Moody Read online

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2022

  By Penelope Ward

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editing: Jessica Royer Ocken

  Proofreading and Formatting: Elaine York, Allusion Publishing

  Proofreading: Julia Griffis

  Cover Model: Philippe Leblond

  Cover Photographer: Leda & St. Jacques

  Cover Design: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Two

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Join My Mailing List

  Other Books by Penelope Ward

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Shannon

  Wren

  I get to make people feel better for a living—without having to slice them open or prescribe medication. That’s pretty cool, if you ask me. As a traveling massage therapist, I move from site to site, making house calls. That’s another thing I love about my day job: I never have to do it in one place. The company I work for, Elite Massage, has an office downtown, where I go once a month to stock up on supplies and check in. When I stopped in this afternoon, my boss, Trina, had an update for me.

  “So, I just added something new to your schedule, if you can fit it in tomorrow,” she said.

  “Where is it?” I asked, stuffing a variety of oils into my backpack.

  “Brookline. Actually, you were specifically requested.”

  I stopped for a moment. “By whom?”

  “His name is Dax Moody. Ever hear of him?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not at all.”

  “Well, he came up clean.”

  Trina always runs a criminal background check on new clients, which I appreciated since most of the time I was going into their homes and would often be alone with these strangers.

  “I also Googled him and got his business page,” she continued. “He’s the owner of a capital investment company.”

  Dax Moody. Huh… nothing. “I guess someone must have recommended me to him.”

  Trina gestured toward her computer. “Check out this property. This is where he lives.” She’d pulled up Google Earth and zoomed in on a house. It was a large, brick structure with a black wrought-iron fence around it.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Yeah. Might want to wear something a little nicer than the usual T-shirt and ripped jeans.” She winked. “You know, in case he’s single.”

  “I’m certain if he lives in a house like that in Brookline, he’s not. It doesn’t matter anyway. Isn’t there a rule about mixing business with pleasure?”

  She shrugged and zoomed in farther on the house. “You know what they say about rules.”

  • • •

  The next day I parked in front of the sprawling estate, unsure where these butterflies in my stomach were coming from. I’d had wealthy clients before. But something about this assignment felt different, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  Brookline was just outside of the city, and a trolley line ran right through the center of town. With its proximity to Boston universities, the neighborhood was a mix of college students and wealthier professionals, depending on the section. This particular street was one of the quieter ones, lined with big, beautiful homes, and not far from where I knew a couple of the New England NFL players lived.

  The leaves on the trees surrounding the estate were a multitude of colors, evidence that fall foliage season was in full swing. Looking up at the two-story brick house, I noticed an older-looking Camry that seemed out of place parked in the driveway.

  With my supplies hanging in a bag over my shoulder, I carried my portable table as I walked toward the massive black door with a vibrant wreath of autumn leaves hung on it. I rang the bell and anxiously waited.

  A woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties, wearing khakis and a pretty cowl-neck sweater, opened the door. This must be Mrs. Moody.

  She looked down at the table I held and then up at me. “Can I help you?”

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, yes. I’m here to see Dax Moody. He scheduled a twelve o’clock massage-therapy appointment with me.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed a little.

  Is this funny?

  “Uh…okay.” She waved me inside. “Wait here in the foyer, please.”

  “Thank you.”

  I set the heavy table down and walked over to a large, framed photo on the wall. It was a woman in a wedding dress. The background looked like Vegas. I now realized the woman who answered the door wasn’t his wife; she must work here. The woman in the photo looked over her shoulder, her long, blond hair cascading down her back. She held a small bouquet of lavender roses. She was beautiful.

  The lady returned, interrupting my thoughts. “It seems you have the wrong time. Mr. Moody indicates his appointment isn’t until one?”

  My stomach sank. “Oh, gosh. Let me see.” I rechecked the schedule on my phone. She was right. How could I have messed this up? I shoved my phone in my pocket. “It seems I did screw up the time. I’m really sorry. I’ll come back.”

  Just as I’d turned around and lifted the handle on my table, a deep voice came from behind me. “Wait.”

  I turned around to find a tall, gorgeous, shirtless man wiping sweat off his forehead with a small white towel. He had a six-pack, and his body was insane.

  This is Dax? I was expecting someone older. This guy looked like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ. He had to be in his early thirties max, was very built, and had light brown hair. He wore black trousers, which was an odd choice to work out in. His tanned skin glistened with sweat.

  “We can just do it now,” he said.

  I gulped. The thought of rubbing my hands over this guy suddenly made me very nervous. As someone who touched people for a living, I tried to compartmentalize. But jeez. He was hot as hell. A warning about what he looked like would have been nice.

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind coming back. It was my fault.”

  “Yes, I know. But you’re here, so we might as well get it over with.”

  Get it over with? Massage was supposed to be a pleasurable and relaxing experience. “Okay, then. Just let me know where you want me.”

  Dax stared at me for a few seconds before he said, “My office.”

  Swallowing, I nodded. “Alrighty, then.”

  “Let me get that.” He reached for my table and headed down the hall.

  His housekeeper gave me an amused look. I still wasn’t sure what she found so funny about all of this.

  As I followed, a waft of his cologne hit me, and I couldn’t help admiring the cut of his back. This guy clearly worked out a lot. Which made me wonder…did he expect me to massage him all sweaty like that?

  We entered the office and he said, “You can set up in here.”

  “Your housekeeper seems to think my being here is quite funny.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like me to order a massage. And I didn’t mention to her that you were coming. She’s always telling me I need to try to unwind. So she probably thinks she influenced this.”

  “I see.” I paused. “I’m Wren McCallister, by the way. But you probably already know that since you requested me?”

  He ignored my comment, instead saying, “I’m going to jump in the shower while you set up.”

  “Okay.” I smiled.

  Grateful to be alone for a bit, and not to have to massage a sweaty person, I blew out a breath and looked around. Holy crap. One side of the room had bookshelves built into almost every inch of the wall. His wooden desk was covered in stacks of papers. The large windows let in a lot of sunshine and provided a beautiful view of the colorful leaves outside. A vibrant Persian-looking area rug covered most of the floor. This office was pretty much the size of half of my house.

  After unfolding my table and setting it up in the corner, I fished through my selection of oils, contemplating which one would be most suitable for him. Which scent signified darkly intimidating? I settled on vanilla—smoky and mysterious.

  About ten minutes later, Dax returned. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me. His hair was damp, and he’d changed into a white T-shirt that fit his muscular chest like a glove. He wore the same black trousers he’d had on before, or maybe they were another similar-looking pair of pants.

  The sound of a car starting drew my attention to the window. The car that had been parked in the dri
veway was backing away. Was it the housekeeper leaving? If she was gone, that meant Dax and I were likely alone now. I hadn’t heard anyone else in the house. His wife must have been at work, or maybe she was running errands. Did they have kids? I began wondering if I needed to be concerned about this assignment, considering his odd temperament. He didn’t seem happy for me to be here.

  I forced the words out. “Shall we begin?”

  He took a few steps toward me and crossed his impressive arms. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’m having doubts about this,” he said.

  I blinked. “About me being here?”

  “About the massage, yeah. I think this might’ve been a mistake.”

  Any apprehension I had about being alone with him dissipated upon realizing he was hesitant.

  I’m so confused. “Have you ever had one before?”

  “No.” He looked out the window and back to me. “I haven’t.”

  I swallowed. “Well, it’s pretty simple. You just lie on your stomach, and I take it from there. You don’t have to do anything.”

  “Well, I do have to give up control.”

  “That’s the idea, though.”

  “I’m not good at that.” He tilted his head. “What do you do exactly?”

  “I…stand beside you and rub my hands into your skin and work to get some of the knots out of your muscles.”

  He shook his head. “No. I meant, what do you do? Is this your full-time gig?”

  Is that an insult? “Yes. I went to school for massage after college, and I make a good living. Being a massage therapist is not something you do on the side. It’s a great, fulfilling career in and of itself,” I said defensively.

  “I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t.” He fidgeted with his watch, which looked like it cost more than my car.

  I blew out a breath. “I do have other aspirations, but this pays the bills and allows me to put some money away, too. I’m currently saving for a trip to Europe.”

  “I see.” He stared out the window, almost looking as though he wanted to escape.

  What’s with this guy? “Look...I can leave if you’re not comfortable.”

  “No.” He walked over to a cabinet and took out a bottle of some kind of liquor. “I just need something to take the edge off.” He poured himself a glass of amber-colored liquid.

  I stared at his big, masculine hands. “Well, this is a first.”

  “A first what?” he asked.

  “The first time a client has ever had to relax before a relaxing massage.” When I laughed, I accidentally snorted.

  His eyes narrowed. “What the hell was that?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snort. That happens sometimes when I’m nervous. It just comes out.”

  “Why are you nervous?”

  “Maybe your attitude is rubbing off on me.”

  He chugged the alcohol and slammed the glass down. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to relax. It’s my nature. Even when I’m supposed to be freaking relaxing...the thought of relaxing stresses me out.”

  I nodded. “That’s actually a real thing. It’s called relaxation-induced anxiety.”

  He chuckled. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”

  “I used to be like you. I’d get panic attacks from the quiet when I tried to meditate.”

  He licked the side of his mouth. “I suppose that defeats the purpose.”

  “Exactly. And sitting still, like in the hair salon or dentist’s chair, used to make me panicky when I was younger.”

  “Younger? You’re pretty young. How long have you been doing this massage thing?” he asked.

  “A couple of years.”

  “What made you get into it?”

  “I wanted to make people feel good. And it doesn’t bore me. I never have to be in one place.”

  “Does it pay well? How much of the fee do you get to keep?”

  My eyes narrowed. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Well, maybe I need to get comfortable with you before I let you put your hands all over me.”

  For some reason that comment rubbed me the wrong way. Let me put my hands on him? As if it was a privilege? (As if he could read my mind and sense my attraction? Ugh.)

  I raised my voice. “I thought you told the company someone recommended me. Why are you so apprehensive?”

  “Okay.” He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Let’s get this over with. What do I do?”

  Jesus. He’s wound tight. “Take off your shirt and lie down on the table. You can leave your pants on or take them off.”

  He let out a guttural laugh. “Take my pants off?”

  “Yes. That’s actually customary. But it’s always the client’s choice. I can leave the room, if you wish, while you undress. There’s a towel to cover yourself. But you can totally leave your pants on, too.”

  “I will be leaving my pants on, thanks.”

  “Okay. Just make sure you take the stick out of your ass one way or the other.”

  He glared at me but finally cracked a slight smile. I’d take it.

  I laughed. “In all seriousness, just breathe. That’s all you need to worry about.” I took a deep breath in, willing myself to take my own advice.

  Dax slowly pulled his shirt over his head, once again granting me a view of his rippled muscles. There wasn’t an inch of anything soft on his body. I turned away suddenly when I caught my eyes lingering a little too long.

  He then lay down stomach-first on the table and within seconds, I heard the pitter-patter of paws and the clanking of a metal collar coming from down the hall.

  A large English sheepdog pushed through the door and entered the room, barking profusely at the sight of me. Then he jumped up on the table and landed on Dax’s back.

  “Damn it, Winston!” Dax yelled.

  I didn’t even know a dog that big could jump so high. The dog shot me the evil eye. This house is just full of welcoming people.

  “Hello,” I said awkwardly.

  He growled. It seemed Doggy was just as extra as his owner.

  “Get off me, you fluffernutter!” Dax groaned.

  The dog kept growling at me while I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. “Why is he so angry?” I asked, trying to stifle my amusement.

  “He’s protective to a fault. He was napping upstairs when you arrived. I hoped he’d stay sleeping. I hadn’t planned on him coming down, although I should’ve.”

  Dax sat up and somehow got the beast of a dog off him. He hopped down off the table. “I’ll be right back,” he said, guiding Winston out of the room and down the hall. The sound of the collar disappeared into the distance.

  Left alone for a moment, I exhaled and wandered over to a shelf that displayed various things, including a large, white seashell that seemed completely out of place, given the room’s otherwise masculine vibe. It was beautiful. Remembering what my mother had told me when I was little, I lifted the shell and placed it against my ear in an attempt to hear “the ocean.” Met with the ambient noise that resonated from within, I closed my eyes and smiled.

  “Please don’t touch that,” Dax called from behind me.

  Shaken by his abrupt tone, I jerked, and the shell slipped from my fingers and crashed to the ground.

  He let out a jarring shriek.

  My hands shook. “I’m so sorry... I...” I bent to clean up the pieces, but he bolted to stop me.

  “Don’t touch anything!” His tone was grating.

  “Why? It’s my fault,” I insisted.

  “Please just get up,” he commanded in an even harsher tone.

  Burning with embarrassment, I stared down at the mess. That’s when I realized something had fallen out of the shell. It was a plastic bag filled with…ashes.

  I slowly stood up and pointed to the ground. “What is that?”

  His eyes lifted to meet mine, and after several seconds he finally answered.

  “My wife.”

  Wren

  Trina kept shaking her head. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “There is nothing to say. There are no words at all. It’s been a week, and I still can’t seem to figure out how to describe what happened.”

  I’d just recalled for my boss my odd experience with Dax Moody, starting with his reluctance to let me anywhere near him, and ending on the horror of having dropped the shell containing his wife’s ashes. Thankfully, although the shell broke, the ashes had remained safely inside that sealed bag—unlike my guts, which felt like they’d been splattered everywhere. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if those ashes hadn’t been protected, if God forbid, they’d been strewn all over the floor. I might’ve needed therapy.