I’m about to tell him I’m not a slow eater, he’s just a garbage disposal, but the words get lost in my throat when he lifts my feet into his lap and pulls my socks off. His thumbs dig into my arch, and I’m eternally grateful Cara and I spent yesterday morning at the spa. Carter taps the crimson polish on my toes. “Pretty.” “What are you doing?” I finally ask, then moan when he works a particularly sore spot. “Cara said you needed a foot rub. So I’m giving you a foot rub.”
