"I've got something a bit different today," Guinevere says, holding up a CD.
"Oh, are we playing 'Stump the Maestro' or something?" Arthur asks, a smug grin on his face as he takes the disc. "Oh." His face falls when he discovers she has, in fact, stumped him.
"Ha," she says. "I'll wager you do know them actually," she adds, plucking it from his hand. "Get undressed and I'll educate you." She exits the room and closes the door. In the hallway, she leans against the wall, a perplexed look on her face. "Get undressed and I'll educate you"? In which gutter is my brain languishing? She takes a deep breath and attempts to get a grip on herself.
Unfortunately, Arthur Pendragon is almost all she's been able to think about. She has always found him attractive, she's never denied that. But, she has since learned he is also charming, engaging, and a genuinely good and kind person. Those facts have only made him more attractive. He also has good taste in music, is funny, and easy to talk to. The list grows every time she sees him. He's been hovering at the edges of her brain for at least two weeks, invading her thoughts at the most unexpected times.
Most interestingly, she's stopped playing New Age music for nearly all of her clients except one, an older woman who claims to genuinely enjoy the sound of wind chimes, pan flutes, and whale song.
Guinevere takes another deep breath, squares her shoulders, and knocks, realizing she wasn't even listening for Arthur. She instinctively knows how long he needs. "Arthur?"
"Yeah," he calls back.
When she enters the room, he's lying on the table reading the CD case. "Still don't think I know them," he says, handing it to her. She smiles and puts the music on. Before she even touches him, he speaks. "Oh. These guys," he says, smiling. "I didn't know their name."
"Now you know," she says. "Ladysmith Black Mambazo. They're from South Africa and are amazing. Very soothing." She starts working on his neck, focusing her attention on her hands and concentrating on her work.
"I recognize them from – ohhh – Paul Simon's Graceland album," Arthur supplies. His eyes are closed, and he, too, is concentrating on Guinevere's hands and the work they are doing, but for a very different reason.
He knows he only has two more sessions after this, so he wants to enjoy them while he can. He also knows that no matter how much he enjoys these appointments with her, he can't continue them past this course of six.
If he does, he'll have to find someone new.
It's getting more difficult each week. More difficult to stop himself from lifting his head from the table and kissing her when she is so close. More difficult to stop himself from reaching out and touching her arm, her hip, her face. More difficult to stop himself from thinking thoughts that will make his body react in an obvious and potentially embarrassing way.
"That's a good album," she quietly replies. Keep the talk to a minimum. Do your job.
"Yeah, it is. Holds up over time, too," he agrees. He groans slightly as her thumbs glide along the side of his neck, stretching and soothing. "Oh, I have been noticing a difference in how my body feels, just so you know."
"Good. I'm glad," she replies.
"Thank you," he says. "For your, um, skill, I guess."
"Just doing my job," she answers lightly. The words feel like a lie though, and she frowns, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.
"Well, you are an artist," he continues, his brain telling him shut up shut up shut up you're going to freak her out.
"Um, thanks," she says, laughing a little. "Sorry, that's a first for me. I've never been called an 'artist' before."
"Pity," he says. "You should change your title from Massage Therapist to… what was it? Human Musculature Artisan." He opens his eyes and grins up at her.
"Okay, that's just weird," she says, laughing now. His face turns soft and serious, almost tender, as he gazes up at her, and her laughter quickly fades. She stares back, a bemused half-smile on her face. "Oh." She snaps out of it, quickly turning to get more oil to start working on his shoulder.
They both fall silent for several minutes, struck by the moment they just shared. The electricity in the air. Words unsaid, yet somehow felt. Guinevere avoids his eyes, again concentrating on her task. Arthur stares at the ceiling, listening to the harmonious voices on the CD. He wants to say something. He just doesn't know what.
"What language is this?" he finally asks.
"I think it's Zulu," she answers.
"Oh."
She moves from his shoulder to his leg, grateful for the distance from his face. His perfect face with its chiseled jawline and kissable full lips and straight nose and distracting slate blue eyes.
The silence is heavy now, neither of them speaking, each acutely aware of the other. Every move, every breath seems amplified in the small room.
"I finally got a new car," Arthur blurts, unable to stand the silence, hoping this topic will prompt more of a proper conversation from her. She's unusually quiet today. Even before the… whatever it was that happened.
"It took this long?" Guinevere asks, looking up. Cars. Good. We can talk about cars.
"You know how insurance is. If you owe them money, they need it yesterday. But, if they have to pay out, then they take their bloody sweet time about it," he says.
She chuckles and nods. "Yeah, that's fairly accurate," she agrees. "What did you get?"
"BMW X3," he says. "I've been wanting an SUV."
"Fancy," she says, thinking of her aging Volkswagen in the parking lot.
"I decided to splurge," he says.
"Good for you. A person needs to do that sometimes," she says, looking at him for exactly two seconds before ducking her head over his knee, eyes trained on her hands. "Your knee seems to be a lot better," she adds.
"I've been doing my exercises like a good boy," he proudly declares. "Merlin was impressed."
"I should think so, and I'm pleased you listened to my advice," she says, covering his leg up. "Okay, you're set for this week," she says, patting his shin through the blanket.
Does she sound sad, or am I projecting? "Um, Guinevere?" he asks.
"Yes?"
"Would you… would you take a look at my hand? It's been troubling me… at work… you know, with the computer, and…" It's the truth, but it is also a way to get to spend a few more minutes with her. "I mean, if you have time, I don't want to make you late for your next appointment..."
"I have time," she says, stepping closer again. She takes his hand and starts massaging it, her strong, sure fingers pressing into the thick pad of his thumb. His hands are as gorgeous as the rest of him. "Where exactly?" Her voice comes out a little breathier than she wants, but she hopes he doesn't notice.
"Ooo. There. Where the thumb meets my palm," he says. "And, down into my wrist," he adds, wincing slightly.
Guinevere moves her fingers around, chasing the soreness. "Make sure you step away from your desk periodically," she advises. "Lean back and stretch the other way if you find yourself hunched in front of your computer. You probably don't have an ergonomic keyboard or anything..."
"No," Arthur says, watching how her slender fingers move skillfully on his skin. "Should I get one?"
"It wouldn't be a bad idea. I can show you some simple stretches for this, too," she adds.
"More exercises I can say I'll do, but won't?" he asks, eyes twinkling at her.
She snorts a small laugh. "Exactly."
She scowls at his wrist, lifts his arm a little higher, steps closer, and clamps his hand between her elbow and her side, working the muscles up and down his forearm. Arthur tries to ignore the somewhat intimate position, and when Guinevere finds a surprisingly tender spot on the inside of his elbow near the joint, massaging it firmly, he is thankful for the distracting pain.
"Ah," he hisses. "Whoa, all the way up there?"
"Often, where you feel the pain is not where the problem is," she says. "Can you feel this in your wrist?" She presses the spot again.
"Yeah," he answers. "Wow. That feels... it hurts, but it feels better. You are amazing."
"I don't know if I'd go that far," she comments, ignoring the wobble in her stomach at the gentle tone in which he complimented her.
"I would." The words are out before he can stop them.
She meets his eyes for a second, then drops them, her long, dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. She's lovely. She really is.
"Okay, I think you should be good for this week," she says, her voice quieter than usual as she sets his arm down on the table.
He wants to reach out and catch her hand. He clutches the blanket covering him to stop from doing so.
"Thank you, Guinevere. See you next week," he says.
"You're welcome, Arthur," she answers.