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“A few times,” I admit. “When I was younger. After…”
I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t think I have to.
After my mom died.
He’s quiet for a moment and when I drop my hands, I see that he’s watching me. His expression is incredibly serious. “You freaked me out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he’s quick to say. “It’s not like you did it on purpose.”
Not sure what I should say, I grab my tumbler and take another sip. Shocked when he settles his big body on the other end of the couch, lifting my feet and settling them in his lap before he proceeds to untie my shoes.
“What are you doing?” I squeak, leaning over to set the Stanley cup on the coffee table in front of us.
“Taking off your shoes,” he says, as calm as ever. He slips each one off, then my socks, and I try to jerk my feet out of his lap, but he clamps down hard on my ankles, keeping me in place.
“They might stink,” I warn him, my cheeks, my entire body flushed with embarrassment.
“They don’t.” He literally brings one of my feet up to his face and breathes deep, like he’s trying to inhale my toes. “Not at all.”
A nervous giggle leaves me, and I’m jumpy when he curves his hands around my feet and starts to massage the insole, his touch light.
Perfect.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, his gaze on mine. “Everywhere.”
I swallow hard.
“Including your feet.”
It’s your fault, I want to tell him. I get in your presence and I almost faint.
But I don’t say that. How could I? Confessing all is…
Scary.
And I don’t even know what I’m confessing. Everything that’s happened between us since the first day of school has been so confusing. Conflicting. He’s mean, he’s nice. He’s hot, he’s cold.
I don’t get it. I don’t gethim.
“Where’s your dad?”
The question is casual, but the way he’s touching me is definitely not. He might only be rubbing my feet but who does that? No one. No one really touches me ever. I get the occasional hug from my father but that’s it. I am starved for physical touch and obvious displays of affection. The way that Arch has his hands on me…
I never want him to stop.
Should I tell him the truth about Dad’s whereabouts?
“He went out to dinner.” My voice is hollow, a scrape against the dry skin of my throat and I take another sip from my Stanley cup. “With Kathy.”
Arch’s brows draw together. “Kathy from the dining hall?”
I nod. Sip yet again.
“They like each other?”
“I think so.”
