Saved by Brother's Best Friend (Marianna and Duane) novel Chapter 22

Marianna.

"Ms. Reyes." Her voice sharpens. "Is there a problem?"

Yes. The problem is that I've already given Duane Richter a massage and he told me I'm not his type and I cried into his pillow for an hour and I literally fled his apartment like a thief in the night and now you want me to professionally touch his body while pretending we're strangers.

"No," I hear myself say. "No problem."

"Good." She stands. "Follow me."

The recovery suite is beautiful. State-of-the-art beautiful, the kind of space that probably costs more per square foot than my Brooklyn apartment costs per month.

There are treatment tables with heating and cooling capabilities. Massage chairs that look like they were designed by NASA. A wall of recovery tools—foam rollers, massage guns, cupping sets, instrument-assisted devices—organized with military precision. The lighting is adjustable, currently set to a soft, ambient glow that probably costs extra.

I'm going to work here. In this room. With him.

Kill me now.

"Mr. Richter usually prefers Table 3," Dr. Lindholm says, gesturing to a treatment table near the window. "He likes the natural light. Minimal conversation during sessions. He'll tell you what he needs; your job is to listen and adapt."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"The crash aggravated an existing shoulder issue," she continues. "Posterior deltoid strain, some rotator cuff involvement, upper trapezius tension. His team's physio sent over his treatment notes—" she hands me a tablet "—but he responds best to practitioners who can read his body in real-time rather than just following a protocol."

I look down at the tablet. There's a detailed file: Richter, Duane - VRC-01. Photos of the crash, medical imaging, treatment notes from the team physiotherapist.

And there, in the recent history section:

May 6 - Soft tissue work performed, non-clinical setting, reported significant improvement in ROM. Patient declined to specify practitioner.

That's me. That's the treatment I gave him in his apartment, the morning he told me I'm not his type. He reported it to his team but didn't say who did it.

What does that mean? Does it mean anything?

Stop. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting through this without crying or screaming or setting something on fire.

"I'll leave you to prepare," Dr. Lindholm says. "He should arrive in twenty minutes. Any questions?"

Yes. How do I quit a job I just started? Is there a trapdoor I can escape through? Can I fake my own death convincingly enough to avoid this situation?

"No questions," I say.

She leaves.

I'm alone in the recovery suite, surrounded by expensive equipment and the faint smell of eucalyptus, and I have twenty minutes to figure out how to face the man who broke my heart three days ago.

Professional. I can be professional.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify