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“Says the big loser who can’t eat his food with chopsticks,” I mumble, shoveling my first bite of my precious low mein into my mouth.
Brock barks out a laugh. “Don’t hold back, Joey.”
“So Caleb’s the only dummy who can’t use chopsticks?” I ask, watching Brock eat rice and orange chicken without so much as dropping a single piece.
“If you’re going to be mean, I’ll take my food into another room.” Caleb says.
“Then you don’t get seconds,” Brock replies, pointing a stick toward his friend.
“Fine, take her side. Just for that, I get to pick the movie.”
That doesn’t bother me. Caleb usually picks what we watch, mostly because I like about anything. He settles onLethal Weapon, which is actually one I enjoy. Even though it hashorribly cheesy dramatic music, like all eighties action movies, I still enjoy this series. I mean, Mel Gibson and Danny Glover are amazing together.
When most of the food is gone, Brock jumps up and clears away the leftovers, taking them to the fridge. I join him, searching for a pen. Just as I find one on the counter, Brock asks, “What’re you doing?”
I write my name in capital letters across the top. “Making sure no one eats my food.” He cracks up and shakes his head. “What? It’ll make a great breakfast. Fry an egg and throw it in there, and voilà. Breakfast is served.”
He pops a hip against the counter and smiles. “Maybe I’ll join you.”
I mimic his stance and cross my arms over my chest. There’s no missing the way his eyes zero in on my bare shoulder. I’m barely able to hide the smirk that plays on my lips. “What time do you have to leave?”
“Nine.”
Turning and heading toward the doorway leading back to the living room, I glance over my shoulder and say, “Be down at eight, tight end.”
I’m notonlyreferring to his football position.
I flop down on the couch and grab the throw blanket I was curled up with earlier. Brock returns a few minutes later and has a seat, using the coffee table as a footrest. We make it halfway through the movie before I need to stretch my legs. When I do, I accidentally kick into Brock’s side.
I quickly pull back, an apology on the tip of my tongue, but am surprised when he grabs ahold of my foot. I don’t really know what to expect, but Brock Williams digging his thumbs into the arch of my foot isn’t it. The most amazing sensations course through my veins, and I almost moan in pure euphoria. Hepresses hard, hitting all my nerve endings and pressure points, while wrapping his large hands around my foot.
Holy hell, his hands are big.
Long fingers glide effortlessly across my ankles as he massages and manipulates the muscles I didn’t even realize were in need of a little attention. In fact, if he went searching, I’d bet he’d find a lot of other muscles that could use his expert hands.
And maybe other parts of his body too.
I turn to look at the man who’s still an enigma to me and find him watching the movie. He appears so focused and casual, leaning back on the couch, his feet still kicked up on the table. Only I know how looks are deceiving. His attention may be on the screen, but his hands are still very busy, kneading and rubbing my foot. Apparently, Brock doesn’t have an aversion to feet.
When he finishes giving me the little orgasmic rubdown—still referring to my feet, by the way, though I wouldn’t be against… you know—he sets my foot down and slips it back beneath my blanket. I’m about to pull it back when he grabs the other foot and does the exact same thing.
Pure. Bliss.
If this were a movie I’d never seen before, I would have had no idea what happened. My mind isn’t focused on Riggs and Murtaugh as they track down a drug dealer at a Christmas tree farm. Oh, no. I’m held in complete rapture by the man opposite me on my brother’s sofa.
Brock is still a complete unknown factor to me. Sure, he’s gorgeous. I’d have to be dead not to see it. A quick Google search this morning confirmed he was traded to Kansas City from the Chicago Thunder, who were so desperate for a quarterback, they traded a two-time Pro Bowler at the top of his game to get it.
Of course, there were other things I found out while doing a little online searching. One was the fact he’s never had aserious girlfriend. At least not anyone the tabloid media could find. Apparently, he liked to party and had the reputation of a playboy back in Chicago. I can’t fault him for that. At least he’s not married while running around like a dog in heat, like my dad was.
The other thing I discovered was he’s a big donor to a children’s charity. He contributes a hefty chunk of change every year and attends their big charity gala in Chicago. There were tons of pictures online, including some on the organization’s website. Brock looked positively stunning in a tuxedo, always with some model-thin girl in a dress sized for a child draped over his arm.
After Brock massages my left foot, he sets it down on his thigh and rests his hand on my leg. Even though it’s the most comfortable position in the world, I’m hyperaware of the fact he’s touching me.
And I like it.
If Caleb notices, he doesn’t say a word.
At some point, Hermione decided to curl up with the man at the end of the couch and lies in the small space between my feet and Brock’s chest. He moves his hand, not the one resting on my leg, but the other one, and starts to pet her, making her purr in happiness.
