“I mean in general. Without the wine.”
“You’re right. I am.”
“Miranda”—he paused, frowning at my foot—“I’m glad you and Kacey are here. I’m glad we did this.”
“Me too, Jack.” I should’ve stopped, but more spilled out. “You make me feel safe.”
His chest collapsed as air rushed out. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”
Silence settled between us as he continued rubbing my foot. I could think of nothing but his big hands, now rubbing my ankle. We both stared at the TV, but neither of us paid much attention. I knew because the contestant we rooted for the last several weeks got eliminated from the show. Neither of us said a word.
One of Jack’s hands slipped up to the back of my calf. I did my best to hide how my breathing shallowed and heat erupted over my face.
How many massages had Jack given me over the years? They always started small. A hand, a foot, the top of my head. But he knew how to work down my defenses. How to melt me. How to touch me so I would move closer.
He was doing that now. The knowledge terrified me. But, I allowed it. Allowed him. Allowed my mind to entertain the thoughts I’d been fighting. Remember things I’d been blocking. But when his thumbs swept over the top of my knee, I panicked. I sat up, pulling away and he returned his hands to his lap with a satisfied smile.
I couldn’t draw a breath. Prayed my struggle for oxygen wasn’t too obvious.
I could just go upstairs—get away from him. But it was still early and I wasn’t ready to leave him just yet. So, we watched the TV for a little longer and I gulped the last of my abandoned wine in one big swallow.
What we needed was a mood-lightener. Some fun. I knew the perfect thing.
“Hm.” I frowned at his face.
“Now what?”
“I’m disappointed in you.”
His head lolled slightly back. He had read my voice, andfigured I was about to give him a hard time. His tone was laced with sarcasm. “Oh great. What’d I do?”
I pressed my lips together then sighed. “You let your uni-brow grow back.”
His hand spread across his sternum and he exploded, laughing. “What?!”
“Yeah, I mean”—I grimaced—“it’s bad.”
“You are insane.”
I scooted closer. “Here, let me count.”
He pushed me back with his elbow. “Absolutely not.”
“No, come here. It’ll only take a sec.” I leaned around his arm, giggling, pushing my pointer finger toward his face.
He swatted my hand away so I brought the other one up. I tapped the air in front of his eyes, counting as fast as I could. “One, two, three, four…”
He wrestled my arms down. “You are officially limited to one glass.” His words were peppered with the most adorable sounds, laughter leaking out. “Your extra two ounces is making you see things.”
I kept counting, jumping straight to the thirties to stress him out. “…thirty-one, thirty-two.” I said it like it was a huge recurring problem. It wasn’t. I plucked his eyebrows twice in the years we were together. But I had brought it up many times to watch his cortisol surge.
He pushed me back, breathless with laughter. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”
“Come on, let me pluck them.”
“Why are you morbidly obsessed with crap like this?”
“It’s fun.”
