Nolan stops in front of a large brown couch and takes a seat with me still on his back. The couch presses me more firmly against him, even as I release my grip on him. It’s delicious.
Nolan slides his hands from under my legs and sets them on top of my thighs. It’s not friendly but it’s not romantic either. Like everything involving Nolan, I don’t know exactly what he’s thinking and feel guaranteed to misunderstand his intentions.
“Let’s get your ankle elevated.” He regrettably stands. “I’ll be right back.” He disappears down a short hall.
I look around at the full-sized kitchen and eat-in dining room, admiring the exposed brick. His dorm is larger than some of the condos we’ve renovated in downtown Vegas. While it’s not high-end, it’s nice. Nolan’s belongings are minimal. There aren’t any pictures on the walls, books, or even cushions on the couch. It’s the definition of a bachelor pad.
Nolan reappears with two pillows in his arm. Without warning, he grabs my calf, his touch surprisingly gentle for how fast he moved. The feel of his rough calluses against my exposed skin is better than I’d imagined. A chill runs down my spine, and goose bumps pepper my skin.
Once my foot is arranged how he wants, he moves so that several feet separate us before he turns to face me, plunging his fingers into his hair. I’ve never wondered what another person’s hair felt like, never had the desire to bury my hands in it, but with Nolan, I crave the idea.
“We have a couple of media professionals for the team, and they train us for different kinds of interviews; radio versus TV versus social media. They’re all slightly different but sometimes they crossover. One piece of advice that changed my mindset was hearing that everyone else in the room is just as nervous if not more so than me. Every person who works with the press is working to capture the most cutting-edge story, the most views, and the most clicks. It helped alleviate some of the pressure I’d felt and reversed the situation. Now, I consider how to help make their job easier. In your class, everyone is going to be just as nervous as you to give a speech. Half of them probably won’t even be able to hear what you’re saying because they’re so worried about their own speech.”
“I’m pretty sure I caught everyone’s attention last week.”
He gives a faint smile. “Another one told me that most of our fear stems from trying to be perfect and reminded me that they don’t want perfect. Perfect is boring and rigid. Look at Hollywood—they don’t want to hear about celebrities who are perfect, they want to find the people who are having break-downs, divorces, and peak stress—because that’s when they’re most human—when others can relate or feel better about themselves. Your audience will appreciate seeing your imperfections.” His gaze drops to my chest.
“Freudian slip?”
He shakes his head. “What?”
“You just said imperfections and then checked out my breasts.”
“I didn’t…” He closes his eyes. “I wasn’t referring to your breasts.”
The self-conscious part of me wants to pick this apart and find out where he sees imperfections in me, find out if they’re physical traits or personality defects. Self-preservation keeps my jaw clamped shut and my lips twisting with a smirk to pretend I don’t care.
“You’re perfect.” His voice is thick, as though he was trying to keep the words back.
My thoughts and feelings go reeling, like loose spools of yarn, zigzagging around the room and down all four flights that the elevator carried us up. Perfect as in boring and rigid or perfect like my new favorite lasagna recipe?
Nolan clears his throat and paces two steps to the left of me. “You can also try the age-old trick of imagining everyone in their underwear. It gives your mind some kind of fucked up power trip that lets you pretend you’re composed while everyone else is vulnerable.”
There’s a knock on the door that has Nolan crossing the room. On the other side is a guy in Camden gear, who rolls a cart that looks like a luggage rack into the room. “Holbrook ordered this for you.”
“Thanks,” Nolan says, grabbing the large, oval-shaped bucket that’s sitting on the cart.
“It should stay cold enough for the second soak in two hours but if not, give us a call. Otherwise, we’ll see you in four hours.”
Nolan nods, thanking him again before he closes the door.
Nolan brings the bucket to the edge of the couch and puts it beside me. “Twenty minutes,” he says.
I start unwrapping my foot and ankle from the bandage Holbrook had secured while Nolan disappears again down the hall, returning with a large, light blue blanket that he wraps around my shoulders. I swim in it. He grins. “The timer doesn’t start until you put your foot in.”
“I hate being cold.”
“Hence the blanket.”
I pull in a breath that I release just as quickly and slip my foot into the frigid ice. I shiver, cuddling back into the blanket.
My phone buzzes again.
Lanie: Did you barf?
I called Lanie and told her about our cookie run last night, catching up briefly on her pregnancy and work before she went to dinner with a couple of Christian’s colleagues.
Me: No, but I sprained my ankle.