Page 21 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
And while it feels amazing, my face burns from his careful touch. “Um.”
He freezes, glancing down at his fingers curled around my foot before meeting my gaze. “Sorry,” he says with a wince. “I’m not really a ‘sit still’ kind of person. I can stop if you don’t like it.”
“No, you can…keep going, I guess.” I grimace because that sounded pathetic. “I mean, it feels really nice. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”
He trails his cold fingers across the skin of my swollen ankle now without looking down, and that touch sends a shiver through me that doesn’t mix well with the heat in my face. “It might be the only way I make it through this movie,” he admits with a chuckle. “But it’s up to you. I know you have your personal bubble.”
I honestly forgot he was in my bubble in the first place, even though I can’t remember the last time I sat this close to anyone. The last guy I dated was years ago, and he wasn’t really a touchy-feely kind of guy. He didn’t even kiss me until we’d known each other for months. Jordan, on the other hand, has never had a concept of personal space, and he was always touching everyone back in high school. High fives, arms around shoulders, holding girls’ hands in the halls. He’s so similar to Micah in a lot of ways, so if I remind myself that none of these touches mean anything, I might be able to make it through this weekend.
“I would hate for you to get bored,” I say and wiggle my toes.
He grins wide, which isn’t exactly helping the heat situation. That’s the kind of smile that gets women to fall in love with him. It shines so bright against his dark skin, and he’s always been quick to smile so it looks full and natural no matter the circumstances. Jordan is generally just happy, and I wish I knew how he did it.
He digs his thumbs into the arch of my good foot, nearly pulling a satisfied groan out of me. “So, you want me to keep going?”
Anyone else, and I might get frustrated by his constant questions, but Jordan remembers my people-pleasing tendencies too well. I kind of love that he gives me every opportunity to tell him what I actually want. And I rememberhimwell enough to know that he isn’t afraid to do whathewants, so this isn’t him being unsure of his own actions. He’s deferring to me on purpose, something that doesn’t happen to me often.
I’m not sure how I feel about Jordan being so grown up and mature. It’s messing with my notions of who he is.
“Keep going,” I tell him as decisively as I can. “But be careful with—”
He strokes my swollen ankle again, cutting me off with his featherlight touch. “I’ll be gentle,” he assures me. “I like to leave things better than when I found them.”
I’m not sure what that means for me, but whatever worry I might feel from his strange declaration, I quickly forget it as his massage continues. I turn my focus to the movie, as much as I can anyway, and get lost in the story and the sweeping soundtrack, all the while growing more and more comfortable as his hands work across my skin.
Then Jordan switches both hands to my injured foot, and somehow he manages to massage that one too without it hurting. In fact, he makes it feel so good that I almost cry, and I hug a pillow up by my face so he doesn’t see. Maybe it’s the concussion or the lingering migraine or just the fact that someone is caring for me for the first time in years, but all of this is overwhelming. In a good way. And before Mr. Darcy can smile at Elizabeth when she comes to Pemberley, my eyes droop and I fall asleep.
I wake to a pretty dark room, and it takes me a few seconds to realize where I am. There’s a blanket over me that wasn’t there before, and the TV is at such a low volume that I can barely hear it. Subtitles flash across the screen as an episode plays from the first season ofDownton Abbey. How long have I been asleep? And why didn’t Jordan turn it off?
Blinking sleep out of my eyes, I look over at him. He’s still holding on to my feet, but his hands sit still, one stretched out across my shin as if he’d started moving his massage up along my leg before going motionless. At first, I think maybe he fell asleep like me, but then I realize he’s fixated on the TV, nodding along to something Sibyl is saying.
My leg twitches, pulling his attention down to me. “Hey,” he says, moving his hands and leaving my leg feeling cold. Who knew hands could be so warm? “Have a nice nap?”
“Why didn’t you change it to something else?”
He purses his lips as he pauses the show. “Turns out I really like history.Pride and Prejudicesucked me in, and then I wanted more. Don’t tell Houston.” His smile turns a little more mischievous, which worries me until he says, “Are you hungry? I’ll make you some food.” He’s on his feet before I can say anything, carefully putting my bad foot on a pillow and then heading into the kitchen.
I barely hold back my laughter and reach for my phone before he sees me. Though tempted to tell Houston all of that, I figure I shouldn’t alienate the guy who is willing to make me dinner.
Me: How was the game?
Hou: We won.
I’m surprised he texted me back so quickly. Usually, on game days, he takes a day or two to respond because he’s busy doing interviews or working with the physical therapist to get his arm ready for the next game.
Me: Contests!
Me: I mean congrats
Hou: You’re hopeless, Blondie. Do you ever think about proofreading your texts before you send them?
I scowl at my phone, even if my brother can’t see me. Idoproofread, but that means nothing when my phone is determined to make a fool out of me. Who puts the delete button right next to the send button anyway?
Me: When is your season over?
Hou: Depends on how quickly we win these games.
Hou: The Series will be over by next Wednesday no matter what.
