Truly (New York 1)

“I bet you don’t.”

She slitted her eyes open to glare at him, but it was hard to keep them open when she was so sleepy, and his hands on her feet felt so insanely good.

“I’m not telling you how much I weigh.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“But you tell me how much you weigh.”

“Buck ninety.”

She closed her eyes again. He had her beat by a couple inches of height and fifteen pounds of muscle. He could manhandle her into submission if he wanted to. Stake her to the floor.

But frankly, there wasn’t room.

“I can’t believe you’re a farmer,” she said, nestling deeper into the couch.

“I can’t believe you thought I was a dishwasher.”

“Nothing wrong with being a dishwasher.”

“No.”

“You should move back to Wisconsin if you want to work with bees and dirt. We need farmers.”

His hands stopped moving. He exhaled, then started up again. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Sorry.”

Mental note: Ben doesn’t like talking about Wisconsin.

“I like it here,” he said after a moment.

“I hate it.”

Had she just said that aloud? Huh. She was too tired and mellow, too blissed out from the foot massage to filter herself.

“Why?”

“I tried not to. If you asked me yesterday morning, I would have told you that New York was different than I expected, but it was really exciting and vibrant and great.”

“But you actually hate it.”

“I do.”

She swallowed the last sip of wine in her glass and let it dangle from her fingers. Where had the rest of it gone? It had stolen away and taken her caution with it.

She felt safe. Despite everything. Safe, and warm, and cared for. And it was the first time she’d felt that way since … since she couldn’t remember when.

The thing about taking care of Dan for so long was that it meant she didn’t have anybody to take care of her.

Not that she needed somebody. She was fine.

Now and then, though, it was good to have a hard thigh to rest your feet on, and the kind of man who would volunteer to rub them.

“It’s lonely here,” she said.

His thumbs rubbed circles over her ankles as his fingers smoothed over her feet, the rhythm softer now. Lulling.