“Because, like Goldilocks, you couldn’t find a bed that was comfortable enough. Hint, you’re in the wrong house.”
“My apartment complex is being exterminated for supposed cockroaches. Ace said I could crash in his room.”
Hmmm.
“What’s that noise mean?” she nudges my foot with her socked toe.
“So you’re Ace’s…” I let the answer question hang between us, willing her to fill in the blanks.
“Friend,” she finishes.
That doesn’t sound right to me. Actually, it sounds perfect to me, but I don’t think I trust my judgment. She’s here, alone in his house, wearing pajamas, and what I believe to be his socks. I’ve had girls steal my T-shirts, try on my jerseys, but never my socks. That’s real intimacy. My skepticism weights the silence that hangs between us.
She huffs, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who believes girls and guys can’t be friends.”
“’Course not,” I lie.
One delicate eyebrow arches in disbelief. “We are friends. We met in the nurse’s office in the third grade.”
“Why haven’t you dated him? I mean, I’m a guy but I’m confident enough in my masculinity to say that Ace is attractive. Plus, he’s the quarterback, and I understand from girls that the position automatically adds a couple points to his tally.”
“So what? I mean, there are dozens of good-looking guys around here, but I’m not interested in dating them. Are you interested in dating every attractive girl you see?”
“No,” I answer truthfully. Dating doesn’t interest me. Sleeping with them? At least once? I might be down with that. “I asked you out, though. If you turned me down because you’re after Ace, I get it.”
I don’t like it, but then I don’t have to like it.
“We’re friends. I saw him eat a worm once.” She shudders. “It was gross. You can’t ever date a guy you see eating invertebrates.”
“Okay.” I pause thoughtfully. “So if Ace isn’t in the picture, I guess this brings us back to your unfounded belief that I’m a ‘risk.’” I air-quote the word, and her brown eyes flicker with resignation.
“You think I’m nuts,” she says. “I get it. I know I can be anal about—”
I snicker. Yeah. I’m thirteen, apparently.
Lucy looks like she’s fighting laughter. “Seriously? You can’t hear the word anal without—”
Another snicker. Goddamn it. I’m usually a lot smoother than this.
“Fine, I give up. I’m not saying it again.”
I drag my mind out of the gutter and fix her with a serious gaze. “Anyway, about this risk thing. You know what I think?”
“No, but I bet I’m going to in the next five seconds.”
She sounds resigned, but the fact that she’s still here, talking to me, feeding me? It all gives me encouragement. “Prepare to be enlightened. I feel like you haven’t given me a proper risk analysis. Maybe you weighted things incorrectly or haven’t accurately identified all the benefits. If you’re going to turn me down in the face of our clear attraction to each other, I deserve to see the assessment.”
“Hmm, let me think.” She taps her cheek with one finger. “And no.”
“I know you’ve got “football player” in the con column, but do you have increased stamina, ability to hold you up with one arm so my other hand is free to do lots of things like—”
“No.” She nudges me warningly with her sock-covered foot to tell me I shouldn’t finish my example. I really hate that sock.
I grab her foot and pull it into my lap. “Let’s do a risk/reward test.”
“Let’s not.” But her foot doesn’t move.
I massage her foot beneath the sock, pressing hard against the ball and then digging into the arch. She releases a tiny moan, and her head falls back in a dick-hardening sexy motion. Fuuuuck. If this is how I feel from just touching this girl’s hand and foot, what would it be like to be between her legs, to suck on her tits, to feel her pussy pulse around my dick? Light-headed and incredibly aroused, I almost fall off the chair.
I gotta focus here. If I’m ever going to get past the foot and hand, I need to convince her that the reward with me would be off-the-charts amazing.
Clearing my throat, I keep rubbing her foot. “Having your foot in my lap, that’s a risk, right? But you’re enjoying the rubdown. That’s a risk worth the reward.”
“Keep rubbing and stop talking,” she orders. Her eyes are closed.
Okay, but I’m not touching some other guy’s sock, particularly the guy whose bed she’s sleeping in. I don’t know if I fully buy into her “just friends” explanation for Ace. He has her picture in his locker. She’s wearing his socks. For all that, he’s at the Gas Station dry-humping a Kappa and Lucy’s home alone. I pull off the sock and toss it aside and stare at her toes.
“Your nail polish is blue.” Since when did I think toes were sexy?
She wriggles them. “Yes, on both feet. You’re very observant. Haven’t you ever seen a girl’s toes before?”
“I’m sure I have.” I just don’t remember them. I have this strange feeling I’ll remember hers, though.
I run a light caress over the anklebone, down the spine of the Achilles tendon, and around the edge of her instep.