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I gasp, then stare at him in question.
He states, "You need a bath, Blakely. Your feet are black."
Embarrassment floods me. "Oh. Sorry."
He pecks me on the lips and then sets me in the warm bubble bath.
I sink into it, and a tiny moan flies out of me. The water feels like heaven.
Riggs picks up a washcloth, pours soap on it, then lifts one of my feet out of the tub and questions, "Why are your feet black?"
I open my mouth and then snap it shut. Maybe it's best if he doesn't know about my father's men. If he has his secrets with my father, then perhaps I should too?
"I asked you a question, Blakely," he demands.
I decide a half-truth is best and reveal, "I was late to the auction and didn't want to run in my stilettos."
His piercing gaze never leaves mine as he scrubs my feet. He asks, "Why were you late?"
"I came from my job."
"And where is that?"
My stomach flips. I'm not embarrassed by where I work, but Riggs is my father's partner. Surely he'll look down upon it?
"Just tell me the truth. Don't ever lie to me," he orders, as if he can read my thoughts.
"I'm a server at a place called Cheeks," I confess.
Riggs doesn't flinch. "The strip club?"
"Yes. You've been there?" I inquire.
"No."
"Oh," I say, suddenly feeling super exposed.
He glances at my foot, lowers it, and picks up the other one. He asks, "You're a server or stripper there?"
"Server. I just said server," I angrily answer.
"Easy," he says in a low voice.
"Don't judge other women or me for what we do to survive," I chastise.
His tone stays neutral. "Who said I was judging?"
I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest under the bubbles, pointing out, "I know you'd never understand what it's like since you grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth, but there's a lot of hardworking people trying to make ends meet. It's not right to judge them."
He freezes. The washcloth stays pressed against my foot. He scowls. "I just told you I wasn't judging. And before you get all defensive, get your facts straight."
"My facts? About what?" I question.
He clenches his jaw and glances at the ceiling. He takes a few breaths, then returns to cleaning my foot. He releases it and pushes a bottle toward me. "Wash the makeup off your face."
His tone makes me think he doesn't approve of it. I ask, "Is there something wrong with my makeup?"
He studies me, then replies, "When did you start wearing so much?"
