“To be held. To be massaged. To be admired without apology.”
“Then stay a little longer,” she said. “Cable’s not going anywhere.”
Outside, the sun dipped lower. Inside, a different kind of connection was being wired—one no remote control could navigate.
He didn’t grab. He didn’t lick or moan like some bad script. He simply cupped her heel in one palm, traced the line of her metatarsals with a fingertip, and pressed his thumb into the sore spot near her instep. A perfect, professional pressure. Not sexual. Tender. Like he’d studied her feet from across the room for an hour and memorized every tension line.
“Yes.” No denial. No shame. “I love feet. Yours especially. The way you point them when you’re thinking. The way you curl your toes when you’re bored. I noticed you did that three times while I was crimping coax.”
He started to rise. Ivy’s bare toes brushed his wrist.
“You’re good at that,” she said.
He gestured toward her foot. She hesitated two seconds, then nodded.
She let him in.
“Most people don’t even look,” she whispered.
Marco settled back on his heels. “Because they don’t lie. Hands lie. Faces lie. But feet—they show pain, pleasure, exhaustion, desire. Your right foot is injured. But your left foot… it’s been asking for attention since I walked in.”
Ivy should have been creeped out. Instead, she felt seen. After weeks of feeling like a broken doll, someone had noticed the smallest, most honest part of her body language.
“You’re looking at my feet,” she said, not accusing, just stating.