Chapter 121 (2/2)

“I’ll be here when you get off.” Hardin leans in to press his lips against my cheek, and his fingers push my hair behind my ear. “Don’t work too hard,” he whispers against my cheek. I can hear the smile in his voice, but I also know a hint of seriousness is behind his suggestion.

Of course, Hardin’s words curse my entire shift. We get swamped, with table after table of men and women drinking too much wine or brandy and overpaying for tiny portions of food on decorated plates. A child decides that my uniform could use a makeover: a plate of spaghetti, to be exact. I don’t have time for a break the entire shift, and my feet are killing me by the time I finally clock out over five hours later.

As promised, Hardin is waiting for me in the lobby. Sophia is standing next to the bench he’s sitting on. Her dark hair is pulled into a high bun, bringing attention to her stunning face. She’s exotic looking, with high cheekbones and full lips. I look down at my dirty uniform and cringe, smelling the garlic and tomato sauce staining my shirt. Hardin doesn’t seem to notice my soiled clothes, but he pulls a small chunk of something from my ponytail as we walk outside.

“I don’t even want to know what that was.” I laugh softly. He smiles and pulls a napkin—no, a tissue—from his pocket and hands it to me.

I use the tissue to wipe under my eyes; my smeared eyeliner from sweating at work can’t be remotely attractive right now. Hardin leads the conversation, asking simple questions about my shift, and we get back to the apartment quickly.

“My feet are killing me,” I groan, pulling my shoes off my feet and tossing them aside. Hardin’s eyes follow them, and I can practically see the sarcastic comments forming behind that head of hair about my making a mess. “I’m going to put them away in a minute, of course.”

“Thought so.” He smiles and sits down next to me on my bed. “Come here.” He gathers my ankles in his hands, and I turn to face him as he rests my feet on his lap. His hands begin to rub my aching feet, and I lie back on the mattress, trying to ignore that I’ve had my feet stuck in shoes for hours.

“Thank you,” I half moan. My eyes want to close from the instant relaxation that comes from Hardin’s hands massaging my feet, but I want to look at him. I have suffered through months without looking at him, and now I don’t want to look away.

“No problem. I can deal with the smell to see that relaxed, fucking dreamy look in your eyes.” I lift my hand, swatting at the air, and he laughs and continues to work his magic on my feet.

His hands move to my calves and up to my thighs. I don’t bother to stop the noises falling from my lips; it’s just so relaxing and calming to have him touching me, working the sore muscles of my body.

“Come sit in front of me,” he instructs, gently pushing my feet from his lap. I sit up, climbing over his lap, and sit in between his legs. His hands grip my shoulders first; he presses his fingertips into the tense muscles and rubs every ounce of tension out of them.