He laughed as he picked up her foot in his hands. “I can handle that.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised that he was rather spectacular at foot rubs. Those hands, which had been so firm yet gentle on her scalp, would of course be amazing on her feet. She hummed with appreciation as his thumbs kneaded her arch. “You’re good at that.”

He chuckled but continued rubbing.

“One thing I don’t get,” she said. “Why’d you think you told me about this foot thing? You didn’t.”

“I did tell you. The second time we met. You were sitting outside my door barefoot with a bag of bread and I said that you managed to hit all my fantasies. I like feet, and I like bread.”

She giggled. “Well, I bake bread. And I have feet.” Match made in heaven. Except … no. “You also accused me of hating you that night.”

He laughed as those talented fingers moved on to gently squeezing and pulling on her toes. Ahhh … it felt amazing. “Considering you have gifted me with this remarkable foot,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you don’t hate me anymore. We’re friends, right?”

“Yes. Even though you gave me lice. But you also brought my drunk ass home safely, even if you demanded I make you bhajias in the middle of the night. So, friends.” Jesus, they’d been through a lot in the two weeks they’d lived across from each other.

“True.” He laughed. “That reminds me, I’m sure you’re fine, but you have to do the final lice treatment Sunday. I’ll comb out your hair again.”

“Let’s do it Monday. We have to do the contest application Sunday, and I’ll be home late from my friend’s place.”

He focused silently for a while, rubbing all the tension out of her sore foot. “It’s all pretty funny,” he said. “This is not what I expected when I moved to Toronto.”

She giggled. “Yes, yes, I know I’m not the good-girl wife you wanted me to be. No need to keep reminding me.”

He pinched the arch of her foot lightly, making her giggle. “I’m starting to think the good-girl wife concept may be overrated.”

She smiled. “I still have no intention of marrying you.”

He chuckled as he lifted her other foot onto his lap, peeled off her sock, and gently started massaging. God, he was too good at this. “I think my favorite thing about you is that you keep telling me you won’t marry me.”

She laughed softly as that boneless calm she’d last felt when he had massaged her scalp overcame her. She closed her eyes, sinking into the couch. He managed to release the tension she knew she had, and about a truckload more tension waiting in the wings. “Mmm … ” she groaned. “I like your hands best.”

“So, you agree that I’m better than your other parent-approved husband prospects?”

She chuckled, nodding. “Seems so. You don’t have a comb-over or a secret after-dinner paan habit, and you know how to make chai.” She sunk lower until almost reclined on the sofa, both her feet on Nadim’s lap. Her third parental setup had been a man addicted to paan—a type of Indian chew which sometimes had psychedelic effects. The man’s teeth were permanently stained red. Nasty. “Then again, I don’t know you that well. If I wanted to know more I could ask around. The Ismaili community is small, wouldn’t take much.”