
“Well, I hope you can make time for Damon. He's a good man.”
I closed my eyes. That was the problem. He was.
By the time my massage ended, I'd checked my phone six times, declined three calls, and developed a personal vendetta against the concept of inner peace. I slipped into my robe and headed toward the locker room. I was halfway down the hallway when I saw him.
