Page 39

She looked out of place in this shitty car with torn, faded fabric on the seat under her, duct tape on the glove box. Like an elegant leading lady right out of a black-and-white movie, dropped into a scene that didn’t make any sense.

I tore my gaze away, afraid she’d notice me staring.

“Lie down with me,” she said. “We have what? A forty-five-minute wait? Might as well be comfortable.”

I lowered my seat and stared up through the sunroof at the Los Angeles version of stars—the planes lining up to land at LAX.

We sat in silence for a minute, and I thought of that scene in Pulp Fiction, when—

“You know what this feels like?” she asked. “That scene in Pulp Fiction, when—”

“Comfortable silences. When Mia Wallace says, ‘That’s when you know you’ve found somebody really special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.’”

She made a finger gun at me. “Disco.”

We smiled and held each other’s gaze for a moment. A long, lingering moment. And then, just for a second—a split second—her eyes dropped to my lips.

That’s all it took.

In that moment, I knew. She’d thought about kissing me just then.

This isn’t one-sided.

It was the first hint I’d seen that she was interested. That she thought of me as more than just a friend.

Encouraged, my heart launched into rapid fire as I started debating my options.

The boyfriend.

My threshold for being respectful to this lucky, absent bastard was evaporating. I was going to make a move on her. If I didn’t, I’d never forgive myself for not trying. If there was even the slightest chance she might be into me, I had to try.

But how? Should I just try to kiss her? Would she tell me to go to hell?

Probably.

What if I slid my hand over hers? Would she yank it away? She would. I knew she would.

I needed something else. Something less. More subtle. Something that could go either way to test the waters. Something that could lead to something else.

“Hey, I give a decent foot massage if your feet hurt.” I nodded to the center console where her heels still sat after being dropped through the sunroof.

To my surprise, she pivoted until her back was against the door, and she swung her legs over into my lap. She put an arm behind her head and leaned back. “Go for it. Those heels were killing me today.”

I grinned inwardly that my strategy worked and put my back to the door while I took her tiny foot in my hand. “I’m a foot massage master. ‘I don’t be tickling or nothing,’” I said, giving her a Pulp Fiction line.

She snorted. “I’m exfoliated and pedicured. Someone should touch them.”

I thought about what Vincent Vega says in the movie, that foot massages mean something. That men act like they don’t, but they do and that’s why they’re so cool.

This meant something, and I knew she knew it. She was as familiar with that movie as I was. She had to be making the connection.

And she’d allowed it.

I reveled in the chance to touch her and at the unspoken meaning behind her letting me do it.

“So, Foot Massage Master, what other tricks do you have in your bag?” she asked, giving me a sideways smile.

I pressed a thumb into her arch and circled it around with a smirk. “I’m not giving you my trade secrets.” What if I need them?