Page 54 of Frog

“Surely.” I smiled at her. “I’d love to be the nanny.”

“I would love it too. Permanently.”

And hours later as I sat alone on the couch, watching Sports Center but mostly thinking, I wondered what I could and couldn’t do.

I had always made choices based a lot on what other people thought. My mother died and then my father and finally my brother. Those were the people who would have simply accepted whatever I decided to do or be with unconditional love and support, and without them, I had no touchstone, no one I trusted. Except Cyrus.

I had faith in Cy, but he loved the cowboy, the excitement of that life, of me riding off into the sunset and pining for me when I was gone. If I was there, underfoot, how could that work?

What the hell was I going to do?

The key turned in the lock of the front door and he was there, rushing through it, eyes sweeping the room before they fell on me.

“Hey.” I smiled over at him. “How was the party?”

He looked incredible in his tuxedo as he crossed the floor to me, smiling wide, his bottom lip trembling.

“What’s with you?” I asked him as he reached me, leaning down close as I slid my hand up his arm.

“I missed you,” he whispered as his lips met mine.

I lifted so our mouths fit better and eased him down beside me, deepening the kiss, letting my tongue take the tour before tangling with his.

He moaned and tried to shift against me as I pulled back.

“What are—”

“Go change. That tuxedo costs more than what I got in the world, Doctor Benning.”

He rose quickly, striding from the room, and I was left again to wonder what I could really do. What made a man a man? Who got to judge?

When I heard him behind me, I turned and asked if he was hungry.

“Why?” He smiled at me. “Is there actually stroganoff left?”

“No.” I smiled back. “Your sister was hungry. She ate her plate and yours.”

“Nice.” He groaned, walking over to me dressed now in sweats, socks, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. “So you gonna cook for me now?”

“Sure,” I said, starting to get up.

“I’m kidding.” He grinned at me, flopping down, stretched out close, legs out in front of him.

“Put your foot up here.”

He didn’t hesitate. He turned, lay down, shoved a pillow behind his head, and got comfortable. Both feet were on my thigh.

As I began rubbing, he purred.

“You sound like you’re gonna come.” I smiled at him.

“Are you kidding?” he whimpered. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone rubbed my feet?”

I chuckled, running my knuckles up under his arch, squeezing his heel firmly, digging my fingers into the ball of his foot. “How long?”

“Since the last time you did it,” he groaned, head back showing off the long, vulnerable line of his throat.

He looked so good at rest, sprawled out, arm flung over his eyes, moaning as I massaged the feet he’d been on all day and all night.