Page 58 of Dropping the Ball

His tone makes me look up. He’s studying me, not the stool.

He wants me. He’s looking at me the way I wished he would have in high school. No, that’s not it. If he’d looked at me then like he’s looking at me now, I would have had no idea what to do with that kind of heat. That he’s in no way trying to hide it makes it clear how capable he is of masking when he chooses. It’s also clear that this draw I feel toward him is mutual. Intensely mutual.

The tension isn’t the kind that you cut with a knife. Or crack like glass. Or deflate like a balloon. It’s the kind like a dam: high risk of flooding. Flooding of senses. Flooding by hormones. I need to take a breath before I drown in this, so I set my feet on the stool again, using it as an excuse to break eye contact.

“Want help with your boots?”

There are so many ways to take off boots. A couple of them might reduce me to a soundless blob on my sofa. It might lead him to conclude that I’m interested in way more than a truce. It might confirm his suspicions that I’m obsessed with his pecs. And encourage my constant impulse to reach out and feel how soft his hair is.

“Kaitlyn?” There’s no hint of a smile around his mouth, like he guesses what I’m thinking. He knows. That straight-up knowledge is dangerous.

On the other hand, these boots really are hard to remove by myself. It’s why I rarely wear them.

“Help would be great.” My voice is even. It’s a miracle.

Then this—this guy, thisman,this piece of freaking work, he—

In a move as graceful as a dancer, he steps over my crossed legs, cups the back of my ankle to lift the boot, and he—oof.

He presses his thighs to either side of my calf and jellies my entire right leg. I draw a deep breath through my nose, making it as silent as possible, while his other hand curves over my foot and he begins to tug. Gently.

The view is—

Another deep breath. I have not spent enough time appreciating this man’s backside.

As an Armstrong, I have worn many, many pairs of boots in my life. No matter how a boot is removed, there’s a distinct sense of relief when it slides off, like a Victorian lady loosening her corset.

I do not get that moment. Because when he lowers my foot back to the stool, his touch radiates straight up through my legs and curls low in my abdomen, moving through my chest and warming my cheeks.

“Feel better?” Micah asks, glancing over his shoulder.

I don’t think I school my expression fast enough, because the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Sure.” There. Make something of that boring syllable, Micah Croft.

He pulls off the other boot, and everywhere he touches decides to burn.

This man is messing with me.

I slide one of my feet back toward me, then set it on that prizeworthy backside, and—

Push.

He tips forward and drops my boot, and his other hand shoots out to catch himself on the rug. He twists and lands on his butt, turning to look up at me with a glint in his eye that suggests payback.

“Ready to start the movie?” I ask.

He sucks his teeth, eyes on me, for several seconds before he gets up. “Sounds good.”

I nestle into my corner, free to curl my feet beneath me now. What’s he going to do? Take the cushion next to me and cage me in?Bring it. I’m not backing down.

He takes the opposite corner.

Huh. Never realized how long this sofa is. Whatever. It’s for the best.

Daisy appears and wanders in front of me before hopping up onto the sofa and curling up next to Micah. She’s a traitor even if I understand her choice.

I can’t say I watch the first ten minutes of the movie. My eyes are on it, but I’m distracted by trying to guess what Micah wants to tell me, my thoughts running in a hamster wheel with “he wants to father your children” at the top to “he’s quitting the gala job” at the bottom.

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