“Well, some people must not have them, otherwise why would you bother to test for them?”
I’m pretty impressed by my logic, but Drew just looks amused. “You’re young and healthy. You have reflexes.”
I shake my head. “My sister Hayley tested my reflexes last year, when she was practicing for school, and she could barely get anything. Even with a real reflex hammer. She said some people barely have reflexes.”
“I could get your reflexes,” Drew says confidently.
“You think so?”
His smile broadens. “Ally, I do this for a living.”
“Show me.”
“Some other time.”
“You’re worried you won’t be able to do it,” I taunt.
He rolls his eyes. “Ally?—”
“Get your reflex hammer.” I’m determined not to let him get a reflex out of me. I’ll hold my knee flexed if it kills me.
“You didn’t hurt your knees when you fell off your bike?” he asks.
“The left one’s scraped a little, but the right’s fine.”
He stands up with a sigh. “Then roll your pants up above your right knee and lie on your back.”
I obediently pull up my sweatpants and lie back on the sofa.
“Bend your knee a little,” he instructs. “Yeah, like that.”
He slips one hand under my knee to support it, then runs the other hand over my kneecap. His hands are warm and his touch confident, and a shiver of excitement ripples through me.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m just finding your patellar tendon.”
But before I know what’s happening, he taps the tendon with the side of his hand, like a gentle karate chop.
And my traitorous leg jerks forward. Reflexively.
“Huh,” he says, with a smirk of satisfaction. “I guess you do have reflexes after all.”
I frown at him. I was expecting him to go for a reflex hammer, and he caught me unprepared. “How’d you do that? With just your hand, I mean.”
He shrugs. “There’s nothing magic about a reflex hammer, Ally. It’s just a question of finding the right spot.”
Against my will, I imagine what it would be like to go to bed with this man. I have a feeling he knows how to find all the right spots.
“Do it again,” I demand.
He grins. “That would be showing off.”
“Come on, Drew.”
He sits down at the end of the couch, by my feet, then gently scrapes his thumb up the bottom of my foot.
I yank my foot away with a laugh. “What was that?”
“It’s the plantar reflex,” he says innocently. “If you stroke the bottom of the foot, the toes should point down.”
