“I’m sorry for how he treated you.”
She frowned. “He treated me fine. It’s my job to do stuff like that.”
“I hated it.”
She glanced down, toying with the edge of a cushion as something uncomfortable prickled through her stomach. “That’s because you see my job aslesser. As…servile. But it’s my job, Roscoe. Could you respect that?”
“Shit.” He stepped into the room. “I didn’t mean…” He stopped half-way to the sofa and dragged a hand over his face, through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Poppy said nothing. Because hedidmean it, even if he didn’t think so. It was at the root of everything—his refusal to takeanything from her, to only give. Because he saw himself as higher and her as lower and his moral code wouldn’t let him take advantage of that. And, fair enough, she could hardly fault him. But all she wanted was to be seen as equal.
“I made some pasta,” she said. “If you’ve not eaten. There’s plenty left in the pan in the kitchen. Some chicken and white wine sauce thing I attempted.”
His smile was crumpled, still apologetic. “Thanks. That sounds wonderful.”
When he returned ten minutes later with a plate in his hand, he had changed out of his suit. He was in dark grey pyjama trousers, made of some fine jersey type fabric that did little but draw attention to his thighs. His arse. Groin. His plain white t-shirt was no more helpful. Poppy looked at the TV, and though she tightened just at the memory of it, she pretended that those moments against the door in his office had happened to someone else. In a distant galaxy, far, far away…
It might as well have been. She had no idea how one could get from this—sitting stilted and silent side-by-side on a sofa—tothat.
“This is good,” said Roscoe. “The pasta.”
“Thanks.”
On the screen, two people sang enthusiastically about car insurance.
“I really need to make more time for the gym though if I keep eating pasta and takeaway.”
She eyed him sideways. “I think you’re fine, Ross.”
He winked at her.
She turned back to the screen, a smile curling her lips. Maybethiswas how you got back to that. Maybe being around Roscoe would always lead inevitably back to that…
He put his empty plate down on the coffee table and leant back on the sofa.
“Here,” he said, holding his hand out.
“What?” she asked, confused.
“Feet.” He reached for them before she could understand quite what was happening and swung her feet onto his lap, so that she ended up sitting sideways, back against the sofa arm. She flushed, self-conscious, as he began to rub one of her feet, his thumbs working into the ball of it, just beneath her toes. God… That actually felt…amazing.
“Mmm,” she made a noise of appreciation that came out sounding a lot filthier than she’d intended. Roscoe quirked a knowing eyebrow at her, but she pretended to ignore him, settling back more comfortably. Nowthis…he could definitely do this to her all night.
“This is my first ever foot rub,” she admitted.
“Really? How is that possible?”
“Who was going to give me one? My mum? Mybrothers?”
“Boyfriends,” he suggested casually, working the arch of her foot now. But his casual tone was undercut by the look he flashed her, as though he was very interested indeed in her answer.
She looked at him for a moment. Was it embarrassing to admit the truth? And why did he really care, when he kept making it clear he was only interested in this bizarre one-sided friends-with-benefits situation? But she couldn’t stop herself from saying it. She was always unable to resist giving pieces of herself to him. Or maybe she just wanted to edge closer to this topic—the topic of them, what they were to each other.
“I’ve never had those sorts of boyfriends,” she said. “Ones who were…friends, too. People I hung out with. Lived with.”
“Just hot sex, right?” he teased.
“No. Not even that. More of an awkward date and then…”
