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“She-demon chickens will do that. But no. They’re fine. My feet are tough, just like me.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking like he didn’t believe her.
Rude.
Remy carried her over to the kitchen island and sat her on top of it. Then he grasped hold of one foot, holding it up.
“Hey!” She hastily put the basket of eggs down as she nearly went flying backward.
Save the eggs!
He ran his finger over her foot, pressing down.
She groaned. She couldn’t help it. That felt like heaven.
“Your feet are freezing,” he grumbled as he did the same to the other one. “And there’s a scratch on this one.”
There was? She hadn’t even noticed.
“I’ll get the First-Aid kit.”
For a scratch? This guy was OTT.
And she wondered how she could get him to give her a foot massage with those big hands of his.
Stop, Isa!
She was out of control.
He returned with the First-Aid kit and cleaned the scratch, which must have been from her mad dash out the door earlier. Then he put a Band-Aid over it. That was when she noticed a nasty scratch on his hand.
“How did you do this?” she asked, grabbing his hand. Damn, they were big. And powerful.
“Chicken.”
She winced. Probably Jennifer. She was the worst.
“Here, give me the stuff. I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s fine,” he replied.
“So I need a Band-Aid for the world’s tiniest cut, but you get to just tough it out?”
“Yep.”
“The tough guy act isn’t sexy,” she told him.
She lied. It was. All of him was sexy.
He placed his hands on the counter on either side of her hips.
Holy. Moly.
“It’s not an act.”
She swallowed heavily.
“But if it makes you feel better, you can clean my cut.”
