To say it was combative was wrong, because they worked more harmoniously than they ever had. To say it was friendly, however, was equally incorrect, because there was a new element to their relationship that made friendship impossible, one that Michael did his best to deny—to no avail. That element was an infuriating, electric awareness that hummed constantly under the surface of his skin, making it next to impossible for him to perform his job as a therapist. One moment he would be the efficient, competent rubber, his hands confident on Seward’s body, and in the next he would be the awkward boy he had once been, confused and astonished by his own desire. Unfortunately, his desire was apparently becoming a mischievous bitch in her maturity, because in spite of all reason, Michael found himself increasingly attracted to Seward. The man was maddening and mercurial and haughty and patrician, he told himself, the antithesis of every man he’d ever wanted, but that did not prevent him from staring confounded at the curve of Seward’s neck as he bent to inspect Sarah’s painting, or listening to the soothing depths of his voice as he spoke with Abbott on the terrace.
