I raise a brow at him. “What, you’re my stylist now?”
“Damn right,” he says, dropping to a squat in front of me. “Now sit.”
Against my better judgment, I obey. My knees brush his shoulder as he takes my ankle in his hand, and a rush of heat spreads up my leg. His hand is warm…too warm and I fight the urge to yank my foot back.
“Relax,” he mutters, slipping my foot into the boot. “I don’t bite.”
“That’s a lie,” I shoot back.
He smirks without looking up. “Okay, I bite. But not your feet, Peach.”
My stomach flips, and I look anywhere but down at him. The ceiling, the wardrobe, the mess on my desk…anything to avoid seeing him kneeling in front of me like that. But then he runs his palm over my calf to smooth the leather and my breath catches anyway.
“There.” He tugs the zipper up and g
