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“You miss your show, don’t you?”

“Every fucking day.”

“But you love acting, right?”

“I loved stunt work more than acting. I keep telling myself this new role is the right move to accommodate my injury, but I’m not ecstatic about the part.” She grabbed some non-stick dressing and ripped the packet open. “The problem is, I don’t know who I am or what I want to do anymore.”

With gentle touches, soft dabs and swipes, she cleaned and covered my ghastly blister. Her warm hand curled around my foot as she inspected her work.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “Give yourself time to work shit out. You had a serious accident. Allow yourself to be sad, angry, fucked off at the world. This show may not be what you want. But it’s a step toward finding out what is. Life isn’t a straight and easy road. Believe me, I know.”

“I’ve always been more of a ‘jump first, ask questions later’ kind of girl.”

I glanced at my foot. Her hand had slipped underneath my jeans and rubbed the back of my ankle. My pulse quickened. Shivers ran up my leg and jolted toward my groin. Fuck. I pulled my foot away. “Um. Thanks. My blister feels better.”

She shuffled to the other end of the sofa. “Sure. Any time.”

“How about a drink?” I jumped up. Yes, something to kill all traces of her touch. “Would you like a bourbon?” I needed something stronger than hot chocolate, spiked or not.

“Yeah.” She fidgeted with the ties on her hoodie. “That would be great.”

Half an hour later, the guys and Sutton still hadn’t returned. Tia and I were onto our second whiskey, talking about the band as we sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace. But Tia kept rolling her ankle and wincing as if in pain.

I couldn’t have that.

I put my drink down and waved at her to give me her foot. “Here. I give a hell foot rub.”

“Really?” Her eyes hooded as if it was desperately what she wanted, but she also was a touch hesitant.

So was I when it came to touching her. Yet I’d offered. I wasn’t one to back down.

“Yep.” I shuffled to face her and took her ankle in my hand. But as I ripped her sock off, she shrieked.

“Wait. Don’t.” She pulled her foot out of my hold. The color drained from her face.

Shit! What had I done? I held up my hands. Her sock dangled from my fingertips. “Don’t what?”

“I didn’t need my sock off.” She winced. “I...I have scars.”

I placed my fingertips on her foot and traced the long red marks that zigzagged across her dainty ankle. Just touching her bare skin sent a flurry of shocks rippling beneath my skin. “They’re fine.”

She shook her head and drew her leg away. Tears welled in her eyes. “They’re not. They’re ugly. The ones up my leg and knee are horrid. I hate them. They’re so gross.”

“I have a huge one on my back. When I was seven, my brother Lyndon pushed me into a wrought-iron fence—one with pointy poles. The tip cut underneath my shoulder blade. I have a five-inch scar. See?” I turned and lifted my hoodie to show her the mark.

“Shit.” Her cool fingertips traced the couple inches of keloid tissue on my back.

“We all have scars.” I lowered my top and turned around. I waved her sock at her. “But if it would make you feel better, would you like to put your sock back on?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Thank you.” She swiped a tear off her cheek. “I used to have nice legs.”

“They still are.” Once she put on her wooly sock, I took her foot again. “Now. Where were we?”

I worked my fingers into the base of her foot, taking it easy at first, then deepening my strokes. As I drove my thumbs into the ball of her foot, rubbed her toes, and massaged the arch, she slowly relaxed. I eased into working the sides of her ankle where her scars were.