Page 118 of Wish You Were Mine
36
LUCY
Theo’s surpriseparty went off without a hitch. He was happily surprised, the house was packed, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves—eating, talking, and playing games in different corners of the house.
Once I saw that everyone was having a good time and Charlotte was entertaining Theo and his friends with her somersaults, I slipped away from the main living area and into the big theater room at the back of the house.
When I walked in the back, Miles, Bash, and Ky were sprawled on the tiered seats at the front of the room, playing some interactive video game that involved lots of yelling and arm movements.
Trying not to disturb them, I sank onto a couch in the back row, kicked off my heels, and groaned quietly. My legs were killing me. Coach hadn’t exactly murdered us in practice this week, but she’d definitely slow-baked us. Lots of precision drills, balance corrections, and extra holds on beam to “lock in muscle memory” before Sunday’s big home meet against Yale.
The result: my body felt like Jell-O. Controlled Jell-O. With a side of bruises.
I leaned my head back, closing my eyes for just a second…
“Let’s gooo! Dunk on him!”
The shout came from the front of the room—probably Miles— jarring me out of the edges of sleep.
My eyes fluttered open, and that was when I saw Owen.
Sitting on the couch beside me, maybe a foot away. Casual. Relaxed. Like he’d been there quietly watching his friends play their video game while I was dozing off.
“You tired?” he asked softly, his voice low and close.
I blinked at him, still half-drowsy. “Exhausted,” I admitted, letting my head rest back against the cushion. “I just needed to get off my feet for a minute.”
He glanced down, eyes catching on my heels now discarded on the floor. “Feet sore?”
“My everything is sore,” I muttered with a faint smile, stretching out one leg in front of me.
He smiled, then looked around the room, making sure the guys were still caught up in their game. Then, without a word, Owen reached over and took my foot gently in his hands.
My breath hitched. For a second, I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Was he just holding it? About to make a joke? My brain scrambled to make sense of the sudden contact—of how careful his touch was. How warm his hands felt against my skin.
And then he started massaging.
And I nearly melted. Because ohhhh…it feltsogood.
A sharp breath escaped me—half-sigh, half-moan—and I had to slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.
“Too much?” he asked, his voice low, rougher than usual. Like he, too, was having some sort of internal reaction to touching me like that.
“No.” I shook my head, barely able to form words. “That feels…ridiculously good.”
He smiled again, and I imagined I saw heat smoldering behind his eyes. His fingers moved in slow, practiced circles over the arch of my foot, making me sink deeper into the couch cushion. Then he slid upward, his thumbs pressing into my sore calf, kneading gently but firmly, coaxing out tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
Oh. Wow.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep another groan from escaping. This felt way too good—illegal levels of good.
I let my head fall back for a second, trying to gather myself, but it was no use.
Because then, I looked at him.
And just like that, the focus of my senses shifted—from how good his hands felt on me to how goodhelooked while giving my muscles much needed relief.
His brow was furrowed slightly in concentration, his strong hands deftly moving up and down my calf.
