“Right,” I say, glancing down at the teacup in my hand.
He shifts closer, not touching me yet, but near enough that I can feel his heat seeping through the small space between us.
“We just need your grandmother to believe it and for the visa renewal to go through. That’s what Luka said. And if that doesn’t work, we still have immigration and a green card as a last resort.”
I nod, though we both know that immigration is a scary thought. The interview process, the fact that my father might have a pull somewhere that I don’t know about. It’s not just a last resort, it would be more like a miracle.
“So we make her believe that our marriage is real. As long as it takes. She can’t marry you off to Maxim if you’re married to me,” he says. “For better or worse, we’re in this together now until you’re free and there’s no more threat. You and me. You’re not doing this alone.”
He squeezes my hand once, firm.
I look at our joined hands—his big, rough-knuckled one wrapped around my smaller one, the diamond glinting between us like defiance.
“Now,” he says, like we’ve just settled something official, “drink your tea and hand me those feet.”
I blink. “My feet?”
“Yep.” He leans back, completely unbothered. “You’ve been on them all day, right? Audition, plus the last forty-eight hours of chaos? They’ve gotta be killing you. Hand them over. You need a massage.”
I stare at him. “Are you joking?”
“Not even a little.” His mouth tips into a half-smile. “I’ve spent my entire career with trainers elbow-deep in my calves. I know what I’m doing. Let me help, Kat.”
We just went from my father threatening me over text to Scottie casually offering me a foot massage like it’s the most obvious next step in the world.
I should say no.
I should keep a distance. Keep the lines clean.
Instead, my arches throb at the mere thought of his hands on them, and the rest of me… doesn’t exactly protest either.
“Fine,” I say, trying to sound like I’m doinghima favor. “But if this is weird, I’m blaming you.”
“Already my fault,” he says easily. “Married you, remember? Might as well add ‘foot rub’ to the list.”
He shifts, patting his thigh. I turn sideways on the couch, my back against the armrest, tea cupped between my palms. Slowly—too aware of every inch of bare skin—I swing my legs into his lap.
His hands close around my ankles, big and warm and careful, like I’m something breakable and precious instead of a woman who can do thirty-two fouettés without falling on her face.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You're ice cold.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say. “Ballerinas and circulation are not friends.”
“We’ll fix that,” he says.
He presses his thumbs into the arch of my right foot and—
Oh.
I have survived Russian winters and New York critics, and my father’s temper.
I have never survived this.
Heat shoots up my leg, my whole body sighing in one long, embarrassing exhale. It’s not orgasmic-level, but it’s not far from it either.
He finds every knot I didn’t know was there, working slow and steady, like this is just… normal. Like he does this all the time.
He doesn’t look at me while he does it, either. He reaches over, hits play on his laptop with one hand, game footage resuming in front of him, and then goes back to methodically dismantling my feet.
