Page 51 of Good Enough

He grunted. “No.” She quirked an eyebrow at him and tilted her head to the side. He looked away from her teasing gaze and intently focused his eyes on where he was, ensuring she was tucked in under the blanket. Then he shrugged. “Just with you. Otherwise, I’m known for being much more… verbal.”

“Ooh, do tell,” she drawled.

“Only if I get to hear the truth about that good dream that you have deftly sidestepped telling me about for almost a month.”

“Absolutely not.”

He shook his head as he explained, “Well, then I guess you’re going to be disappointed.”

She sighed. “Damn. And here I was, hoping for a sexy bedtime story.”

He grunted again and grabbed the remote. “Behave and watch your boys.” He turned on the television and clicked some buttons to connect it by Wi-Fi to his tablet.

“You recorded the game for me?”

Shrugging like it was no big deal, he answered, “You missed last night’s preseason game because you were arguing with Big Bird.”

Before the second inning, sleepiness started to overtake her. She was curled up under the blanket pretending to watch the game, and he was sitting just out of reach of her feet, his legs stretched out with his heels crossed on the coffee table, checking emails on his laptop and scowling at whatever he was reading. He was terribly sexy when he was irritated.

And when he’s smiling. And when he’s working out. And when he’s talking to the actors. And when he’s watching TV. Don’t think he’s ever not terribly sexy.

For a tough guy, he definitely was thoughtful. He gave her his jacket to keep off the rain and chill. He made sure she had her Crankiness Bombs, and when she couldn’t make it herself, he attempted to make one and worried if it was right. He saw to her aches from standing at the worktable. He tucked her in. He recorded her damn baseball game when he saw she had to deal with her batshit boss.

He truly is fucking perfect.

Recognizing the torture she was putting herself through, she turned her attention back to the game. Between the warmth from the fireplace, the constant pelting of the rain on the outside of the house, the comfort of the couch, the exhaustion from the morning’s workout, and the ease of Waters’ company, she nodded off into a peaceful nap.

A soft rumble of thunder woke her. She felt firm, gentle circles being rubbed into the arch of her foot. Holding her breath and trying not to telegraph that she was awake, she looked through her half-closed eyes down the length of the couch. The soft amber light from the fireplace and the glow from the TV screen lit Waters’ face as he watched the game. His laptop was on the coffee table, closed up, and her feet were in his lap where he was massaging one without watching what he was doing.

“Have a good nap?” he asked, still not looking at her.

Embarrassed at being caught awake, she tried to pull her foot back, but he gripped it tightly in his hands. She stopped struggling, unable to relax at him touching her now that he knew she was awake. He said nothing, just kept massaging her arch. Eventually, it was easier to let the tension go than to worry about what he was doing or why he was doing it.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his profile. He truly was beautiful. So beautiful, it hurt to look at him. In a few short weeks, he’d be gone, and she wasn’t sure how she would recover from him. How had that happened?

The volume of the game was so low she couldn’t hear more than a muted undertone. Looking down at her foot, he swallowed, seeming to come to some sort of decision. Something that was weighing on him. Then he slid ninety degrees on the couch to recline against the opposite arm, one foot flat on the floor, the other folded underneath him. “Tell me something about you.”

“What?” she asked, rolling completely onto her back, the pillow propping her up halfway.

He shrugged. “Anything. Something I don’t know. Something that’s not in your file. Something… insignificant.”

Should I be offended that he's dug into my background?

“I like massages.”

“I said something I don’t know. I already know you like those.” At her blank look, he winked and gave her that sexy grin. “You moan on the up swipe.”

She gasped. Her tone was petulant when she denied, “I do not moan.”

“Oh, yeah,” he taunted. “You moan. It’s quiet, and it’s breathy, but…You. Moan.” Blushing, she tried again to pull her foot away, but he wasn’t having it. “It’s cute,” he admitted. “C’mon. Give me a Kubrick factoid.”

“Umm…” Her brain whirled and was coming up with nothing until she blurted out, “I can’t wear mismatching socks.”

He blinked. “You can’t wear mismatching socks?”

“Yeah. When I was a teenager, it was a thing. You didn’t wear matching socks. So, like one would be green, and one would be orange, or two different patterns like one would have dogs on it and another one bananas or something.”

“Why in the world would people wear mismatching socks?”

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