She huffs, flopping back against the armrest. “You might be my best friend, but this is still embarrassing.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I say, my tone serious as I glance up at her. “These are the cutest fucking feet I’ve ever seen.”
“Brandon—”
“They’re perfect.”
She rolls her eyes, like she doesn’t believe me.
“I’m being serious. But even if your feet were monstrous, they’d still be yours,” I say, unscrewing the lid on the polishand starting to paint her big toe, “and so, they’d still be perfect by default.”
Tate goes silent for a moment, so silent I wonder if she really is mad at me. I glance up from my handiwork to catch her staring, her gaze soft as I cradle her foot in one hand, the little brush in my other.
A beat of silence passes between us as we stare at each other wordlessly.
“What?” I ask, grinning.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head and swallows, glancing back down at her foot.
I recommence painting, and I’m concentrating so hard by the time I get to her little toes, my tongue peeks out of the corner of my mouth.
I catch a flash of something in my periphery and glance up to see Tate snapping a picture with her phone.
“Just remember, if that’s supposed to be blackmail, your feet are in the picture, too.”
Tate chuckles. “Not blackmail. Just a moment I’d like to remember.”
My heart pinches. One day, if she ends up with Ethan, would that be all she has to look back on? Would all our old photographs be the only evidence we have that we were once like this? So fucking close she feels like a piece of my soul?
I swallow over the lump in my throat, telling myself to concentrate when I get some polish on her skin. “Fuck. These baby toes are tiny as hell.”
Tatum chuckles and leans forward, showing me how to use my thumbnail to remove the bit of extra polish.
Once I’m finished with both feet, I assess my handiwork. “Pretty damn good, if you ask me.”
“Not bad.” She smirks, then lifts the bottle and shakes it. “Want me to do yours?”
“Hell no.” I’m quick to respond, then out of desperation to avoid a pedicure?because the guys will never let me live that down?I suggest, “What if I give you a massage while your toes dry and that stuff works on your face?” I gesture vaguely to her mask.
In truth, I just want another excuse to touch her. To prolong this moment and suspend it in time as if that might change the reality she’s with someone else.
Her eyes brighten, and I know I’ve won. “Really? You’d do that?”
“Of course,” I say, moving behind her on the couch. “You can’t have a spa day without a massage.”
“I haven’t had a massage in forever,” she says, and I wonder how that can possibly be true when she has a boyfriend.
She adjusts her position, settling between my legs as I place my hands on her shoulders, mulling over the fact Ethan can’t even be bothered to give her a damn massage. What a dick. He should feelprivilegedto touch her, beg to run his hands down her back.
I clench my jaw, trying to push Ethan from my mind as I focus on her and my hands start to work their magic over hertight muscles, finding and kneading the knots in her shoulders with my thumbs.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “That feels amazing.”
The breathy sound of her voice catches me off guard, sending a punch of heat straight to my dick. I clear my throat, pressing my fingers more firmly into her shoulders as I try and stifle my reaction to her. “So, uh, how’s your lit paper coming along?” I ask, desperate for a safe topic.
“Almost done.” She sighs. “Just need to finish my analysis of Fitzgerald.”
I nod, working my way down her traps, when she lets out a soft moan that makes my stomach clench.
