I hold up my hand to signal he has not been called on.
“And number three, don’t say dumb shit about the Salvatore brothers. Stefan is boring.”
He tilts his mouth upward. I’ve named this expression “smugly amused” and it appears to be one of his go-to moves when he’s near me. “Boring?”
“Yeah, boring. And self-righteous. Sound familiar? No one wants to fantasize about a guy who is morally superior. It’s like having a sex dream about a priest—althoughFleabagseason two was pretty dang hot. The Dalai Lama! It’s like having a sex dream about the Dalai Lama,” I explain. I sound like Tara defending one of her trashy boyfriends to Mom. But Jeff just considers what I’m saying and scratches at the stubble along his chin.
“Are you growing a beard?” I ask him. He’s usually clean shaven. Rugged Jeff is throwing me off kilter.
“Maybe,” he says, like it’s some big secret. “How many more weeks of this?” he asks, knocking on the hard plastic of my boot.
“The foot fetish guy said one more—but if someone had done a better job it would be off by now.”
He sighs. “I’ve told you at least six times that I wasn’t your surgeon so stop looking at me like that.” He turns his legs towardme and pats the worn denim on his thighs. “Let me take a look, while I’m here.”
Nopey, nope, no.
I shake my head. “No way am I letting you mess me up further than you already have.”
“I can’t believe they let you teach our youth,” he murmurs, then reaches out and unstraps my boot.
“They beg me to teach the youth,” I correct.
I try to smack his hands away, but they move so fast. He’s like a Velcro strap ninja.
“Stop it. My foot smells and I haven’t shaved.” I’m still smacking away, mostly hitting myself.
He laughs. “Just hold still and let me look. Goodness, you’re a child.”
He’s winning and I’m out of breath. I sit back and hold my hands up, surrendering as he peels off the black plastic and reads my sock out loud.
“I’m a delicate fucking flower.” He looks up at me.
“I am.” Obviously.
He makes a sound of disbelief. “Have you been doing your strengthening exercises?” he asks, shifting my ankle into his lap. His long fingers are careful. Precise. I can’t help but imagine them working their way up?—
He clears his throat. “Devon?”
Too much Damon in one day. I know better than this. It’s like the time I had to take an emergency trip to the vibrator store after that episode with Buffy and Spike that–
“Devon!”
“What?”
His smile is lopsided. I’m still out of breath and I tell myself it was the ninja hand game and not his fingers on my bare skin. He speaks slowly, like I do in class when I’m explaining bivariate data. “Are you doing your physical therapy?”
Not really. But I’m not going to tell Dr. Superior that. “Yes, Jeff. Can I have my foot back now, you creep?”
He’s rolling my sock down in this slow methodical way that is making me dizzy. I stiffen.
“Can you relax your calf?” he asks, as he pulls the sock away.
“It is relaxed. My muscles are just that firm. You know. From all those exercises—Oh god.”
His palm cups the bare skin at my heel and my leg jerks at the sensation, and I kick him square in the jaw. Hard. My hand flies to my mouth.
He keeps one hand on my bad foot and pushes his chin back and forth with the other, testing the joints, staring at me like I’m more trouble than I’m worth.
