Page 61 of Things We Hide from the Light
I pulled one of his feet in my lap and worked the laces loose on his boot.
“I know this is supposed to be humiliating and all, but is it weird I’m also turned on?” he asked, head back, eyes closed.
“You’re a charmer, hotshot. I’ll give you that.” I took off the other boot and scooted off my perch to replace my butt with a pillow. “Feet up.”
“Bossy.”
“Feet upplease.” I smiled when he complied. “Good boy.” I gave him a pat on the leg and returned to the kitchen with Piper on my heels.
While the coffee maker spat out a mug of hot water over a tea bag, I opened Nash’s freezer and found a bag of frozen broccoli.
I brought both the mug and the broccoli back to the couch. “The tea is some hippie concoction for relaxation. Tastes like you’re chewing up a bridal bouquet, but it does the trick. The broccoli is for your chest.”
“Why am I wearing frozen florets?” he asked as I positioned the bag. Piper wasn’t a fan of the bag of veggies and hopped down to inspect her toy basket.
“Thanks to science I learned from social media. Cold pressure applied to your sternum stimulates the vagus nerve.”
“And we want my vagus nerve stimulated?”
I took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “It tells your brain to calm your body down.”
He tilted his head on the cushion to look at me. “Mind sitting a little closer?” he asked.
I couldn’t come up with a good enough reason not to besides the fact that I was scared to death I was going to let him sweep me off my feet with his sexy vulnerability. So I eased toward him across the cushion into the danger zone until our shoulders touched again.
His sigh was one of relief.
“Try the tea,” I said.
He picked up the mug, sniffed, then blanched. “This smells like Liza J’s flower beds after the fertilizer.”
“Drink it.Please.”
“The things I do for you,” he muttered, then took a sip. “Oh God. It tastes like someone stomped on rose petals with their damn feet. Why can’t I have a beer?”
“Because as you’ve probably surmised, alcohol isn’t great for panic attacks.”
Squeaka-squeaka-squeak squeak.
Piper pranced up to the couch with a toy in her mouth. I took it from her and threw it across the room. She looked nonplussed and then headed back to the toy bin.
“She doesn’t understand the concept of fetch yet. How are you such an expert on the subject? Panic attacks, not fetch,” Nash clarified, hazarding another sip of tea and wincing again.
“I used to have them,” I said simply.
We sat in silence, staring straight ahead at the blank TV screen. I knew he was waiting for me to speak up and fill the gap with answers. But I was comfortable with uncomfortable silences.
“Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?” he teased.
I smiled. “Where did Nash come from?”
“Silenceanda subject change,” he observed.
I reached over and flipped the bag of broccoli. “Humor me.”
“Mom was a country fan. Everything from Patsy Cline to Garth Brooks. She and Dad spent their honeymoon in Tennessee.”
“And then along came Knoxville and Nashville,” I guessed.
