Feels So Right

Feels So Right
Isabel Sharpe

“I’m ready.”

Demi went in the therapy room, almost used to the sight of Colin’s incredible physique all laid out for her to touch. Almost.

Candles lit, music on, hands oiled, she started with the sweeping motions that would improve circulation to his muscles. He was so much looser than when they started three weeks before. Unfortunately it was even more of a pleasure to touch him, and stupidly she gave in, allowing herself sensual enjoyment.

For some reason, as she worked, instead of loosening, his body stayed tight; his breathing picked up.

“You’re not relaxing.”

“I’m … a little uncomfortable.” His voice was low.

“How can I help?”

“I could tell you exactly how.” His tone was humorous. “But I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t like the idea.”

Demi’s hands stilled. Oh. He was aroused.

Because she was touching him? No, no, he could be enjoying her massage and fantasizing about anyone. Except, this was the first time she’d been so flustered.

And so tempted …

Dear Reader,

It’s always bittersweet when a miniseries ends. I get so fond of the characters, and even though I take care to send each couple off into the world’s most romantic sunset, I do miss them. The Friends with Benefits quintet were particular favorites.

Feels So Right is physical therapist Demi Anderson’s story. She was a bit of a mystery in the first two books (Just One Kiss and Light Me Up) and it was great fun for me to explore her more deeply. Having been a painfully shy kid myself, I know how hard it is to navigate certain social situations, even as an outwardly confident adult.

In injured Ironman triathlete Colin Russo, Demi finds a personal and professional challenge—like how to keep her hands off him when it’s her job to touch him everywhere!—but he also helps her feel comfortable in her own skin. True love should always bring out one’s better self.

I hope you have enjoyed this miniseries!

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe

www.IsabelSharpe.com

About the Author

ISABEL SHARPE was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work to stay home with her firstborn son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than twenty novels for Mills & Boon—along with another son—Isabel is more than happy with her choice these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.isabelsharpe.com.

Feels So Right

Isabel Sharpe

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To Dad, who would have read this one, too

1

ARGH, THE PHONE. Wasn’t that always the way? After a long day at her physical-therapy practice, followed by a good hard run and a quick dinner, Demi was just settling in for a short relax-break with her knitting and an audiobook of a suspense novel. Her business line had been quiet for hours, but of course the second her butt hit her overstuffed, supercomfortable chair …

Local caller. She didn’t recognize the number. “Demi Anderson.”

“Yeah, hi.” A deep male voice, familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “This is Colin Russo. You treated me back in August.”

Demi sat up straight, heart accelerating. Well, well. The cranky triathlete was back. After a few sessions for ruptured disc pain, and her confirmation of his doctor’s bad news that he wouldn’t be competing in any more Ironman triathlons, Colin had exploded with anger and frustration, and stalked out of her studio in search of a practitioner who’d tell him what he wanted to hear.

Yeah, good luck with that.

“Hi, Colin. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see you.”

“Sure. Let me look at my schedule.” She pulled up her calendar, wondering what had made him come back. Elite athletes took the longest to accept new limitations. If Colin had changed his attitude she could do him some good. Otherwise …

“On Thursday I have—”

“Anything sooner?” He was speaking in a clipped manner that suggested he was either angry or hurting. Probably both.

“You’re in pain.” She made sure she spoke matter-of-factly. Sympathy didn’t go over well with these types.

“Yup.” The syllable was abrupt.

“How about …” She ran over the next day’s schedule. Busy, but she could give up her lunch hour. “Noon tomorrow?”

“Good.”

“Okay, see you then.” She hung up the phone and sat for a few quiet seconds, annoyed at the way her pulse was still racing, then jumped up and crossed to her window. She looked out at the street below, Olive Way where it intersected with Broadway in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. A few cars, headlights on. Not much traffic for a Monday evening. Maple leaves turning color, a light rain typical for October.

Colin Russo.

He’d been a challenge on multiple levels. Demi worked with and treated many athletes, had seen plenty of people hurting, plenty upset at having to confront lifestyle changes after an injury. Like other professionals in the medical field, she had to balance appropriate levels of caring and involvement with enough distance to keep clients’ problems from taking her over. Colin had so bravely tried not to show his physical or emotional pain that his rage had touched her, though she’d been taken aback by the suddenness and intensity of the blowout. Humans who felt helpless often turned fear into anger.

Then 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.”