Fuck. Her eyes begin a path downward, traveling from my neck, over my bare chest and down to my abs. Instinctively, I suck in my gut because although I stay in shape, take pride in my body and work out consistently, I’ve never been able to have those damn V-lines some guys have. Like my damn brother-in-law, Zach. No matter how many sit-ups, crunches or otherwise, it doesn’t do me any good.
I have this damn, tiny wrinkle of skin when I sit this way and I hate that fucking thing. So, yeah, I suck it in when I find Noelle taking in my bare torso. That’s not the worst part, though. The worst part is the amount of heat in those blue eyes of hers as she takes in the sight of me. Like she wants to eat me alive.
And I want her to. Badly.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, I remind myself of what I need to do. “You going to fill me in on what’s going on?”
Her gaze drops to focus on the wine glass now in her right hand, avoiding my eyes. Her left index finger rises to slowly drag around the rim of the glass.
“CliffsNotes version? I met a guy when I lived in Destin. We dated for a while, and I thought we were in love. We moved in together, and shortly after I moved in with him, he began to change. He would get jealous and insecure about anything pertaining to me. I wasn’t spending enough time with him, he didn’t want me out having drinks with the girls, didn’t want me to highlight my hair anymore, didn’t want me to wear makeup. Stuff like that.
“He started screening my calls, going through my text messages, would accuse me of cheating on him because I had some guy friends from college who I still kept in touch with. He complained I was getting fat when I wasn’t and didn’t like the way I looked, or talked to whoever—the waiter, the guy who was sitting next to us at the restaurant, or the guy bagging our groceries.”
Shit. I already don’t like where this is going. Clenching and unclenching my fists, I try to remain calm.
“Soon, he was spreading lies around of how I had been cheating on him, but that he was the one who wanted to work through things and was so graciously allowing me to continue to live with him.” The disgust in her voice, the way she still won’t meet my eyes, continuing to do the ’round and ’round thing with her finger on the rim of the wine glass speaks for how uncomfortable she is with talking about this episode in her life.
She pauses briefly, blowing out a long breath. “The moment he flung the television remote control at me, hitting my shin hard enough—and at just the right angle—to split the skin open was finally a wake-up call for me.”
Setting the wine glass on the table, she shifts, sliding the left pant leg up to her knee, pulling her leg up to rest her foot on the chair. “See that? That’s the lesson he gave me for making him upset because I hadn’t answered his call quickly enough one day.” Her finger traces down over what is now a faint scar along her smooth shin.
Rage. That’s all I’m feeling. Overwhelming rage. To beat the shit out of this fucker who hurt my—er, I mean, who hurt Noelle.
“So,” she continues, “by then, everyone was brainwashed by him and I only had one close friend left.” Her lips curve into a sad smile. “Nancy.”
Noelle shakes her head with a laugh that sounds forced. “Nancy was pretty much my savior. She helped me look for jobs and find my rental here. She and her husband, Ted, took off work to load up all of my stuff in a U-Haul on the sly while Brad was at work. I made a stop at the bank where we had a joint checking account, withdrew exactly half and took my name off the account. Then Nancy and Ted drove the U-Haul five and a half hours, following me here with my packed car. They helped me move in and get somewhat settled.” Her voice trails off, becoming fainter as she appears to get lost in her thoughts.
Finally, after a moment, her troubled gaze meets mine. “I thought I had covered my tracks well enough. I guess I really underestimated how far he would go to find me.” Her eyes drop down to her lap, shaking her head, muttering, “I’m so sorry to drag you into this.”
“Hey.” I say this with just enough force to get her to look at me. Once she does, I reach out to cup her cheek in my hand. “Don’t apologize for anything. I’m glad I could—can—help.” Lips curving upward slightly, I add, “It’s what I’m good at, remember?”
She gives me a weak excuse for a smile in return, but I’m lost in the moment. The moment where I’m touching her, and she’s allowing it. The moment where we aren’t boss and employee, or two people who constantly bicker.
We’re just Foster and Noelle. And damn if it isn’t pretty nice.
Something makes her withdraw from my touch, carefully and casually moving out of my reach. Instantly, my fingers itch to touch her again. I feel like a junkie, the urge to reach back toward her and cup her face is compelling. To run my thumb across her cheekbone, along the skin I now know is the softest I’ve ever felt.
But I don’t.
Instead, leaning back in my seat, I begin to tell her what I’ve already set in motion. She appears worried after I mention the cleaning crew and the new locks, but when I mention the alarm system, she’s downright distressed.
“Foster, I can’t … afford all of that,” she protests.