"It was sheer luck."
"Bullshit, Nick." I move in front of him and grasp both his hands. "You did this. You created a thriving business. Don't downplay what you've done here."
"I'm a massage therapist, not a doctor or a mathematics professor."
"Do you think I'm smarter than you? I'm not. Being good at math doesn't make me better than you or anyone." I study his face, trying to puzzle out why he feels the need to downplay his accomplishments. "Did you decide to finish your degree so you could prove you're worthy?"
He veers his gaze away from mine and clears his throat. "Possibly."
I wrap my arms around his neck. "Oh Nick, you are worthy. Not having a degree doesn't make you any less accomplished or any less intelligent than Richard or your dad."
He bows his head. "Mostly, I wanted to get away from England for a while, because of the scandal. But deep down, I think I also wanted to show my family I'm…not a useless chancer who only cares about seducing women."
"They already know that. You have nothing to prove."
"My academic record is 'adequate.' You said so yourself."
"I'm sorry I told you that. I only said it because you knocked me off-kilter the moment we met. You're sexy, funny, smart, and flirtatious. I'm not used to being attracted to someone at first sight. Don't think it's ever happened to me before."
"You like me because I give you incredible sex."
I tickle his neck. "No, I like you because you're Nicholas T. Hunter, world's oldest college student."
He exhales a long, resigned sigh that makes his shoulders sag. "I suppose that's better than being Nick the Gigolo."
Though I want to ask him more questions, I feel like I should hold off on that—but only for a little while. "You've shown me your business. Will you show me your home now?"
"Of course."
He leads me downstairs and out of the building. Just as he's locking the door, a woman rushes up to us.
"Are you open today?" she asks, her eyes large and darting around like she's excited or maybe on drugs.
"No, I'm afraid not," Nick says, stuffing the keys in his pocket. "We're open Monday through Saturday. If you'd like to make an appointment, please call tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse us…"
When he tries to walk past the woman, she seizes his arm. "Don't you offer special appointments after hours?"
Her tone implies she wants the kind of "special" massage Nick does not offer.
I watch his face, the way his expression falls, and then tightens into a pained look. "Sorry, no, we don't do that. Whatever you've heard is a lie. This is a legitimate day spa."
She tugs on his arm, pressing herself closer to him. "But Georgina says—"
"That woman is a liar." Nick's tone has become sharp, and he all but snarls those words through his gritted teeth. Shutting his eyes, he lets out a miserable, groaning sigh. Then he looks at the woman again. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you. The truth is that Lady Prescott is mistaken about what my spa offers."
He hustles me to the car, and we don't speak as we climb in or while he starts the engine and pulls out onto the street.
That woman gapes at us until we've driven out of view of her.
I glance at Nick.
His face has become the picture of stone-cold anger.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Not yet, but I will be. Give me a few minutes."
I decide to do that. Whatever Nick has been through lately, I want to help him get through it—if he'll let me. And suddenly, I realize what that means. Nick is more than a lover to me. He's more than a friend too. What exactly I feel for him, I'm not quite sure yet.