“Me?” she mumbles beneath my finger, and the sensation of her soft lips moving against me sends my thoughts spiraling into the gutter.
I swallow with a nod, then lean down and dig through the bag of supplies we picked up at the drugstore earlier in an effort to distract myself from how badly I want to kiss her, among other things.
Pulling a little bottle of hot pink polish out of the bag, I read off the label. “Flamingo Pink.”
I eye her skeptically, and she laughs. “What? It’s pretty.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum because pink is her favorite color. There’s not a damn thing I don’t know about this girl.
I reach for her feet, patting the empty space on my lap. “Come on, Tate. Let me see those toes.”
“What? No!” She jerks her legs away, tucking them beneath her, cheeks flushing as she shakes her head. “I’ll do them myself.”
“Why? I exfoliated and smeared banana all over my face for you, didn’t I? The least you can do is let me paint your toes.”
“My feet are gross,” she mumbles, curling further into herself.
I roll my eyes. “They’re not gross.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know everything about you.” I snap my fingers and point to my lap.
She purses her lips, crossing her arms over her chest, unable to counter because she knows it’s the truth. “Still no.”
“Fine.” I sigh, acting resigned before I lunge forward and grab her ankle.
She squeals as I yank her leg across my lap, her arms flailing as she tries to pull away. “Brandon! Stop it!”
“Nope. You tortured me, now it’s my turn.” I hold her ankle firmly, my fingers wrapping easily around her slim leg as she struggles.
“This isn’t fair. I’d hardly call a face mask torture,” she manages between pants as she fights me. “I’m serious!” Her voice pitches higher as she tries to wriggle free, but I’m stronger and she knows it. “My feet are hideous!”
“Let me be the judge of that.” I peel off one sock despite her protests, revealing her small foot and smooth skin. Her nails are short, trimmed, and unpainted. Her pinky toe is tiny and the one beside it curls slightly inward.
They’re the cutest fucking things I’ve ever seen.
“Let go,” she whines, trying to jerk her foot away.
I tighten my grip, staring at her when I say, “You know I’ve seen your feet before, right?”
“Yeah, but not this close up.”
I snort, examining her foot with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re right. These thingsareabominations. They should never be exposed again.”
“Brandon!”
With a chuckle, I turn her foot gently in my hand, my thumb absently stroking across her arch, which seems to soothe her. “But seriously, these are the feet you’re so embarrassed about? The ones you claim are hideous?”
She shivers slightly. “Stop looking at them like that.”
“Like what?” I ask, pressing my thumb into her arch and zeroing in on her lower lip when her teeth sink into it.
“Like . . .” Her words trail off as I deftly capture her other foot, my large hands making quick work of removing her remaining sock despite her squirming protests.
“Brandon!” she yelps, pushing against my chest with her free foot, but I’m unmoved. “Give the sock back!”
“Not a chance,” I say, holding both her feet firmly in my lap now. I shake the tiny bottle of polish, the little ball inside clicking rhythmically. “You lost the battle, Tate. Accept defeat gracefully.”
