Chapter Five #2
We’re quiet as we put our things down, nothing but our shoes shuffling across the floor to fill the silent house. I cross my arms over my chest at the chilly air, and Jesse goes over to the thermostat to adjust it until the heat kicks on.
“It was good seeing them,” I say, rubbing my arms to rid of the goosebumps pebbling my flesh. This is why there’s a heated throw blanket draped across my chair in the office, and no more than four blankets in the living room folded on the backs of the couches and armchair.
We walk into the living room where Jesse grabs a knit blanket that his Aunt Carole made for him years ago and wraps it around my body. “Better?” he asks when the soft yarn caresses my skin.
I smile. “Much.”
He gestures for me to sit down, so I take up my usual spot on the sofa.
Usually, he’ll sit on the other end, or the armchair if he’s having his morning coffee, but this time he lifts my legs and drapes them across his lap as he sits on the cushion directly beside mine.
His hands immediately start massaging my feet, and a moan ripples past my lips before I can stop it.
Jesse only pauses a moment before chuckling. “Feel good?”
“I should probably be doing this for you,” I point out, not bothering to ask him to stop. Because it feels phenomenal. “You’re the one who just skated for the last two hours.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Not a fan of people touching my feet.”
I hum thoughtfully. “I get that. I’ve never let anybody give me a pedicure for the same reason. I have ugly feet.”
His brows pinch. “I highly doubt your feet are ugly.”
Giggling, I say, “They are! What are you—” He’s ripping the sock off my foot to study it before I can finish my sentence, and I’m really glad I shaved this morning.
There are always a few pesky dark hairs that love to grow on my big toes.
Another reason I don’t like people looking at them. “Give me my foot back, you weirdo!”
He lifts my foot to study it closer despite my protests. He’s stronger than me, so any effort to pull away fails. “They look normal to me.”
“Are you an expert on feet?” I ask him quizzically. I stop fighting him. “Is that a secret fetish of yours?”
Jesse scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Hey! I’m not yucking someone’s yum. If that’s your thing it’s okay to admit. I went to college with a girl who used to sell feet pics for money, and she made bank. If I didn’t hate my feet, I’d—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts me off in a grumbled tone.
“What? It’s not like I’m selling my body for sex to make a quick buck. Not that I’m judging. People need to do what they need to do.”
He stares hard at me, very clearly judging. Still, he doesn’t release my foot. Instead, he sets it back down onto his lap and continues the massage. “I guarantee you she wasn’t actually selling feet pics.”
“She was!” I defend, not that I know for sure. I never asked her to show me the pictures she took. “What else would they be?”
He deadpans, eyeing me.
We’re quiet.
“Oh.” I think about it before realization dawns on me. “Ooooh. You know, she did have really nice boobs now that I think about it. And if I could tell a personal trainer what my ideal body would look like, it’d be hers. It’s no wonder she was able to buy a convertible.”
He makes a choked noise. “She bought a convertible with the money she got from selling pictures online?”
A thoughtful noise rises from my throat. “I’m choosing to believe it’s because people think she has really cute feet. She got pedicures all the time.”
The heavy sigh releasing from him isn’t lost on me. But there are things I don’t want to think about when it comes to my friends. I may not have been super close with Stasia, but she was nice to me. We had multiple business classes together, and she obviously runs a successful one.
I shrug. “It’s better than me having to think about her taking pics of her—” I drop my voice, like we’re not the only two in the room. “—you know, butthole.”
Jesse clamps his eyes closed and shakes his head, in disbelief. It makes me laugh. His following silence makes me laugh harder.
“Fine,” I relent, patting him in comfort. “We can change the subject if you don’t want to talk about buttholes.”
He takes the out, but the conversation doesn’t turn into something equally as lighthearted as potential booty shots. “I’m sorry you couldn’t tell me about the lease.”
The somberness of his tone sobers my amusement. “You don’t need to be. Things have been chaotic lately.”
His eyes focus on my feet as though he’s deep in thought.
“Hey,” I say softly, flexing my foot in his hand until he picks his head up and meets my eyes. “It’s okay. Seriously. What I want to know is what you meant at the restaurant. You were going to lease it for me?”
He swipes his tongue along his bottom lip. “I could tell how much you loved it, so I thought I would help you start something new. You’ve been sad about Belle’s Place. I’ve missed seeing you smile.”
All I can do is stare at him.
This man would do anything for me, and I never have to ask him for it. Why does he have to be so sweet? It’s torture on my internal dilemma that says I shouldn’t want to jump his bones. But I do. I really, really do.
“That’s…” I inhale slowly. “That’s very sweet of you, Jesse. Thank you.”
We watch one another for a moment longer before he breaks contact first.
The silence that follows is peaceful and paired with the full feeling in my heart and belly it’s easy for me to settle into the couch and close my eyes as he rubs one foot and then the other.
“Sometimes,” I admit quietly, wiggling in my blankets to nestle in, “I don’t think I deserve you.”
His fingers pause momentarily on my foot. “I think it’s the other way around, Bells,” he murmurs, continuing the blissful massage. If he ever retires from the hockey world and decides he still wants to work, he should do this for a living.
I’m not sure when I fall asleep, but the next thing I know I’m being cradled in strong arms against a hard chest as we walk up the stairs.
I garble something unintelligible and get a hushed reply. “Go back to sleep,” he says quietly, gently kicking a door open and carefully placing me down into bed.
I’m still half out of it when blankets are pulled up over me and weight dips the mattress beside me.
“Jesse,” I whisper, eyes still closed and thick with exhaustion.
He hums in response, combing hair away from my face and letting his fingers linger by the shell of my ear. The heat from his hand soaks into me and settles my body even deeper into the bed.
I barely remember allowing the word “stay” to escape my mouth. Sleep blankets my conscious as the knuckles still lazily brushing against my cheek falter for a brief moment at the invitation.
A shuttered breath escapes one of us. Him maybe? I’m too tired to figure that out. Suddenly, the warmth from his hand disappears altogether and the cool air caresses my face the way he did.
“That’s not a good idea, baby girl,” he murmurs, voice no louder than mine. I’m barely awake enough to protest and think I may be dreaming when I feel something warm press against my forehead.
“Get some sleep, Bells,” he whispers moments before his weight disappears from the bed and the door closes softly in the distance.