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“Spend a lot of quality time with Jessica Rabbit, do you?”
“Would it bother you if I said yes?”
“Would it bother you if I said I didn’t care either way?”
We stare at each other, locked in a stalemate of sorts, though I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what the stakes in this little skirmish are all about.
Finally, I look away, picking nervously at the tablecloth. “I would’ve thought you’d pick someone a little more intellectually stimulating to spend time with. Talking to that woman is probably like playing tennis with a brick wall.”
“I’m here with you, not her, aren’t I?”
I poke at a smear of food on my plate. “She’s going to tell everyone that your new wife is a colossal bitch.”
“Well, you did tell her you’d rather talk to a dead shrimp. She might not be wrong.”
“Touché.” I take a sip of water. “I shouldn’t have let her get to me. I’m blaming it on the heels.”
“What’s wrong with your heels?”
I lift the hem of my dress and show him my hideously swollen ankles. I can even see the dagger-like red marks, courtesy of whichever genius at Ferragamo decided to make straps out of what is apparently barbed wire.
“It’s no big deal,” I insist when I see his face curdle into that stormy,Arsen-is-about-to-do-something-rashlook I’ve come to know so well. “Nothing a long soak tomorrow can’t fix.”
“You should have said something.” He makes a grab for my foot under the table.
“What are you doing? I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine; you’re in pain. Let me see your feet.”
“Not unless you pay me cold, hard cash, buddy.” I try to smile, but Arsen isn’t in a joking mood. He makes another swipe under the table. “No, really! It’s okay. It’s not even my feet. Heels can aggravate my hip.”
His eyes darken, and I realize I’ve somehow made things worse.
“That’s chronic pain for you,” I joke weakly. “Always flaring up at the most inconvenient times. But I’m used to it, so?—”
He grabs my right leg suddenly and hauls it onto his lap. Despite the thunderous set of his mouth, his hands are gentle on my ankle as he releases my foot from its designer bear trap.
“Is that better?”
God, yes. Much.
“I can’t be barefoot in here,” I whimper. I offer a shaky smile in the direction of a few curious passers-by before turning back to Arsen. “I’ll take my shoes off when we’re on the way home, okay? Now is not the appropriate time.”
I try to pull my leg back, but pain shoots up my hip. I can’t stop the wince in time.
“You’re still in pain,” he accuses.
“Nope. I’m peachy. Never better, actually. Set me loose on the dance floor, and I’ll prove it.”
I try to pry my leg out of his grip; instead, his hand slips under the high slit of my dress and up my thigh.
“Arsen! We’re in public.”
“How does that feel?”
“Like a misdemeanor.” But my indignation is overrun by the urge to sigh in relief.
Arsen works strong fingers into the knot of muscles along my upper thigh and hip. “I kept you on your feet too long.”
