“Peachy.”
“Was that sarcasm?”
“No sarcasm.”
“It sounded sarcastic.”
She gathered the robe around her and flung open the door. “There. Was. No. Sarcasm.”
“You’re angry.”
“No, I’m painting my toenails and unless you have a secret desire for a career in the beauty industry, you’ll leave me alone.”
He sat up, pushed the blanket aside. She was both relieved and disappointed to see that Cory had gone to bed in his clothes. “I’ll help.”
Rebecca took a step back, hiding her feet under the robe. Her feet were the reason she never wore sandals, never wore flip-flops, never exposed her naked feet to men—ever. They were ugly. “You can’t paint toes.”
“I do great interior and exterior work. How hard can a toe be?”
“Ten.”
He scoffed. “How hard can ten toes be?”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, giving him a suspicious once-over. When she’d walked in, his face was paler than earlier, and his eyes, well, his eyes looked nervy.
“I couldn’t sleep. You’re pissed.”
“I’m not pissed,” she stated for the record.
“Whatever,” he said, not quite listening.
Rebecca was used to regaining lost attention. That, and she wanted his eyes less nervy. “I’m a little pissed.”
Some of the color returned to his face. “A little?”
“I’m a little more than pissed, but this isn’t that bad, comparatively.”
“You fall into rages often?”
“You haven’t met some of the kids I teach.”
“Monsters?”
“I got fired,” she said, her toes peeking out from under the robe.
That got his attention. “From your job? Was this recent?”
“Two days ago,” she admitted, though it seemed like four lifetimes ago. Still, it felt good to say it aloud.
“Then I think you should really let me paint your toes.” His face wasn’t filled with sympathy and his eyes held their normal flat darkness, but the air turned. The night was softer, warmer. Some of the old ghosts had left the room.
Maybe it was time. Out of all the men she’d ever lain with, Cory Bell was the man least likely to run screaming from her feet.
She settled herself on the bed, her feet tucked safely under her, and he took the nail polish from her hand. She watched, waiting for him to admit defeat and hand it back. He didn’t. For the first time she noticed the deep scars on his right hand. Four neat half-moons scored in the middle of his palm.
He saw her look and closed his fingers over the marks. Then he unscrewed the lid and pulled out the brush, and she laughed.
“You have to shake it first.”
And he shook it all wrong. Rebecca took the bottle, shook it correctly, then handed it to him.
“I bet you were hell in the classroom.”
“I was a sweetheart. Except when they deserved it. And then—”
“You want me to paint your toes or not?” he asked patiently, waiting for her to produce her feet from the safety of white terry cloth. He was going to see her fallen arches.
It’s not that they were huge banana boats. They weren’t. A tiny, trim size six. Everything about her she could live with, except for her arches. Flat feet. Done in after eight years of gymnastics and cheerleading. It wasn’t a big flaw, and somehow that made it worse. It wasn’t an elaborate stretchmark, or an extra pound of flesh that she could exercise away. It was prosaic, and ordinary, a physical characteristic that couldn’t be hidden under full-coverage concealer. And she hated it.
Suddenly his eyes were too knowing, too aware. She couldn’t do this. She held out her hand for the polish. “Here. I’m not going to make you do this.”
“Why not?”
“I changed my mind. I don’t need to paint my toes.”
“Why not? You’ve got somewhere else to go?”
“I just don’t want to.”
“Maybe I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I want to do something for you. In the big scheme of things, painting your toes seems like a wise choice.”
It was her moment of truth, to finally show someone her flaw. He was waiting, watching her expectantly. Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, and they weren’t ever going to see each other again. So what if he laughed? First she pulled out one foot, then the other.
There was no laughing.
Silently he took the brush from the bottle and started painting her little toe.
It was an amazingly anticlimactic moment after a lifetime of apprehension. Rebecca studied his bent head and wondered at the thoughts there.
She didn’t talk while he worked, just watched him with cautious eyes. He concentrated so carefully, his hands not shaking, and every now and again, he’d bite his lip. In high school, she’d heard rumors, and as an adult, she’d seen that rigid, disciplined demeanor before. The first time, it was a small boy in her class. Eventually he’d been taken away from his father, yet Rebecca never knew the details.