Chapter Eight
Daisy-Mae
After another long day at the Bed and Breakfast, my ankles and back are killing me, and I’m just about ready for bed.
Every day I feel more and more ... fluffy, and the waddle has become so bad that I’m pretty sure you could dress me in a tux, set me down in the Antarctic, and penguins would be tossing pebbles at my feet. I am one fat-assed penguin, right now.
I laugh out loud at the mental image. West’s gaze snaps in my direction, and then quickly back at the road. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, you know, just imagining scores of emperor penguins lining up to mate me once they realize my ass is bigger than the entire Antarctic shelf.”
West laughs. “What?”
“I’m saying I feel like a damn whale, West. That, or one fat-assed penguin.”
“Okay, I don’t know how to respond to that. So I’ll just say your ass is fine.”
“Fine?” I shriek, incredulously.
His eyes widen as he looks at me. “Do we not like fine?”
“We like ‘fine’ as much as you like me asking how your horse is handling all those treats you forgot to share.”
“But what if fine was really fiiiine?” West pulls up to my house and leaves the truck running as he climbs out to open my door.
I screw up my features and pretend to think over his response as I take his hand and let him help me down.
Do I lace my fingers with his and grip them a little tighter than I need to?
Maybe. Do I also hang on a little longer than completely necessary?
Yes, yes, I do. I still have a hold of his hand as he bumps the door shut with his foot.
“I guess fiiiine is acceptable. I’ll allow it.
” I finally let go, but instantly regret the warmth of his calloused palm against mine.
There’s a chill in the air, and all I want is to curl up on my sofa under a blanket to watch my favorite reality TV show.
Would it be so wrong then to ask for a little company?
I open my mouth ... and then chicken out. “Thanks for the ride.”
God, Daisy. Get your shit together. It’s just hanging out.
West nods. “So, I’ll see you here Monday mornin’?”
“Um ... actually, would you like to come in for dinner? I have chili in the crock pot, and I know I’ll eat too much if left to my own devices so .
..” My words trail off as he bolts around to the driver’s side.
For a minute, I think he’s had all the awkward he’s going to take and is just running off on me, but he grabs the key out of the ignition and locks up.
With a grin, he says, “Don’t gotta ask me twice.”
I laugh. “You’re like a golden retriever when the cheese drawer opens. Have you ever turned down food a day in your life?”
West looks askance. “Well now you’re just talking crazy.”
***
West devours his third bowl of chili and fifth serving of cornbread for the evening and pats his flat stomach as he flops back against my couch. “Okay, I think I’m pregnant now too.”
I laugh. “Where on earth did you put all of that?”
“A cowboy’s gotta have his secrets, darlin.” He grins. “I’m sure I’ll be paying for it tomorrow, but it was so damn worth it tonight.”
“Spoken like a true cowboy,” I shift uncomfortably and puff out my cheeks, letting out a deep breath.
“Everything, okay?”
“Just pregnancy.” I fluff the couch cushion behind me, wedge myself into the corner, and prop my feet up on the center seat. “My whole body hurts.”
West sits up and leans over, looking at my cankles. “Is that normal?”
“Is it normal that I’m walking around with the Goodyear Blimps where my feet should be? Yes, yes, it is.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Yeah. Pregnancy is no picnic.”
West taps his thigh. “Give them here.”
“My feet?” I ask, horrified. “No. Not on your life, mister.” It’s not like they’re sasquatch trotters or anything, I visit Magnolia at Pinky Promises for a pedi and wax once a month, but that doesn’t mean I want West Winchester touching my swamp stompers.
Apparently, he’s not taking no for an answer, because he shifts closer, pulls my foot into his lap, and begins what could only be described as an orgasm-inducing foot rub. My mouth actually hangs open.
“Better?” he asks with a knowing grin. That smug bastard must have done this before.
What does he do, go around to all the pregnant women in town and rock their socks off with—oh my god, he’s working on my ankles now.
I close my eyes and just melt back into the sofa as his expert hands wring all the tension out of me.
Good god. If this is what a foot rub feels like from this man, imagine what he can do with his—
“You okay there, darlin’?”
“Uh-huh.” I manage to say and then I clear my throat and decide it’s best if I don’t follow that train of thought.
West’s hands glide higher, up my calves, massaging stress from all the places I can no longer reach.
When his fingers softly graze the back of my knee, I close my eyes, leaning into his touch and willing him to go higher.
Then I mentally slap myself and shoot up from the couch, though this move is made way less agile and graceful on account of the bowling ball jutting out from my abdomen.
“Who wants dessert?” I ask, already on my way to the kitchen.
West chuckles and says under his breath, “Undone by a foot rub. Oh, Dais. The fun we could have.”
I pretend I haven’t heard a word of that as I fix him a slice of cake and wish I was serving myself up on that plate.