Page 66 of Touch Me

Rolling my office chair to the foyer, I place it behind her, and she reaches back with one arm, steadies herself, and plops down with a sigh. Only then does Cassie release the bags that were keeping her balanced, thumping to the floor, along with my dignity. I put my hands on the back of the chair and drop my chin to my chest.

Maybe Ishouldask her to leave. Having been here only a few weeks ensures that possibly, in the future, she won’t remember a thing about me. About how weak or useless I am. There’s also the possibility that her flitting into my life and right back out will make it easier for me to forget about her.

I’m sure I’ll forget all about the little moan she lets out when she stretches. Or her singing Pat Benatar in the shower when she thinks I’m in the gym. Or the way her lips purse when she’s cooking and doesn’t even realize it. Her smile. Her smell. The light in her eyes when she does fucking anything and everything. Oh yeah, I’m definitely going to forget all about her when she walks out the door.

Just like the last time.

She turns her head toward me, and our eyes meet over her shoulder. “Have you ever thought about gloves?”

“Gloves? I’ve never tried that.” Because I never had anyone worth trying for. “Wait here.”

“I’m not running anywhere,” she deadpans.

After a solid minute, and a slew of drawers left open searching for plastic bags, I wrack my brain trying to remember if I even have any. Cassie needs ice, and I need a mental diversion before I attempt this glove experiment. Can it really be that simple? For a man with above average IQ and nothing but time on my hands, you’d think I would’ve thought of that already.

But it’s not like I can greet guests in oven mitts like they interrupted me cooking and then never take them off. Visions of petting my sister’s hair in giant gloves covered in little barbeque tools dance in my head, and I have to stifle a laugh at thoughts of me tipping back a wine glass with the things taped to my wrists. Moving on from the drawers, I jerk open cabinet doors and scan the shelves.

“What are you looking for?” Cassie calls from the foyer.

“Little plastic baggie things for ice.”

“In the pantry. On the left. Second shelf from the top.”

Of course, she knows exactly where they are. Filling two bags with ice, I then grab a few towels and oven mitts, and put them under my arms. Guiding the chair as close to the couch as I can, I set the bags of ice and towels on the end table.

Still behind her, I don the mitts, circle around in front of her, hold out my mitted hand, and bow. “Your servant, madam,” I say in my best Scottish accent, going all Outlander on her ass.

Throwing her head back, she laughs and it sends a shiver down my spine. “Oh my god. You did not just do that.”

“I did, indeed, madam. Now give me your hand so we can transfer you to the couch. You need to elevate your leg and get some ice on it.”

“Are you sure?” She looks at my hand and hesitates. “Is it just skin-to-skin that bothers you? I distinctly remember your hand bouncing on my ass because you couldn’t keep it there.”

“That’s because it was your ass, not because of the contact.”

Liar.

“Now come on.” I gesture for Cassie to put her hand in mine.

She eyes the mitt, bites her lip, and my dick takes notice.

Not now, dude.

Her plump lip blanches under her teeth, and I close my eyes and think about douchebag scooter guy, willing my dick to deflate.

“What if the glove doesn’t work?” Cassie asks.

“Then I’ll blame you. This was your idea.”

Her eyes snap up to mine and widen in shock. “No, I can do it myself.” She pushes herself up on the armrests, and the chair rolls backward. “Stand behind me and hold the chair.”

“Just let me help you up.”

“Nope. I’ve caused you enough distress.” She grits her teeth as she prepares to raise herself up again. “I won’t be the cause of any more.”

Planting my feet in front of the chair and crossing my oven mitt clad hands across my chest, our eyes lock in a minute-long standoff. A minute full of looking into her eyes but seeing flashes of her smile in my head. Glimpses of the wispy hairs around her face floating in the breeze. Flashes of the green of her eyes shimmering in the sun. A warmth spreads through my chest, not unwelcome, but startling all the same.

“Don’t say that.” I finally break eye contact. “You aren’t the cause of my distress, Cassie.”

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