Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells by Lisa Cach Read Free Book Online

friend. You don’t sound like a friend.”
    “‘Friend’ probably wasn’t the most accurate choice of words.”
    Grace drew in a breath. “You’re not her . . .”
    “Her . . . ?”
    “Her, you know ,” she whispered.
    A laugh burst out of him. “Her boy toy? No, Grace, I’m not a gigolo.”
    “Oh.”
    “You sound disappointed.”
    She squirmed, feeling like a twelve-year-old talking to a dissipated adult. “Well, if you’re not her friend, then what are you?”
    “I think ‘surrogate son’ might be closer to what I meant.”
    She had trouble imagining it. Neither seemed to have enough love in them to spare any for other people. “But you’re afraid of her?”
    “What son isn’t afraid of his mother?”
    “Most, I should hope! My brother isn’t afraid of our mom.”
    “You wouldn’t know.”
    “There’s nothing for him to be afraid of. She loves him with all her heart.”
    “Exactly!”
    “Exactly what ?” she asked, bewildered.
    “Maternal love is a ferocious thing. It devours men whole and spits them out without their balls.”
    “You are drunk. It’s nurturing and supportive, and if that’s not what you get from Sophia, then that’s about you and her, and not about maternal love. And if it’s so horrible, why would you stay with her?”
    “Masochism. Addiction.”
    She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t figure you for a drama queen.”
    “If you stay here, you’ll get sucked in, too,” he said.
    “You make Sophia sound like a mob boss.”
    “It’s not a bad simile.”
    The conversation flagged and they were both quiet. Grace remembered Catherine waiting for the chamomile tea, and hoped she’d fallen asleep. Surely Cat would have come looking for her by now if she was still awake. She would be shocked to find Grace sitting with Declan in the dark.
    Why was she sitting here with him?
    It was the late hour and the quiet of the house, she decided, and the concealing darkness. He was less threatening when she couldn’t see him. She was reminded, though, of her first boyfriendand the evening they’d spent together on the couch in the basement of his parents’ house, watching movies. They’d started the evening with a foot of empty space between them, Grace achingly aware of every slight movement he made toward her, every “accidental” placement of hand or leg, every shift of body. It had taken one and a half movies for their hands to meet and then entwine, the two of them sitting with eyes glued to the screen, pretending that their hearts weren’t beating in their throats.
    Declan shifted, his hand bumping her toes. She pulled her foot back, but his hand followed, his warm, rough palm sliding up over the top of her foot to grasp her ankle.
    An electric thrill shot up her leg. “What are you doing?” she squeaked.
    He pulled her foot into his lap. “I dated a massage therapist for a while.”
    “So?” She tugged at her foot, but he wouldn’t release her. His thumb found the tender skin beneath her arch and started to rub in slow, delicious circles, sending a tingle of pleasure directly up her leg. She squirmed in embarrassment and feebly tugged again at her foot. Somehow, he’d hit upon a spot that was creating echoes of sensation in a decidedly less innocent body part than the sole of her foot. “You have a foot fetish or something?” she asked, trying to hide her embarrassing reaction.
    He chuckled, the sound rumbling over her in the darkness. “The massage therapist was a big believer in reflexology. Do you know what that is?”
    Grace murmured a negative sound, unable to speak further. His touch felt so very good, and if she closed her eyes she could forget who was creating such divine sensations. She sank down against the arm of the couch, glad of the darkness and determined not to let him know how very good his touch felt.
    “Reflexologists believe that areas on the feet and hands correspondto other parts of the body. So if I massage a specific spot on your foot,