Chapter 12
Sophie
Not only did the salon have openings for pedicures, but they just about lost their minds when they saw Pace.
I mean, obviously. It wasn’t every day the hottest guy in town walked into a room full of women.
“Two pedis?” the woman behind the desk asked, eyes gleaming as they drifted to Pace, who was tucked not so subtly behind me.
“Yes. Please. I-I don’t have an appointment.
If you’re too busy, we can come back another time.
” I felt the red carpet of my tongue unfurling for a movie premiere of oversharing, when Pace’s body heat met my back.
He put a hand on my shoulder, and I shut my mouth.
Only then was I aware of how my body trembled.
Shame washed over me, but he squeezed my shoulder, offering his presence like a life vest.
“No. Fine,” she said. “Pick color.” She waved to a wall of nail polish before turning and hurrying off.
“Were we supposed to follow her? Or should we wait here?” I glanced after her and around the room.
A few people getting manicures looked up at me.
Were they looking at me because I was looking at them?
Were they curious about Pace? Or were they wondering why I hadn’t followed the woman who worked here because that was protocol?
This is what I was talking about. People always assume you knew what was expected. Everybody walked around this planet like it wasn’t their first time, and all the rules were written right there.
Pace had drifted away, and I shuffled after him.
“Oh, fun,” Pace said and wiggled his fingers at all the nail polishes lined up on the wall. “So many choices.”
I reached for a neutral pink, almost flesh color. Maybe a little too flesh colored? Would it look like I didn’t have toenails and the skin just extended to the end?
“Go big or go home,” he said and shoved a neon orange at me, a shade usually reserved for hunting vests and construction signs.
The look on my face must have said it all for me, because he put it back on the shelf and murmured, “Maybe next time.”
I hesitated over a different light pink, again, almost the exact color of my untouched nails.
“How about we split the difference?” He held up a pretty shade of brownish orange that reminded me of the leaves that would soon change in the center of town. It had a pretty shimmer that was subtle enough it wouldn’t draw too much attention, but gave me a little thrill of something different.
I nodded. I could do that.
“Ready,” the woman said, appearing out of nowhere behind us. Was that a question or a demand?
She turned and started walking away again.
I looked to Pace helplessly. Did he understand this unwritten language? Of course he did. He grinned at me and gestured to follow her. His hand hovered right above my lower back as I passed him. I could feel the heat of it, so light but not quite pressing.
Walking across the salon, all the eyes tracking Pace and me were as subtle as being screamed at.
Some faces were recognizable, as happens in small-town life.
Pretty sure one of the women was a yarn regular of Grandma’s.
Another was Mrs. Wilson, the biggest gossip in town and the mother of Vicky Lambert, a longtime antagonist in my life. Because, of course, she was here now.
Pace said hello to a few people by name (obviously) as we walked the nine hundred miles back to the pedicure area.
People didn’t even bother to hide their curious glances. They were probably wondering why someone like him was with someone like me.
No.
I balled my fists. It wasn’t fair to assume the worst about people’s thoughts. It wasn’t fair to them or me. On the other hand, after a lifetime of hearing and reading garbage comments online, I couldn’t be that far off.
Pace came up alongside me and bumped his shoulder with mine. He grinned down at me in a questioning way, like he was checking in. I unclenched my jaw and smiled with a nod as if to say, Oh, I’m fine, all this is totally normal for me.
Imagine a world where we were together. What if we just walked around, ran errands, and got our toes done?
After being shown our chairs, I awkwardly maneuvered my way in, deciding to place my bag on the floor, only realizing after that there were hooks under the armrest thing to hang it on. I just wanted to be seated and in position as fast as possible.
Once settled, I quickly pulled off my shoes and socks, hoping there was no embarrassing sock fuzz to draw attention to me.
Score one for packing extra sandals. I would be able to wear them until my toes were dry.
Pace was frowning, looking at my legs. I had one toe pointed, tentatively testing the scalding water of the pedicure bowl.
I swallowed. Was he checking out my legs? Or did my socks leave weird lines on my skin, and he was pondering if I had some infectious condition?
“Guess I didn’t really think this through.” He tugged his hat off and ran a hand through his smooshed hair, making little sections flip up in funny directions.
“Hmm?” I asked. My heart thumped even louder in my chest; it hadn’t taken a rest in a while.
“My shoes and pants.”
“Where are your little running shorts when you need them?” I said quietly.
He looked up, surprised at my joke. I guess it had been some time since I’d spoken.
“Should I just take off my shoes?” he asked, looking at the lady who pulled up a stool to work on his feet. She nodded eagerly and gestured for him to sit.
“I’ll just take off my shoes and socks then. What about my pants?” His hands went to the button of the jeans he wore. “Should I take these off?”
It was as though the whole salon had been listening because all at once dozens of heads snapped in our direction, and it was dead silent save the bubbling water of the machines.
I had a vision of calendar Pace suddenly shirtless and back in his hot pants, one leg up on the chair, next to me, as he undulated his hips and performed a striptease for the lucky ladies of Cozy Creek Nails.
“Hell yes,” somebody on the other side of the room whispered, followed by a few hushed giggles.
So much for not drawing attention to ourselves. I focused on my feet as I checked the water again. Still a few degrees short of boiling.
I forced myself to dip my feet, watching as my skin turned pink in the bubbling water almost instantly. Wasn’t the best feeling. I felt Pace’s eyes on the side of my face, but I continued to look forward, picking at my cuticles.
“I’ll just roll them up,” he said.
A few “ah, man” echoed around the room.
When the woman helping Pace gasped, I looked back in their direction. She was looking at his legs in horror.
“Is it bad?” he asked with a nervous chuckle. “I guess between all my runs and the fire boots, I have neglected my nails a bit.”
His technician walked away, calling out in Vietnamese to someone in the back. Her tone wasn’t panicked exactly, but she didn’t seem as calm as the others who chatted quietly back and forth together as they worked.
When she returned, she had another technician in tow, one with shoulder-length dark hair. She blew out air between her lips and pulled up a chair next to her coworker.
Pace gave me a sheepish shrug before dipping his toes into the water. “Damn,” he said and pulled his foot out. “Is it supposed to be that hot?” he asked the ladies.
They shook their heads, laughing, and messed with some knobs at his feet.
“That’s better, thank you. Think I about lost a layer of skin,” he joked to me.
He looked to where my own foot soup was happening. “You’re tougher than me,” he said, then added a low whistle.
Hardly. I was dying. But I would get used to it. Being slightly uncomfortable was always better than trying to communicate that discomfort.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, taking a moment to try to relax.
I looked tentatively at the little remote attached to the chair and briefly debated adjusting it or using the massager.
I had to sort of strain to reach the foot pad, and it was making my legs cramp.
But then an image of me not being able to control the chair and my upper body being tossed around like a load of laundry flashed in my head, and I figured I’d better not.
“Oh, man. This is nice,” Pace’s voice warbled, and when I peeked my eyes open to look at him, the massage chair was performing some sort of jujitsu along his back, causing him to shake violently. I could hear the laughter all around us.
At least it wasn’t at me.
“Why are there two women now?” He leaned over to ask me.
“You’re just special, I guess,” I said.
We both turned in tandem to see one of the women lower her protective eyewear as the other started up what looked like a small drill.
“Should I be alarmed?” he asked.
“Do you use all your toes?” I leaned closer, mirroring his body language until we were just a few inches apart. He had freckles I hadn’t noticed until just this moment.
“I’ve grown attached.” He twisted his features into a fake look of worry.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
His gaze flicked to my lips before he leaned back and slipped on his mask of affability.
I went back to staring straight ahead, but not at the woman working on my feet. Every time she looked up at me, I gave her a wide smile of encouragement like a total boob.
My gaze drifted over to Pace’s legs. They were just so big and manly and hairy.
Especially in contrast to all the feminine energy around us, he stood out.
His red-blond hair was much lighter on his legs, but it was thick and coarse.
His calves bulged, and his bare feet were now (thankfully) strongly alluring to look at.
What was it about bare feet that felt so intimate?
I felt so aware of every piece of him. If he were a cartoon, he’d be all big blocky rectangles and squares with little swirls for his hair.
It took two women, one power tool, and several rounds of soaking before Pace’s feet were finished.
It had allowed me to rest my thoughts as I watched them work on those monstrosities he called feet.
At one point, I almost felt downright relaxed.
Just for a second. Then I remembered I existed, and it was over.
I’d been done and drying for a few minutes before they patted Pace’s foot, telling him to give his clear polish a few minutes to dry.
After several minutes of saying our goodbyes (him) and thank-yous (me), we paid and went back out front.
“That was incredible. I feel lighter. I’m gonna suggest all the guys at the station go down for these,” he said.
We looked back inside, where the two women were wiping sweat from their foreheads and stretching their backs.
“You better tip them extra well,” I said.
“I’d better tip my next paycheck.” He waved again with a wink, and half the salon women giggled, including the patrons.
Today had been something. It had been progress. I felt hopeful for the first time in longer than I could remember. Pace had made this possible.
I doubted I would ever feel on the same footing as him—pun intended—he would always feel too big a presence to me, but he had helped me.
And as I looked up at him, I realized just how in danger I was of developing a crush on him.
Just because someone is nice to me, didn’t mean they liked me like that.
If we were being honest, and we weren’t, I’d probably had a crush on him since the first day of August when I’d started memorizing his upper body. Or more likely, in high school, when he was so in love with his girlfriend, it set an impossible standard for all men moving forward.
But it was one of those crushes that would never amount to anything. The way someone would crush on the trending thirst trap online—from a safe distance.
Because I may be many things, but one of them was a realist.