Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

A FOOT RUB BETWEEN FRIENDS

Holly

A fter a whirlwind trip to the tree farm, complete with hayride, hot mulled cider, and the annual Jolly family squabble over whether to get a shorter, full tree or a taller, more stately tree (solved, as it always is, by our dad buying one of each—one for the lobby and the other for the family room), Jack and I collapse on the small couch in the cottage’s living room.

“I think my toes are frozen,” I say only half-joking.

“Let’s see.” He gestures toward my feet.

I laugh before I look at his face. His expression is serious as he pats his jean-clad thighs. I hesitate, unsure. I’ve known this man for a grand total of thirty-six hours. But we’re living together for the next month. And my feet are cold. Besides, I remind myself, the rules of conduct don’t prohibit all touching. Unless he has a fetish I don’t know about, there’s nothing sexual about him warming up my toes. So I take a deep breath and swing my legs around. He props my feet on his thighs, peels off my thick wool socks with a gentle touch, and squeezes my bare feet.

“These are like ice cubes.”

“Merry and Dad were arguing over that concolor fir for at least twenty minutes,” I point out. “I should have walked around, kept my blood circulating.”

He squints down at my toes. “Are your big toenails bruised?”

“Probably. Runner’s toe,” I explain. “I did ten miles this morning.”

He lifts my feet and stands up. “Hang on.”

He disappears into the bedroom and emerges a moment later holding the peppermint lotion from the bathroom vanity. When he drops back on the cushion beside me, I return my cold, tired feet to his lap. Then I lean back and close my eyes while he massages the thick, scented lotion into my heels, soles, and each individual toe with strong, warm fingers.

I melt into the couch, as relaxed as I’ve ever been. So relaxed, in fact, that I drift off to sleep.

When I awake I do so gently, my senses coming back online gradually. I feel the caress of the light blanket that’s been draped over me, smell the zing of mint from the lotion that’s melted into my feet, and hear the gentle pop and crackle of burning wood. There’s another sound, too, the whisper of turning pages.

I push myself up on my elbows and scan the dim room. The light from the flames dancing in the fireplace reflects in the lighted garland that graces the mantel and the glass bowl filled with silver balls that sits atop it. At last, my gaze lands on Jack. He’s draped sideways across the striped chair by the window, his legs dangling over one arm of the chair and his head bent over a book. The last rays of sunset wash over his profile, lighting his cheekbones and the wave of sandy hair that falls over his forehead.

My heart doesn’t just flutter at the sight—it does the full dance of the sugarplum fairy in my chest. The moment feels profoundly intimate and utterly innocent at the same time. I watch his brow furrow in concentration as he reads, follow the arc of his thumb absently tracing the edge of the page. The memory of those same hands massaging my bare feet sends a rush of blood to my face.

He must feel the weight of my gaze because he lifts his head and catches me gaping at him.

“Good nap?”

“The best,” I purr as I stretch.

I glance at the clock in the kitchen and reach for my socks. “We should get over to the main house if we want to help trim the trees.”

“What about dinner?” He sticks a bookmark between the pages and closes the cover.

“There’ll be heavy hors d’oeuvres and drinks in the lobby,” I tell him. “Then dessert and coffee or hot cocoa while we decorate the family tree. Believe me, you won’t go hungry.”

While he douses the fire, I hurry to the bathroom to drag a brush through my wind-tangled and sleep-smooshed hair.

When we step out onto the porch, I shiver. What little warmth the day held is seeping away with the setting sun. I’m about to turn back for a hat and a warmer coat, but he’s already unwrapping the thick maroon scarf from around his neck. He loops it over my shoulders and around my nose, leaving the fringed ends hanging down my back.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice muffled under the fabric.

“Don’t mention it. It’s what any member of the Regency landed gentry would do.”

He smirks, and I smile into his pine- and sandalwood-scented scarf. I could get used to this courtship business.