Marriage Lessons Page 8

  Because drinking with him on his couch is a bad idea! the practical voice in her head shouted, but she chose to ignore it. She was tired of doing the right thing. She’d just faced off against Harper and then chugged a glass of champagne. Common sense obviously wasn’t on the menu tonight.

  Groaning, he collapsed on the couch, setting the wine bottle on the coffee table with a quiet thud. “Thank you, baby Jesus. I do love Desi, and I’m very happy it was a successful showing, but I’m so glad tonight’s over.”

  “Me, too.” She surreptitiously eyed her options. Louis had claimed the very middle of the couch, so she could either sit right next to him or in the armchair that a pair of crutches leaned against. Throwing out good sense yet again, she settled on the sofa cushion next to him and leaned back, extremely conscious of his proximity. Their arms didn’t touch, but it was a close thing.

  There was a hiss of air, and she looked at him, confused as to the cause. She saw he’d hitched up the leg of his harem pants so it was above the top of his prosthesis and had pushed a button on the side of the artificial leg. That was the source of the hissing sound. “Do you mind if I pull this off here?” His words sounded like he was trying extra hard to be casual for some reason that she didn’t understand. Confused by his odd tone, she frowned at his profile as he continued, “I can go in the bedroom to take it off instead if it bothers you.”

  “Why would it bother me? It’s actually kind of fascinating. Do you mind if I watch, or would you rather I look at something else?”

  “Of course not. Feel free to feast your eyes on this beauty.” Although his voice had its usual joking tone, she caught the same self-deprecating note that he’d had when they were talking about whether women were interested in him.

  “What’s that noise?” she asked as the sound faded and disappeared.

  “The vacuum releasing.” He slid the leg off and gave another relieved groan as he tugged his pant leg down over his residual leg. “I’ve been wanting to do that for hours.”

  “Why didn’t you?” She looked away from his lower half and focused on his face. All she’d seen was a glimpse of the white liner before fabric draped over his residual leg, hiding it from view. After the way he’d warned her, she’d expected the removal of his prosthesis to be a lot more dramatic than that. The little she saw of the process of removing his leg was really interesting, but Harper’s earlier comments were still fresh in her mind, making Annabelle feel like a bit of a creeper for watching so intently.

  “Why didn’t I what?” After setting the leg next to the side of the couch, he wriggled down a little, leaning back against the cushions in an attempt to get more comfortable.

  “Take off your leg before the opening. You could’ve used your crutches, right? Why be in pain all night?” It bothered her that he’d been hurting while she’d been complaining about some unpleasant people.

  “I hate using my crutches for an extended time more than I hated keeping my leg on.” He stretched his arms over his head, and she was immediately distracted by the play of muscles in his upper body. “They’re fine for getting me to the shower, but three hours of crutching it?” He made a face. “No, thanks.”

  “Next time, you can use my office chair so you don’t have to be on your feet so long.”

  Turning his head to the side, he smiled at her. “Thanks, but there shouldn’t be a next time. I’ve learned my lesson and won’t run on the wrong leg again.”

  She smiled back at him, enjoying the moment of peace and relaxation a little too much. Tearing her gaze away, she focused on her feet. Toeing off her shoes, she gave a groan of relief that echoed his earlier ones. She stretched her legs out in front of her, pointing and flexing her feet to stretch out her aching arches.

  “Give them to me.” Louis made a gimme gesture.

  “Give what to you?”

  “Your feet. Swivel on over here.” When she stared at him, her brain not quite able to process that he just requested she put her feet in his lap—her feet in his lap—he leaned toward her and grasped her lower legs. Before she could even decide whether she should protest or not, he pivoted her around so she was sitting sideways on the couch, her calves on his residual left leg and her feet on his right.

  She swallowed hard, her heart beating fast. It’d happened. Her feet were in his lap, resting on the hard muscles of his thighs, and much, much too close to his penis for her peace of mind. Before she could catch her breath and slow down her whirling thoughts, he closed his hands around her right foot and started massaging it.

  All the air left her in a whoof sound that she was embarrassed about for about a second before the incredible feel of his fingers kneading her tired foot distracted her. “Oh. Wow. That’s...uh... Yeah, right there.” She stopped talking when only bits and pieces of phrases came out of her mouth. Leaning back against the sofa arm, she closed her eyes and just wallowed in how amazing he was making her feel.

  His chuckle as he switched to her other foot made her crack open one eye.

  “Mmm?” The questioning sound was all she could manage. He’d reduced her to a boneless blob of jelly.

  “Are you going to be able to get off the couch and grab some wineglasses for us?” he asked. “Because you don’t look like you’re going anywhere.”

  Both of her eyes opened at that, and she made a face. He was right. She wasn’t wanting to even move a finger, much less actually stand up and walk over to the kitchen area, especially since that would force Louis to discontinue her foot massage. What kind of person would she be if she forced him to get up and use his crutches to fetch the glasses, though?

  She eyed the wine bottle. “Can’t we just drink it out of the bottle? I promise I don’t have the flu or any other communicable disease.”

  His bark of laughter was so loud it made her jump. “You’re such a heathen, Annabelle Shay.”

  “Fine.” The word was more of a huff. It appeared that she couldn’t get out of making the long voyage to the kitchen. “I’ll get the glasses.”

  “No, no.” He released her foot but kept it on his lap. “I’m all for the communal bottle. I don’t think I own any wineglasses, anyway.” Bending forward, he grabbed the bottle, politely offering it to her first.

  Now that she wasn’t distracted by the feel of his hands on her feet, she was starting to get flustered again. Grabbing the wine bottle like it was a rescue buoy, she tipped it up and took a drink. “That feels weirdly satisfying,” she said as she passed it back to Louis. “Like I’m a cave woman, surviving in the wild.”

  His laugh was muffled by the wine bottle at his lips. After he took a drink, he shot her a look. “This is your idea of roughing it? Drinking directly out of the wine bottle? Remind me never to go camping with you.”

  Reaching for the bottle, she shook her head. “That works, because I’m never going camping again.”

  “Bad experience?”

  It was her turn to fix him with a look. “Camping is, by definition, a bad experience.”

  “What? How can you say that? Camping is wonderful.”

  “No. It’s not.” Her voice was definite. “That is one of the biggest hoaxes that has ever been perpetrated on the world.”

  He paused with the bottle partially raised so he could stare at her. “Who perpetrated this hoax then?” After taking a drink, he handed the bottle back to her.

  “Outdoor supply stores.” Pointing the neck of the bottle at him for emphasis, she started listing off the culprits. This was a topic she’d thought long and hard about. “Parents who want to save money on family vacations. Grizzly bears that want to steal picnic food. Sleeping-bag manufacturers. Hotel chains that know they’ll be more greatly appreciated after someone suffers through camping.” Her lips were tingling, on the verge of going numb, and Louis had to tip the bottle up a lot further in order to take a drink. “The biggest perpetrators are ticks, because they want to h
ave a readily available food source that tastes like candy.”

  He’d been keeping his composure pretty well. At that point in her rant, however, he started laughing as he handed the wine off to her. “Ticks are the masterminds?”

  “They are.” Completely serious, she held the bottle on her thigh while keeping her gaze fixed on him. “You think it’s funny now, but ticks will kill all of the humans off and take over the world and then we’ll see how much you’re laughing.” She tried to take a drink, but nothing came out. After trying to squint into the bottle, she accepted that it was empty and set it back on the coffee table. “How’d we finish that off so fast?”

  “We’re skilled drinkers.” He’d stopped laughing, but his eyes still glinted with humor. “Back to the tick revolution, though... Why would they kill us all off? Then their candy-tasting food source would be gone.”

  “I don’t know.” With a heavy sigh, she let her head fall back, but then immediately straightened it back up when the room spun a little. The wine on an empty stomach and a tired brain was hitting her hard. “Why do ticks do any of the stupid things that they do?”

  “Why do you think we taste like candy?” He asked the question like he was honestly interested in her answer. Flexing her feet against his leg, she thought how much she liked talking to Louis.

  “We eat a lot of it, as a people.” She dug her toes into the hard muscle of his thigh, but she wasn’t able to make a dent. The harem pants, as ugly as they were, felt silky under her soles—a strange contrast from the solid hardness of the leg beneath.

  With a muffled grunt, he grabbed her feet in a gentle but firm grip.

  “Sorry!” She sat forward, eyeing his leg like she could see any damage through his pants. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” The breathlessness of his words made her not believe him. “I’m fine. Just unexpectedly...” He cleared his throat, not releasing her feet. “Anyway, what were you saying about ticks?”

  “That they like our sweet sugar juice.” He choked, and she frowned at him, concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good.” He settled back against the cushions, still keeping a hold on her feet as he stretched out his leg. “You’re kind of a lightweight, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” She admitted it readily. “I haven’t been training. In fact, I haven’t had more than an occasional glass since I moved here.”

  “No wild nights out drinking? No dancing at the club?” Idly, he played with her toes, wiggling each one in a way that felt ticklish and intimate and kind of delightful. “No bar-hopping until you wake up in the middle of Yellowstone Park with a dead cell phone and have to figure out how to get home?”

  Cocking her head, she examined his profile. “That last one sounds really specific. Is that from personal experience?”

  “Nope, just my vivid imagination,” he said lightly, his gaze still on her feet. She had a feeling it was more of a way to keep from looking her in the eyes than because he had a foot fetish. “I used to be wild, but that was years ago. Ever since I got back from Afghanistan missing some parts, I’ve become a homebody, just a boring art nerd.”

  Her slightly tipsy state wasn’t helping her interpret his tone, but she knew there was something odd about it. He sounded a little too breezy. “Right,” she said when she realized she’d been silent and studying his face for too long. “You’re boring. You, wearer of those pants, are an ordinary, dull guy.”

  He lifted his foot off the floor, holding out his leg as if admiring the fabric. “I think that these were a hit tonight, don’t you?”

  “Well, they distracted Desi from her nerves enough that she didn’t puke, so that’s a point on the pants’ side.” She scooted down a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. It wasn’t until Louis’s gaze locked on her legs that she realized her movement had scrunched up her dress around her thighs. Quickly, she tugged at the hem, yanking until she was semi-decent again. Trying to ignore the flash of heat she’d seen in his eyes before she’d fixed her dress, she smoothed the fabric over her legs and tried to remember what they’d been talking about. “It seemed to work pretty well as a lady attractant, too, judging by the way Regina and Harper were chasing you around all night.”

  He flashed her an unreadable glance, and she wondered if her bitterness was showing. Darn that wine. It seemed to have removed all filters. The practical voice hadn’t screamed at her about this being a bad idea for a while, which meant that she was definitely tipsy. She needed to leave, but her body didn’t want to obey. Instead, it wanted to continue sinking into his ultra-comfy couch while he played with her feet.

  He groaned softly. “Don’t remind me.” His pause felt heavy and loaded, and she waited quietly, knowing he was about to say something more. “Was I rude to them?”

  “Literally running away from them might be considered rude,” she said, but then she felt bad when Louis winced. “Don’t worry. They deserved every quick departure and cold shoulder. After all, they were the ones ignoring your increasingly obvious blow-offs. You had to draw the line, or else they never would’ve backed off, and you’d have Harper or Regina sitting on the couch with you, rather than me.” The thought made jealousy roar to life in her chest.

  “Still, maybe I should’ve been nicer to them.” His mouth was drawn down in an uncharacteristic frown. Usually, he only looked unhappy when he was teasing or being melodramatic, but the normal spark of devilment was missing this time. “Do you think I’m turning into a hermit?”

  “What? No!” The idea of Louis as a hermit just didn’t work. Her brain refused to accept it. “You are basically the opposite of a hermit. How many times a day do you visit me at my desk? Ten? A dozen? And that’s if the painting is going smoothly. When it’s not, you pretty much live in my office or the gallery—or at the theater where you drag me because you’re not at all a hermit.”

  “Well, yeah.” He drew out the words, giving her a look like she’d just said something so obvious that it was dumb. “Of course I like to see you and do things with you. I like you. You’re my...well, you’re my Annabelle Shay. That’s a given. I’m not worried about being social with you.”

  “Okay,” Annabelle said slowly, feeling a little dismissed but reminding herself not to jump to conclusions that were guaranteed to hurt her feelings. Over the past months, she’d learned that Louis’s genius brain worked differently than hers. He probably didn’t mean that he took her for granted. “You’re worried about being not being social enough with other people? Like Harper?” Despite her attempt to give him room to explain, she still felt the dull sting of rejection, made worse by the fact that it was Harper.

  “Not really. Sometimes I just hate living alone.”

  “Me, too.” His bald honesty prompted her own. “Sometimes it’s great, but other times... Even now, I have moments when I expect to get home to a bunch of Leah’s bakery leftovers. When I realize that I live alone now and, if I want cookies, I have to bake them myself, it makes me a little sad.”

  His hmm was distracted, and he was looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She knew that look.

  “Out with it.”

  “Out with what?” He blinked those long, long lashes of his in apparent innocence.

  She didn’t fall for that. “Just ask me what you want to ask before it bursts out of you like a possessed spirit.”

  That made him laugh, but he kept giving her the sideways look, too. “So...you live by yourself...?”

  “Yes. You knew that. Toss me that pillow.”

  He grabbed the throw pillow from the other end of the couch and held it out to her. Annabelle tucked it behind her back and then reached out again and did gimme fingers.

  “Blanket, too.”

  Although he gave an exaggerated sigh, he not only pulled the fleece throw off the corner of the couch, but he also spread it over her legs and his lap. Annabelle watch
ed him, bemused, unable to believe that Louis Dumont, her boss, was tucking her in...and while they were touching. Trying to shake off the warm, floaty feeling that was swamping her, she narrowed her eyes and focused on his faux-innocent face.

  “Ask the rest. C’mon. Just blurt it out.”

  “Well, you just said that you haven’t gone out much since you got here.”

  “That’s not a question.” Now that her thighs were covered by the blanket, she was able to scoot down without worrying about flashing Louis. She shifted so her legs now draped over his lap.

  “Why not?”

  “Why isn’t that the question?” Maybe it was the wine, but Louis’s questions seemed even more random than usual.

  “No.” He rolled his eyes at her as if she were the problem, but she was too warm and comfortable to work up the energy to get huffy about it. “Why don’t you date much? I’ve been out in public with you. Tons of guys—and some women—follow you around with their tongues hanging out.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Yes, they do. So...?”

  Her shoulders twitched in an awkward shrug. It wasn’t like she could tell him the truth—that she wasn’t interested in dating anyone who wasn’t a one-legged Cajun artist named Louis—so she settled on a half-truth. “I’m picky. Besides, I’ve been busy with the gallery.”

  “It’s my fault you’re not dating, then?”

  “Yes, Louis,” she said, her tone teasing even though she was being completely truthful, “it is your fault. Because of you, there’s no one else in the house to bake cookies for me, and I’ve completely lost my tolerance for alcohol.”

  He made another one of his hmm sounds, looking thoughtful in a way that made her want to squirm. Instead, she held herself very carefully still as she met his gaze.

  “Why are you poking me about my lack of love and/or lust life? From what you said, you haven’t been getting much action, either.” She still had a hard time believing that Louis wasn’t having sex every night, all night. “There weren’t any guys chasing me around the gallery tonight.”