Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Er. Yes. That.” With a strangled sound, Newcomb dragged his hand away from the towel with clear reluctance; his fingers clenched into fists as he rested his arms at his side, before he slowly uncurled them. “I’m sorry. I’m balls at this. I don’t know how to relax.”
“I can tell. You’re rock hard.” Amani turned away to fetch a hot, damp towel from the steamer, folding it into a square, then glanced back. “No pun intended.”
“Oi,” Newcomb spluttered, half-snicker, half-gasp.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. And it got you to relax and laugh.”
“I’m not like that!” Newcomb protested, then darted Amani a nervous look. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being like that if you are, I just…”
Amani folded his arms over his chest, towel dangling from his fingertips. “You’re protesting quite a bit for someone who doesn’t have a problem with it.”
“It’s not about me.” Newcomb shifted uncomfortably; he was practically chasing his own tail, all the circles he was running himself into. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, s’all. I thought it might be easier to know I can’t possibly be attracted to you.”
“…insulting me to make me feel better. Yes, that’s quite the effective strategy.”
“That’s not what I meant! It’s not that you’re not attractive. You’re gorgeous. Stunning. It’s just that I’m—you—I don’t swing—oh, balls,” he groaned, deflating and covering his face with one hand. “I give up.”
Amani dropped the damp towel on top of the hand splayed over Newcomb’s face, rested his elbows on the table at his shoulder, and leaned in with a smirk. “It’s like batting a toy mouse between my paws. You don’t even put up a fight.”
Newcomb dragged his hand—and the towel—down enough for tired eyes to peer up at Amani. “I’m too worn out to fight.”
“What do you do that’s so stressful?”
Newcomb quirked a sardonic brow. “I’m the twenty-four-year-old CEO-in-line of an international textile empire, though my father’s practically checked out and left it all on me anyway while he faffs about in Bali or Bora Bora or some such.” He snorted. “Barely out of uni, and billions of dollars ride on my every decision. I could start trade wars by skipping my morning coffee.” He trailed off, eyes glassing over subtly. “I have to do everything right. To be perfect.”
Amani lingered on the pensive lines of his eyes, his mouth, then nudged his hand down gently to lay the steaming hot towel over his face. “So the opposite of Mr. Harrington.”
Newcomb’s chest shook in a restrained laugh, his voice muffled behind the towel. “He’s a bit notorious, eh?”
“I used to see him weekly, before he apparently decided to take his life seriously. It’s been a while, now.” Amani wrinkled his nose. “He used to flirt with me constantly, but I’d rather not reinforce stereotypes about masseuses if I can help it.”
“Don’t think there’ll be much of that anymore. He’s gotten rather settled. With my former family valet, of all the effin’ people.”
Amani blinked. “That’s…surprising.”
“You’re telling me.” Tensing, Newcomb hooked the towel with a finger and pulled it down enough to look at Amani. “Shit, don’t like, sell that story to TMZ or anything. They’re supposed to be undercover.”
“I,” Amani said firmly, pulling the towel back up over Newcomb’s eyes, “am not so far behind on my tuition that I’d do anything so unethical.”
“You’re still in uni? How old are you?”
“Twenty,” Amani answered, tipping oil into his palms again. He might as well get started on his shoulders from the front, while the towel steamed against his face.
“Enjoy being twenty while it lasts.” Newcomb groaned. “God, I miss being twenty. Not that I wasn’t an uptight sod then, either.”
Amani gripped Newcomb’s shoulders, sweeping his thumbs in along his collarbones. “You’re tensing up, old man.”
“Sorry. Sorry!” Newcomb shifted against the table, then fell still. “So, er, what are you studying?”
Pausing, Amani eyed him. He wasn’t used to customers asking him about himself, except the ones who wanted to sleep with him—and that was usually rather obvious flattery, an attempt to insinuate themselves into his good graces so he would feel grateful that someone who could afford to hire a masseuse was paying attention to him. He always deflected them in whatever way he could, when he preferred to keep his private life private and some things were sacred. Work was work. Life was life, and the two didn’t need to meet.
He didn’t really get that vibe off Newcomb, though, despite the fact that the lady did, in fact, protest too much. This was more guileless awkwardness, stripping that charm away to reveal a man who wasn’t as old and worldly-wise as he thought he was, just trying to speak to another human being on the same level because they were in proximity to one another.
And so cautiously, Amani answered, “Musical composition and performance theatre.”