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She cocked her head to the side, taking him in, her first time seeing him in scrubs, certain no piece of clothing existed that wouldn’t look good on him. Quite possibly, she loved the scrubs more than she loved the suits.
“I like you in scrubs.” She slipped her feet out of the shoes, and her toes immediately wiggled, happy for the taste of freedom. “You should do a shoot with me one of these days.”
He pointed to her feet. “Do they hurt?”
“They’re a little sore from the shoes.”
“Come here.”
She went.
They switched places.
While she climbed onto the bar stool, he grabbed a chair, took a seat, and set her foot on his lap. “Tell me if you feel pain,” he instructed. “Also, tell me if you feel anything odd, like a reduced sensation or numbness.”
He lightly massaged the base of her toes, focusing on the movements of his hands and fingers. In the meantime, she stared at the top of his head. An annulment was the right decision, a fair decision. She’d taken advantage of him, and they didn’t have to be married to date.
“It must be torture,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “It is.”
“What am I talking about?”
“Whatareyou talking about?”
“Being married to me. You’ve been my husband for longer than a week now. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”
He pressed his thumb against the sole of her foot, and she grabbed the edge of her seat to prevent herself from flying right off the stool.
“Pain?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s a little sore, yeah.”
“If you have to wear those,” he indicated the shoes with a tilt of his head, “don’t do any walking in them and wear them for as short a period as possible. Stay off your feet when you can.” He pressed again, gentler. “And I’ve barely seen you, so how could it be torture to be married to you for a week?”
“Could you imagine if Fashion Week was later?” She snorted a laugh. “Like, what if it had been a month away rather than a week?”
His fingers moved toward her ankles. “Are you implying that I wouldn’t have lasted being married to you for longer than a week?”
“Saraci, you wouldn’t last a month married to me.”
He looked up. “A month? That’s too easy.”
“Three months, then.”
He reached out, lifted her clear off the stool, and brought her down onto his lap. “Don’t do that,” he warned.
“Do what?”
“Test me.”
“Saraci, in two weeks, you’d walk out, never mind three months. We do not get along.”
“I disagree.”
“Unless we’re drunk or tired, we’re tearing each other’s heads off.”
Also, if they were lucky, someone would show up looking for them in the next five minutes. She wasn’t wearing nearly enough clothing to be this close to him.
