Chapter 225: The Back Rub
After dinner, which Catherine did not find particularly satisfying, considering there wasn’t a single piece of meat on her plate, she followed proper manners and ate everything served to her without complaint.
Still, she found herself thinking wistfully about the steak back home.
Perhaps she would have one when she returned.
At least there had been wine.
Maximilian was in the kitchen helping his mother wash dishes when Catherine wandered toward the nursery, slowly finishing the last sip from her glass. Amelia had disappeared there midway through dinner, and curiosity eventually drew Catherine after her.
Charlotte was asleep. The little girl lay peacefully inside her crib, tiny chest rising and falling beneath a soft blanket.
Amelia stood at the foot of the crib, silent and unmoving. She was not looking at her daughter the way most mothers did. She looked like a woman staring at a crossroads, lost somewhere deep inside her own thoughts.
When she sensed Catherine’s presence, she looked up immediately. A smile appeared on her face, but it felt forced, as though she had put it on out of habit rather than happiness.
Without saying anything, she stepped away from the crib.
The two women quietly left the nursery and wandered into the small herb garden behind the kitchen. The evening air carried the scent of rosemary, lavender, and thyme. Warm light spilled from the windows behind them while crickets sang somewhere beyond the garden fence.
"How’s life?" Catherine asked casually.
Amelia shrugged.
"I’m thinking about visiting Southern Europe this time," she said. "I didn’t get to see half the places I wanted during my last trip."
Catherine studied her for a moment. She was planning another trip. Another trip away from her daughter.
Catherine said nothing about it.
Instead, she leaned against the railing and spoke lightly. "I met Charlotte’s father."
Amelia froze. The reaction lasted less than a second. A tiny widening of the eyes. A slight intake of breath.
Then it was gone.
But Catherine had seen it.
"Timothy?" Amelia asked, trying far too hard to sound indifferent.
"Mm."
For a moment, Amelia looked away toward the dark garden.
"He wants to meet his daughter."
Something flickered across her face. Hope. Fear. Longing. Then it vanished beneath a scoff.
The sound was sharp enough that Catherine almost smiled. Because she understood immediately. Women recognized these things in other women.
That scoff was not disbelief. It was not anger. And it certainly was not indifference. No. That was disappointment.
Disappointment that Timothy wanted to see Charlotte, and not her.
Catherine swirled the remaining drops of wine in her glass before speaking again. "Have you ever wondered why he hasn’t taken her?"
Amelia’s fingers tightened around the railing.
"He could," Catherine continued quietly. "The Rathbournes have the money. The lawyers. The influence. If Timothy truly wanted custody, there are a hundred ways he could make your life miserable."
Amelia’s jaw tightened.
Catherine looked at her profile. The answer was obvious.
Timothy had never tried. Not once. Not because he couldn’t. Because he didn’t want to. And deep down, Amelia knew it too.
The silence stretched between them.
Finally, Catherine spoke softly. "Maybe... you should talk to him."
Amelia laughed. A brittle, humorless laugh. "And say what?"
The question hung in the air.
Catherine could hear all the things Amelia wasn’t saying. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you fight for us? Why didn’t you want me enough?
Catherine lowered her gaze. Sadly, she knew the answer was not that simple.
Because Timothy was not free. And Amelia was not free either. There were families, expectations, obligations, and old wounds standing between them.
"You won’t know anything until you talk," Catherine said quietly.
Amelia looked back toward the nursery window where Charlotte slept peacefully inside.
For the first time that evening, the confident traveler, the carefree woman, and the independent single mother disappeared.
All Catherine saw was a woman who still carried an unanswered question in her heart.
And perhaps had been carrying it for years.
-----
Catherine collapsed onto the couch the moment they returned to Maximilian’s brownstone, letting out a long, satisfied sigh as she stretched across the cushions.
The evening had gone better than she had expected. Far better. His mother had hugged her. Amelia had welcomed her. Baby Charlotte smiled at her as if she were an angel descended on earth before deciding Catherine’s hair was more interesting than her face.
All in all, Catherine considered it a success.
"It went well, didn’t it?" she asked, tilting her head toward Maximilian.
Maximilian loosened his tie as he walked over. His blue eyes softened immediately when they landed on her.
"It did."
Relief settled warmly in Catherine’s chest.
She shifted closer when he sat beside her, naturally finding her place against him. Maximilian wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
The quiet felt comfortable. Home-like.
"Want a backrub?" he asked suddenly.
Catherine immediately narrowed her eyes.
Suspicion. Pure suspicion.
She had heard enough stories from Sophia and Miranda, most of them delivered with dramatic complaints and exaggerated sighs, to know that men apparently had a very different definition of a backrub.
According to her sisters-in-law, a backrub was never just a backrub. It was apparently a gateway activity.
Maximilian noticed the look and looked deeply offended. "I am wounded by your lack of trust."
"You should be."
His hand pressed over his heart. "Catherine."
"Moosemilian."
"I am offering comfort."
"You are offering trouble."
A grin tugged at his mouth.
"It was a long day."
His voice was calm, reasonable, and... entirely innocent. The sort of innocent that made Catherine even more suspicious.
Unfortunately, he also looked impossibly sincere. And her shoulders did ache.
After a moment, she sighed dramatically. "Fine."
Victory flashed through his eyes but she had missed it as she slid off the couch onto the rug in front of him.
"One backrub."
"Of course."
"Just a backrub."
"Naturally."
She pointed a warning finger at him.
Maximilian caught her hand and kissed her knuckles.
"I would never."
"That smile says otherwise."
Still, she settled in front of him.
At first, it was exactly what he promised.
His hands worked patiently across her shoulders, easing away knots she hadn’t even realized were there. The tension from traveling, shopping, and socializing slowly melted away beneath his touch.
A soft hum escaped her.
Maximilian looked unbearably pleased with himself.
"Feeling better?"
"A little."
"A little?"
"Fine. A lot."
His smile widened.
The dangerously relaxing massage continued.
Catherine’s eyes drifted closed.
Little by little, however, the moment drifted beyond its innocent beginnings. Concerned about her comfort, he loosened a few layers of her clothing to make it easier for her to relax beneath his hands, and before long he had unclasped her bra as well, telling her it was only so he could reach the tight muscles along her back more easily.
Somewhere along the way, the line between practical care and affectionate indulgence blurred. What had started as a simple attempt to help her unwind gradually turned into something far more intimate.
His attention lingered, his touch grew less purposeful and more absentmindedly affectionate, and before either of them fully realized, he had become completely distracted from the original goal.
Catherine opened one eye.
"Professor."
"Hm?"
"Stay focused."
"I am focused."
His voice sounded far too innocent.
A few minutes later, she felt another kiss and his fingers slipping down where it was unnecessary for a backrub.
Then another kiss... and massage where a massage was not needed.
His hands stopped behaving like those of a dedicated massage therapist and began to behave like those of a man deeply in love with his fiancée.
Catherine slowly turned her head.
Maximilian smiled.
The most unrepentant smile she had ever seen.
"You lied."
"I adapted."
"You absolutely lied."
"I adjusted the treatment plan."
She stared at him.
He stared back.
Neither lasted more than three seconds before bursting into laughter.
"Moosemilian."
"Catherine."
"You are exactly like every other man."
His eyes widened dramatically.
"That is slander."
"It is the truth."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"Perhaps."
Catherine shook her head, but the smile refused to leave her face as she leaned back against him.
The backrub had, indeed, not remained just a backrub. Apparently Sophia and Miranda had been right all along.
Comments