Page 72 of Surprisingly Us

“It’s part of being a professional dancer.” She grins at me. “Giving up my dreams of being a foot model.”

She’s making light of it. It’s what she’s used to, but I’m still not over the shock.

I run a thumb over one of her big toes, lightly tracing the bunion there.

“That’s been there for over ten years. I don’t know what my feet would look like without it.”

My finger continues to glide over each battered toe.

“This little piggie got smashed. This little piggie lost his nail. This little piggie has a bunion, and this little piggie—”

She grabs the decorative pillow beside me and smacks me in the face, putting an end to my ballerina feet rendition ofThis Little Piggie.

“I know my feet aren’t pretty and I warned you.”

“You know I’m just teasing you, right?” I ask.

I lift her foot to my lips and press a kiss to her big toe.

Her gaze narrows. “Okay, that’s weird. Do you have a foot fetish? Is that what this is?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be turned on by yours.”

She lifts the pillow again, but I hold up my free hand.

“Kidding.” Gently, I brush my thumb over the callus on her pinky toe. “I can’t believe you put yourself through such torture.”

“It’s not torture. I love dancing.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what that’s like. Loving something so much you’d make sacrifices for it.”

I reach for the lotion in the basket next to the couch. It appears to be part of a self-care kit that Lettie keeps available. Bandages, lotion, nail strengthener, and other products.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing? Sacrificing the life you were living in order to be president of your parents’ foundation?”

“I guess you could say that.” But even as the words pass my lips, I know it’s not true. Spending time with Lettie doesn’t make me feel like I’m sacrificing anything. It feels like I’m being given a gift.

“Hannah’s going to be home in a few days,” she says.

“Have you told her about us?” I ask, pumping lotion into my hand then rubbing my hands together to warm it.

“No. She and James agreed to turn off their phones and enjoy each other on their honeymoon, so she has no idea that we’re dating.” She clears her throat. “Fake dating.”

My hands wrap around her left foot and she jumps.

“Ticklish?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

Using my thumbs, I work the arch of her foot with smooth, fluid strokes.

“I’ll tell her at the Leg-Up fundraiser. She’s less likely to freak out in a public place.”

“You think she won’t approve?” I ask.

“She asked me to keep an eye on you at her wedding so you wouldn’t hit on any of her family or friends, and now we’re dating? You tell me.”

“You could tell her it was love at first sight.”

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