“
My threshold for being respectful to this lucky, absent bastard was evaporating. I was going to make a move on her. If I didn’t, I’d never forgive myself for not trying. If there was even the slightest chance she might be into me, I had to try.
But how? Should I just try to kiss her? Would she tell me to go to hell?
Probably.
What if I slid my hand over hers? Would she yank it away? She would. I knew she would.
I needed something else. Something less. More subtle. Something that could go either way to test the waters. Something that could lead to something else.
“Hey, I give a decent foot massage if your feet hurt.” I nodded to the center console where her heels still sat after being dropped through the sunroof.
To my surprise, she pivoted until her back was against the door, and she swung her legs over into my lap. She put an arm behind her head and leaned back. “Go for it. Those heels were killing me today.”
I grinned inwardly that my strategy worked and put my back to the door while I took her tiny foot in my hand. “I’m a foot massage master. ‘I don’t be tickling or nothing,’” I said, giving her a Pulp Fiction line.
She snorted. “I’m exfoliated and pedicured. Someone should touch them.”
I thought about what Vincent Vega says in the movie, that foot massages mean something. That men act like they don’t, but they do and that’s why they’re so cool.
This meant something, and I knew she knew it. She was as familiar with that movie as I was. She had to be making the connection.
And she’d allowed it.
I reveled in the chance to touch her and at the unspoken meaning behind her letting me do it.
“So, Foot Massage Master, what other tricks do you have in your bag?” she asked, giving me a sideways smile.
I pressed a thumb into her arch and circled it around with a smirk. “I’m not giving you my trade secrets.” What if I need them?
She scoffed. “Your gender doesn’t have any secrets that every woman hasn’t already seen by the time they’re twenty.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Ever heard of the naked man?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh God, the naked man. That one’s the worst.”
I laughed. “Why? Because it works?”
She scrunched up her face. “I have to admit it has worked on me in the past. I mean, the guy’s naked. Half the work is done for you already. It’s kind of hard to say no. But when it doesn’t work, it’s so cringey.”
I tipped my head from side to side. “It’s risky. I’ll give you that. You have to know your audience. But big risks can reap big rewards.”
“Waiting for your girlfriend to leave the room and then stripping naked to surprise her when she gets back is so unoriginal though. You men have no new material. I swear you could go back twenty thousand years and peek into a cave and find cavemen drawing penises on everything and doing the naked man and the helicopter.”
I pulled her foot closer and laughed. “Hey, don’t knock the helicopter. It’s the first move we learn. It can be a good icebreaker.”
“The helicopter should be banned over the age of eight. I’m just going to spare you the illusion right now. No woman is sitting around with her girlfriends going, ‘Gurl, it was the sexiest helicopter I’ve ever seen. Totally broke the ice.’”
I chuckled and ran my hand up her smooth calf, rubbing the muscle. I pictured that delicate ankle on my shoulder where I could kiss it, run my palm down the outside of her thigh, pull down those light-blue lace panties…
”
”