Next to Me

by Allie Everhart

  "That good, huh?"

  "What?" I open my eyes.

  "The foot rub."

  "What about it?"

  He smiles. "You were, uh...making some noise just now."

  "I wasn't making noise," I insist. I try to sit up but he holds my foot so I can't move.

  "You were moaning," he says as he runs his thumb up the center of my foot. Shit, that feels good.

  "I was NOT moaning." I prop up on my elbows. "Who moans over a foot rub? That's ridiculous."

  He eyes me, a sly grin on his face, and then his thumb goes to that spot again. The one that is somehow able to cause a tingle between my legs.

  "Oh, God," I moan, my head falling back.

  I hear him chuckle. "Yeah, that. That was it. Sounded like a moan to me."

  Shit, he's right.

  My eyes pop open. "How did you do that?"

  "Do what? This?" His thumb returns to that spot.

  I tense up, trying to hold myself back from lunging forward onto Nash's lap and having my way with him right here on the couch.

  "Stop it," I say, trying to wiggle my foot out of his grasp.

  "Why?" He smiles. "What does it do to you?"

  I'm breathing hard, although I'm trying not to. "Nothing. It's just..." I relax back on the couch as his thumb moves to the middle of my foot, massaging it with long, steady strokes.

  "Would you prefer I do this instead of that other thing?"

  Now that I've experienced the 'other thing' I want more of it. But that would lead to something we shouldn't be doing, so I answer, "Yes. You should probably just stick with that. What you're doing now. That's good."

  "If you ever want the other thing, just let me know." He shoots a flirty smile at me, then turns back to the TV.

  My heart's racing, wanting him, right here, right now. He looks good, he smells good, and he basically just offered me sex, which I now realize I have really missed. Not that it was ever great in the past. The guys I've been with didn't know what they were doing. But I have a feeling Nash does. If the sex is anything like the foot rub, then yeah, I'd like to experience that.

  We watch whatever movie he found to watch, and after a while, he sets my foot down and picks up my other foot. "I better switch since you're kicking me out soon."

  "Oh, um, you don't have to go. I mean, if you want to finish the movie, that's fine."

  "Actually I think it's almost over but I'll stay until I've given this foot equal time." His thumb repeats those long strokes on the bottom of my other foot, then slowly sinks into that spot again, holding it there and gently rubbing.

  I gasp as a warm, tingling sensation fills the area between my legs. How the hell does he do that? Is there some kind of sexual pressure point on the feet that only Nash knows about?

  "You're not supposed to do that." My voice is breathy and he notices.

  His eyes are on the TV, but he's smiling. "I have to do both feet the same. Otherwise, they'll be off."

  "Yeah, but—" I can't talk as he rubs over the pressure point again. He has me so worked up I can't even think. Maybe my body's just so deprived from a man's touch that I'm overly sensitive.

  "You don't like it?" he asks in a kidding tone.

  I ignore him and close my eyes and just let him continue. I'm too embarrassed to tell him to stop. He knows what he's doing to me so why try to deny it? Or stop it? I might as well enjoy it.

  "I'm gonna get going, okay?"

  I open my eyes and see Nash crouched down beside me, his hand on my arm. My legs are lying on the sofa and I feel wetness on the side of my lip. I must've fallen asleep and drooled all over myself.

  I wipe away the drool and quickly sit up. "What time is it?"

  "Almost midnight."

  "Midnight? How did it get so late?"

  "You fell asleep after the foot rub. You've been out for hours. I didn't want to wake you up but I need to get home and I didn't want to just sneak out. I wanted to make sure you locked the door after I left."

  I nod as he offers me his hand and helps me up. "Sorry I fell asleep. I didn't think I was that tired. Or maybe it was the foot rub. That was awesome, by the way."

  "Well, whenever you want one, you know where to find me." We walk to the door.

  "You're offering free foot rubs?"

  He smiles. "They might come at a price."

  "Which is what?"

  "You have dinner with me again."

  "Do I have to make it?"

  "No, but technically it IS your turn."

  I smile. "All right. I'll make dinner."

  Instead of leaving, he remains at the door, looking at me, and I wonder if he's trying to decide if he should kiss me. I told him not to do it again, but now I'm regretting that as we stand here, the desire building between us. We both want it. I can feel it. But I told him not to.

  He puts his hand on my arm and gently squeezes it as he leans down and kisses my head. "Goodnight, Callie."

  "Goodnight," I say as he turns and leaves. I shut the door and lock it, then rest back against it, wondering why I'm feeling this way. Why I'm feeling something other than sadness and anger and anxiety and guilt. Those are the only feelings I've known for so long now that I can't even remember feeling any other way. Until now.

  I feel calm. Relaxed. My mind is at rest, rather than the jumbled mess it usually is. Maybe that's because I was sleeping. But normally, as soon as I wake up, I'm back to feeling anxious and guilty and sad. So why don't I feel that way now?

  Chapter Twelve

  Nash

  I've been lying here for over an hour and still can't get to sleep. It's after one and I need to be up at five to start working. I have so much shit to do and I need to be awake for it. But instead of sleeping I'm lying here thinking about Callie, wondering what happened to make her react that way tonight. I offer to take her for ice cream and she starts crying?

  There's something she's not telling me, which is understandable because we just met and she's made it clear she's a very private person. But when I saw her break down like that, I got a pain in my chest. I barely know the girl but seeing her cry really got to me. I wanted to help her, ask her what was wrong and what I could do, but she refused to talk about it, so I just held her in my arms. And then I didn't want to let her go. She felt good in my arms, like she belonged there.

  She belongs in my arms? It sounds like a lyric in a country song but shit, it's true. And I wanted to keep her there until I could figure out what it is that feels so right about us, because it's more than just how she feels in my arms. There's something between us that I can't quite figure out. It's like when you recognize someone but can't remember how you know them. I'm not saying I knew Callie before meeting her the other day. What I mean is that there's something familiar about her. Like we have something in common but she won't tell me enough about herself for me to figure out what that is.

  Why is she so closed off? Why does she refuse to let me ask her a question? And why do I find her so damn irresistible? Whenever I'm around her I get worked up like some horny teenager. At 25, I'm normally better able to control myself around a beautiful woman but not with Callie. She gets things going down there and I can't seem to control it. But I think I've had an effect on her as well. She was a willing partner in that kiss we had the other night and I know she wanted me to kiss her again tonight. From the way she reacted from that foot rub, she might've even had sex with me tonight.

  Maybe we should just do it. Maybe doing it would relieve the intense sexual tension between us and we could go back to being just neighbors. I doubt that would work. If we did it, we probably wouldn't be able to stop. It was hard enough pulling away from that kiss I gave her.

  I close my eyes and imagine her lips and how they felt when I kissed her. And how she tasted when her lips parted to let me in. My hand makes its way under the sheet, heading for my boxers when my phone rings.

  It's one-thirty. Who the hell calls at one-thirty in the morning? I grab my phone from the nightstand. Ma
rissa's photo flashes on the screen. Why is she calling me? In the middle of the night? I panic, thinking maybe something bad happened. An accident. Someone's hurt. Someone died. There's no other reason she'd call me. She hasn't called me in months.

  I answer. "Marissa, what's wrong?"

  "Hey, baby." Her words are drawn out. She's drunk.

  I sigh, leaning back on the headboard. "Why are you calling me?"

  "Because I miss you."

  "You don't miss me. You're drunk."

  "It's not about being drunk. I miss you." Her voice sounds high and whiny. Did it always sound like that? If so, why did I ever date her? A voice like that would get annoying after the first date. Then again, I wasn't thinking about her voice that night. I was too focused on her body, which was wrapped in a tight red dress with a deep neckline that showed off her breasts, which are fake, by the way.

  "Marissa, go to sleep. You need to be at work in a few hours and so do I."

  "Are you still working on that house?"

  "Yes." It comes out curt because this is an issue we fought about so many times I lost count. She didn't even want me coming down here to look at the house, saying I should just sell it and not waste time on it.

  "I want to see you," she says, slurring her words.

  "Marissa, just go to sleep."

  "I'm breaking up with Michael."

  I shove the covers back and sit on the side of the bed. "You broke up with him?"

  "Not yet, but I'm going to."

  "Why?" I turn on the lamp that's on the nightstand.

  "Because I don't love him."

  "And you're just figuring this out now? After dating him for eight months?" I'm only guessing about the eight months. I walked in on her and Michael six months ago and she later told me they'd been dating for the two months before that. But for all I know, it could've been longer than that.

  "Can you come up here this weekend?" she asks in that whiny tone.

  "I'm working this weekend, and every weekend this summer. I'm trying to finish this place by September and there's a lot to get done."

  "Then I'll drive down there. I miss seeing you, Nash."

  One of the main reasons I moved here was so I wouldn't have to see her anymore. How could she not understand that? It should be pretty freaking clear after what she did to me.

  "My brothers are coming this weekend. And even if they weren't, I don't want to see you, Marissa. You cheated on me and I don't put up with that shit."

  "Don't be that way. We had two good years together. You can't just throw all that away."

  "I didn't. You did."

  She lets out a long sigh. "Come on. It's just for a weekend. That's all I'm asking for. I'll come down in a couple weeks."

  "I don't want you here. We're done. I've moved on."

  "I know that's not true. Just a few weeks ago when I saw you in the lobby, you looked at me like you always did. Like you still love me."

  Is she delusional? I did not look at her that way. I might've checked her out briefly because she's hot and always dresses to show off her assets, but that doesn't mean I love her. After six months of watching her and Michael go in and out of her apartment, which was just down from mine, any love I had for her quickly died.

  "I'm going to bed," I say. "Don't call me again."

  "But Nash, I—"

  I end the call before she can finish. I set the phone on the nightstand and go over to the window and shove it open more because it feels like it's a hundred degrees in here and this room doesn't have an air conditioner. As I'm standing at the window, I look down and see lights on at Callie's house. What is she doing up so late? Is she always up this late?

  My thoughts return to her as I get back into bed. There's something going on with her. Something she doesn't want me to know. I fall asleep with that thought in my head, and a few short hours later, the sun wakes me up for a new day.

  I shower, then get to work, tearing up the linoleum floor in the kitchen. At eight-thirty, I drive down to the gas station and get some breakfast for Callie and me. Instead of bringing it to her, I set it up in the living room since she's coming over any minute now.

  "Nash?" I hear her at the front door, which is open, but the screen door is closed. "Can I come in?"

  "You work here now," I say, meeting her in the living room. "You don't have to knock. Just come in."

  "Does that only apply to work hours?" She smiles and uses a flirty tone. What does that mean? Is she deciding she wants to be more than neighbors? I keep telling myself not to get involved with her that way, but if she's offering, I'm pretty damn sure I won't be able to turn her down. She's already got my blood pumping faster just looking at her. She's wearing khaki shorts that barely cover her ass and a navy t-shirt that has a deep v-neck that I'm betting I could see right down if I were standing in front of her.

  "Feel free to come and go whenever you want," I say, answering her question. "You're welcome any time, day or night."

  The night reference caught her attention and she glances away, like she's not sure what to do with that. This is why she confuses me. I'll flirt with her and she'll flirt back, or kiss me back, or let me give her one of my famous foot rubs—and by famous, I mean girls back in Chicago begged for them—but then she'll suddenly revert back to the girl she was when we first met. She'll act as though she has no desire to be anything more than friends, if that.

  "So where should I start?" Her eyes scan over the sea of boxes.

  "Start with breakfast." I hand her a cup of coffee and a wrapped-up egg sandwich.

  She takes it and sits on the couch, a plume of dust rising all around her. "You didn't have to get me breakfast."

  "It's your first day. You get breakfast on your first day." I grab my coffee and sit next to her, causing more dust to fly in the air. "I need to get a cleaning service over here, just to get rid of the first layer of dirt. Then I'll bring them back later when the house is done."

  "I could help," she says, biting into her sandwich.

  "Help what? Clean?"

  She shrugs. "Yeah. I don't mind cleaning. And you pay better than anyone else in town."

  "And provide breakfast," I say holding up my coffee.

  "Just on the first day."

  "You can expect it every day." I nudge her. "You know I don't like to eat alone."

  She sips her coffee. "Are you paying in cash?"

  "I was planning to until I found out you work for the CIA. Now I'm going to have to pay you the legal way and file all the paperwork."

  She rolls her eyes. "I'm not in the CIA."

  My two egg sandwiches are eaten before she's finished half of hers. I drink my coffee, then say, "So I saw your light on last night. Couldn't sleep?"

  "You were spying on me?"

  "My bedroom was like a hundred degrees so I got up to open the window and saw your light was on."

  "I don't sleep much. I can get by on just a few hours a night." There's that look again. That nervous, sad, uncomfortable look that comes out of nowhere, then disappears moments later. She wraps up her sandwich. "Do you have a garbage can somewhere?"

  "You're not going to finish it?"

  "I'm not that hungry." She always says that after she gets that look. Whatever she's thinking about seems to take away her appetite.

  "Here. Give it to me." She hands me the sandwich and I unwrap it and eat it all in one bite.

  "Wow. You eat a lot."

  I point to myself. "It takes a lot to fuel this, especially when I'm working all day. I could've eaten five of those sandwiches. Speaking of food, what's for dinner?"

  I'm kidding. I was planning to get us take-out tonight, but I asked just to see what she'd say.

  "Do you like chicken marsala?"

  "Callie, I was joking. I'm not making you cook dinner. I'm surprised you did it the first time. I'll just order Chinese."

  "Oh. Okay." She sounds disappointed, her eyes on her coffee.

  "Hey." I touch her arm and she looks up at me. "Did you
want to make the chicken? Because it sounds really good. I just didn't want to make you go to all that work."

  "It's not that much work. Making it is easy. It's the cleaning up part that takes forever."

  "Then you cook dinner and I'll clean up. Sound good?"

  "You're going to clean up my kitchen?" She smiles. "I can be really messy when I cook."

  "I don't mind. If the chicken's as good as your spaghetti sauce, it's worth having to clean up a mess."

  "We'll have to eat at seven. I need time to go to the store, and I'm working two jobs now so..."

  "If you ask nicely, I bet your boss would let you skip your afternoon shift."

  "I don't need to skip it. I'll have plenty of time." She stands up. "Let's get to work. Tell me where to start."

  I take her over to the boxes stacked up in the corner. "I'm sure everything in here is junk. Just go by what we talked about the other day. Toss any old magazines and newspapers into the recycle bin in the garage and whatever can't be recycled can go in the dumpster. They delivered it this morning. It's in the driveway."

  "Yeah, it woke me up when they slammed it down on the concrete."

  I laugh. "It's a good thing you don't need much sleep because you're probably not going to get much having a noisy neighbor like me."

  "Makes me wish Mr. Freeson was still living here. He never made a sound." She opens the top of a box.

  "You don't like living next to me?"

  "It's too soon to answer that," she says, cracking a smile.

  "Get to work," I say, slapping her ass before walking away.

  She laughs. "Hey! That's sexual harassment."

  "Go tell your boss at the CIA." I return to the kitchen, wondering if her secretiveness will continue now that we're working together. She has to break down and tell me something eventually. At least she explained why she was up last night. Or maybe she lied about that. I can't tell with this girl. Of course, I didn't know Marissa was lying to me for months so I guess I'm not good at knowing when women are lying.

  An hour later I go check on Callie. "How's it going?"

  The stack of boxes she was working on is now gone. "So far, I've found mostly old newspapers and magazines. Your grandfather really liked to read."