“Stop manhandling my feet!”
“I’m not manhandling them. I’m trying to massage them. You look like you need to relax.”
I stop fighting him. Both because I do need to relax, and because he noticed. I’m beginning to feel like he notices everything. Pat is a star pupil, majoring in Lindy with a minor in Lindy studies. Which means he can sense my stress.
It’s not that I had a bad day or anything, but the weight of things with Jo has hung heavily over me today in particular. Each day we inch toward the hearing feels like watching a doomsday timer. What will the courts decide? What will it be like to see Rachel again? What will happen if they take Jo away? I know I’m being too clingy with her, mostly because she’s told me as much.
Pat sighs roughly and angles his big body toward me. The big body I can easily picture in high def, thanks to how often he is shirtless. Let’s see, there was the toilet fixing incident which ended with him pressed up against me in the bathtub, then the squirrel examination, where I got up close and personal with his chest. Then there are his daily workouts. Sprints and push-ups and some kind of jumping things in the backyard. Not that I’ve watched him through the faded eyelet curtains in my room. Only creepy stalkers would do that.
Just this morning, I stepped out of my bedroom as Pat came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. Steam swirled around him and the bathroom light caused a kind of halo effect. Beads of water ran slowly over the planes of his chest and the distinct ridges of his abs. The many, many ridges. Even all these years out from being in the pros, Pat’s body is unreal. I feel like I need to hand someone a ticket stub just to view it. But he seems to enjoy giving me free shows.
I was mid-yawn, and I choked on my own spit at the sight of him. I bolted downstairs, locking myself in the bathroom until he left the house. He took his time getting ready too. What I didn’t think about until later is that Pat probably assumed I was pooping for like half an hour.
Super sexy, Lindy. Super. Sexy.
“Does this feel good?” Pat asks, jarring me back into the moment. The one where he’s almost putting me to sleep with this amazing foot rub. “Too hard? Too soft? Just right?” He grins, eyes glinting with mischief.
I lie back and put a pillow over my face. “It’s good,” I mumble through the fabric. “But massage at your own risk. I have hobbit feet.”
I hear Jo set down her book and shift in her seat, probably pulled out of her story by hearing the word hobbit.
“You don’t have hobbit feet,” Pat scoffs.
“I do!” I wiggle them so he can get a good look. “See how wide they are? You have no idea how difficult it is for me to find shoes.”
Pat lightly runs his fingers over the tops and sides of my feet. His touch sends a cascade of signals through my nervous system, from my toes all the way up to my scalp. Even my eyeballs suddenly feel hot. I take the pillow off and fan my face with it. Jo is leaning forward, elbows on her bent knees, watching us with interest.
After a moment, Pat says, “I’ve done a full examination. You are officially not a resident of the Shire.”
Jo giggles, and Pat winks at her, which does something entirely different, though no less powerful, to my body. He’s been so good with her, so warm and patient and perfect. And Jo has been soaking in his attention like a sponge.
There’s that echo again, the word family carried on some invisible breeze, a whisper making my chest pinch with longing.
I settle a little as Pat begins rubbing my feet in earnest. It’s impossible not to—the man has good, strong hands. If I’m not careful, I’m going to be imagining his hands elsewhere.
“I’m going to bed,” Jo announces.
“Who do you want to read to you tonight?” I ask, already guessing what the answer will be. Since he moved in, it’s Pat. Always Pat.