Page 47 of Plum

He kind of rolls his eyes at me, and then he maneuvers me to sitting against the bench, his hands roaming up and down my leg. All the while, he makes this low-throated hushing sound like I’m a wounded animal. The pain’s receding until only the twisted part throbs.

He props my foot in his lap, easing off my heels. He presses gently on my ankle until I whimper.

“Ouch! Quit it!” He stops applying pressure instantly, and he strokes my calf, shaking his head.

His gaze searches mine, and he seems…changed. He’s not mad anymore, at least that’s something. He’s cradling my foot, and then his gaze searches the room. I don’t know what he thinks he’ll find. There’s nothing in here except velvet benches and a funky moth ball odor.

“Where is the first aid kit?”

“I dunno. In the locker room, maybe. Help me up. I need an ice pack.”

“It’s swelling. Fuck, Plum. Sit still. It might be broken. Hold on.” He’s got his phone, and he’s scrolling. He won’t drop my foot, and it’d hurt too bad to yank it away, so I leave it in his lap.

“How about I give you a rain check on the lap dance and revenge fuck or whatever. How’s next week for you?” I shove at him with my good foot, but he won’t budge.

“Stop.” He glares at me and sets down the phone with a sigh of exasperation. Guess he couldn’t find what he was looking for.

“Why don’t you just go?”

“Plum.” His jaw tightens. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything. I was the one that wore the shoes.” Hold on. Hewasbeing a complete jerk. “I take that back. You should be sorry. Asshole.”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps on stroking my calf, stopping well clear of my ankle. It’s a weird feeling. The pain’s too much for it to feel good, but his touch is doing something to my stomach all the same.

After a few moments of silence, he glances up from under his thick, black lashes, his blue eyes burning. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, clear and direct and raw.

“I can tell.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never been this way. Iamsorry.”

The way he sounds—like a police officer testifying in court. The apology doesn’t take anything away from him. He’s still in charge. Arrogant.

But he isn’t mad anymore. And he’s here. With me. I thought I’d never see him again, but he’s right here, stroking my calf, saying sorry. Which heshould.

I got my own shit going on at the moment, but I can tell. He’s never has done anything like this before. This man is off-kilter. And I made him that way. Knowing that…it’s a heady feeling.

He’s kneeling, my foot in his lap, and he’s still staring me down. I stare back, and a warm, fizzing sensation swirls in my belly again, somehow dialing down the volume on the screaming ache in my ankle.

He’s here, and I thought I’d never see him again, and when I believed that, I wassad. I have no fucking business being sad over a man. I know better. He’s not for me. Maybe someday I’ll shack up with one of the brothers or a plumber or something, but this guy’s got a Wikipedia entry, for fuck’s sake.

He can’t be for real, and I cannot possibly be this stupid.

And good lord, when those warm fizzes disappear, my anklehurts! I burst into tears, and he loses it.

“No. Stop. Don’t cry. It’s going to be fine.” There’s an edge of panic to his voice. “What’s going on? Does something else hurt?”

“You were adick.” I’m sniffling. “Why are you so mad about that bottle? I told you I’d give it back.”

He exhales and leans back. “Oh, Plum. I’m not mad about the bottle. I’m mad that I’ve lost my goddamn mind. And I was pissed that you left.”

“Then you should have asked me to stay.”

“I—” He catches himself. “Yes. I should have asked you to stay.”

“I can’t read minds.” Now, I’m being a brat. It makes my ankle feel a little better.

“If you could read my mind, you’d run.”

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