“It does?” he asks, his hands roaming up my leg, kneading the taut muscles in my calves.
I dig my other foot into his side, and when he shifts away laughing, he captures it, tucking it into his hip, secured with his elbow.
“Mostly. First, I don’t snore,” I say adamantly.
“You say that…”
“Two”—I draw the word out, getting us back on track—“I was actually talking about Jake. How do you so seamlessly correct that attitude and at the same time command respect?” I scoot down further on the couch and free my trapped foot, resting it on his thigh. “Do you have a bunch of nephews? Secret kiddos of your own hidden in every port?”
Miles’s hands still briefly in their massage before he clears his throat and tilts his head to the side, cracking his neck. “I have four nieces. My younger sister,” he adds when he sees my questioning look. “She married her high school sweetheart and lives near my parents’ farm.”
“How old are they?”
“The oldest is six, the twins are four, and the youngest just turned one.”
My eyes widen. “Twins. Really? Jack and Kate’s oldest are twin boys. I can’t imagine.”
Finally, the stress I saw twist his lips stretches into happiness. “They’re Irish twins actually, eleven months apart, but they look a lot alike. All the girls do.” And there’s that sadness back again.
“You miss them?” I guess.
“I do.” He goes back to rubbing my foot, digging his thumbs in, working my tension away as he battles his own. “I get back to Iowa to see them when I can.”
“Does your family ever come to visit you? Oh, have they ever seen the ocean?”
I so take it for granted that everyone has experienced the power of the ocean, perfectly balanced with the calm serenity ofit. Growing up in the Midwest, it’s a distinct possibility that they haven’t.
After a pause, Miles blows out a deep breath, almost forcing the tension to leave his shoulders. “They all came to California a couple of years ago, so everyone but the baby has. The middle two probably don’t remember any of the trip.” A shrug hitches at his shoulder, his movement stiff and uncomfortable.
I pull my foot from his hands, sit up, and push the coffee table away from the couch. “Come here.” I pat the floor in front of me.
A laugh chuffs from Miles, a little reserved. “Why do I need to sit on the floor?” He folds his big body onto the floor and leans his back against the couch.
“Take off your shirt,” I tell him, swinging my legs so they rest one on either side of him. And, Lord, when he does, muscles flex and ripple in a mouthwatering display.
He hums as I drag my nails through his thick, dark hair and down the back of his head.
He groans as I grab hold of his trapezius, and he rolls his shoulders back as I dig my thumbs into the tight muscles.
I knead and dig, pinch and push until, finally, Miles melts, relaxing into my thighs.
“What are you doing to me?” he mumbles, low and husky.
“Returning the favor,” I say. I lean forward and graze the curve of his ear with my lips. Nipping at the lobe. Kissing his neck just behind it. “You’re always rubbing my feet, my legs—taking care of me. I want to do the same for you.”
His groan as I kiss my way down the strong column of his neck, across the top of his back, spurs me on.
There is nothing more powerful than the feeling of making the person you care about feel good. And this thing with Miles has turned into more—much more—than me just caring about him. I can see him as part of us, part of our family.
EIGHTEEN
Miles
The more time I spend with Chloe and Jake, the more time I want to spend with them. It’s like I can’t get enough.
Without any planning or discussion, we’ve fallen into a comfortable routine. On the afternoons that Jake’s team has practice, I skate out of work early to pick him up from school. We grab a bite to eat, pick up Bronson, and head for the rugby pitch.
God knows, with as early as I’ve been getting into the office, I’m putting in almost a full workday by the time lunch rolls around.
