She says something else as she begins to run the water in the foot basin, looking over her shoulder at Flynn who’s standing awkwardly against the far wall. I just shrug when she peers back in my direction. I feel like it’s a rude way to respond to my inability to understand her language, despite the fact I ignored every English-speaking person on the way into the building. I’m selective in my hypocrisy, apparently.
Kim, my technician today, says something over her shoulder and all the other women in the room begin laughing, speaking over each other, and taking glances at Flynn. His cheeks heat, pinking on the apples, and I don’t bother to hide my grin this time. He’s smoking hot. His arm and chest muscles are obvious, even with the button-down shirt he’s wearing, and I happen to know for a fact that his ass is exceptional in those navy slacks. Of course he looked great in lounge pants earlier, but I get the feeling he’d look phenomenal in anything or nothing at all.
The employee at the register finishes up before arrowing directly to Flynn. He tries to pull away when she clasps his hand, but somehow the tiny woman tugs him across the room even as he’s reluctant to do so.
“No. That’s not for me. I’m not doing that,” he says when she waves her hand to indicate he should take a seat beside me.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeats until he sits down with a huff of frustration.
His jaw clenches in irritation when she doesn’t miss a beat, reaching down and tugging off his socks and shoes. She pets his foot like it’s an exotic animal as she says something to the other women in the room. My technician looks at his feet before nodding in approval.
I mean, he does have nice feet, I guess. It’s not something I’ve ever paid attention to, honestly.
He’s watching my face when I look in his direction, but the irritation he was showing when he was ushered over is no longer visible. A tiny smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“I think a French manicure would look amazing,” I tease.
“What color are you going with?” he asks instead of telling me to take a hike.
“A turquoise to silver ombre.”
His eyes dart down my legs to my submerged feet before looking across the room.
“Excellent choice.”
Like a good sport, Flynn lets the technician massage his feet and calves, flinching every once in a while when she hits a ticklish spot. He doesn’t complain or grumble, and several other clients swoon at the sight of him. He doesn’t argue when I tell them that we’ve been together for two years, and we always get pedicures together, explaining further that our intimate couples massage is scheduled for later in the afternoon.
Despite having a great time at the salon with him, it doesn’t stop the impulse to bolt when I leave him to use the restroom. Being on the ninth floor really isn’t a problem because the design of the building means the salon shares a central restroom with a spa on the other side. Slipping out and back into the elevator alone is easy.
I don’t care that he has the valet ticket in his pocket or that I may have to Uber home later. I just need a break—a true break.
I can get away from him in the house, but knowing he’s near just does something to my nerves. I need some time to myself, some time to decompress and get him out of my head.
The ride down in the elevator is spent with a chic-looking woman with an overgrown poodle on a leash. The rhinestones, or possibly real diamonds, sparkle in the overhead light, and as cute as the thing looks, I keep my distance. The dog holds its head up the same hoity-toity way its owner does, and I have no doubt the thing would bite my hand if I tried to touch it.
As to not draw attention to myself, I walk slowly across the lobby before exiting the building and entering the crush of people on the sidewalk. Getting lost in the hustle and bustle of New York City has always been fun for me. No one pays much attention to each other. We’re all on a mission to get somewhere and fast, too busy to care who’s walking beside us or what celebrity they may spot. Tourists learn quickly to get out of our way, and that’s just the way I like it.
“You forgot your shoes.”
I freeze at the first brush of his fingers on my arm, but I don’t attempt to pull away. I’ll never admit out loud that I like the warmth of his skin.
I look up at him before glancing down at the foam flip-flops on my feet. I didn’t even think about footwear when I bolted earlier, and walking around without protection in NYC is never a smart idea.