“I’ve got it taken care of.”
“No.” Her tone is firm, and it’s the first time since the “situation” I hear any sign of the old, normal Noelle I’m used to dealing with. “I can’t let you do that unless you let me pay you back.”
I already know how this is going to go, so I quickly respond with an obligatory, “Of course.” Which appears to put her at ease. It’s a lie, though, because there’s not a chance in hell I’ll let her pay me for this shit.
“Help yourself to anything in the house in the meantime, okay?” I add, trying to change the subject.
“Th-thank you, Foster.” She stumbles over her words, and I know she’s feeling awkward and off-kilter just like me.
“Any time.” And I mean it. I would do it again, rush to her aid in a heartbeat if she needed me.
I don’t, however, want to analyze my inherent desire to be the one man—the only man—she calls for help.
Chapter Ten
Noelle
Foster rises from his chair, still shirtless, and pads over to the sliding glass door. “Be right back,” he tells me, and I merely nod.
“Harley? You coming?” His dog looks at me as if he’s wondering if I’ll be okay without him for a few moments.
“You can go with him.” I lower my head to whisper to Harley, so as to not be overheard by Foster, adding, “Maybe make him put on a shirt over that chest of his, okay?”
Harley follows Foster to the door behind me. It isn’t until the sound of the door sliding along the track, about to be closed, that I hear his husky voice say, “Oh? Someone likes my naked chest…”
That ass. I should have known better. Damn SEALs and their superhuman sense of hearing.
Still, I can’t restrain the smile my lips form at his words, at the underlying hint of teasing in them. The truth is, I do like his naked chest. A little too much. When he, without any hesitation, removed his own shirt to pull it down over me, recognizing the breeze might be slightly chilly for me, I nearly melted right then and there. Because the last time I had a man do that for me was back in Never Happened B.C.
But I have to stop this—this route my mind’s taking—because it’s far too dangerous. To recognize Foster Kavanaugh is a good guy is one thing. To start getting all kinds of romantic thoughts about him is a completely different—and not smart—thing. So that means I need a recap.
Facts I need to remember about Foster:
He is a manwhore.
I work for him.
I need my job.
He’s super hot.
His chest is beautiful.
Wait. Where was I going with this? Shit.
No. Foster is a big NO. No, no, no, noooooo.
I take another sip of my wine. Then a gulp because not only are my nerves shot, but I need to get my shit together. I need to stay on track. My whole plan for moving here was to start over, to start fresh and not get tied up with a guy for a while. At least until I found one who would treat me right; one who wouldn’t end up going all psycho on me. And the truth is, I haven’t really been tempted by any of the guys I’ve met since moving here.
Okay, okay. That’s a lie. Clearly. If I didn’t have all this damn “baggage” that, more now than ever before, would let me unpack and discard it once and for all, I would likely have been interested in Foster. Because, geez Louise… He’s delicious. But he’s a manwhore. I don’t want to simply be another notch on the man’s bedpost. I deserve better. My vajayjay, however, is a slut, and she wants Foster. Baaaaad.
Truth is, I love my job and my new life here. I was welcomed with open arms by Foster’s mother—whom everyone calls Momma K.—and Foster’s sister, Laney, who’s a freaking riot, as well as the rest of the gang. I don’t want anything forcing me to leave this place I’ve come to think of as home.
Setting my wine glass back on the table, I pull my legs up to rest my heels on the edge of the chair, wrapping my arms around them. Resting my chin atop my knees, I close my eyes, listening to the sound of the crashing waves upon the shoreline less than a hundred yards away. I’m not sure how long I sit, letting the ocean breeze mixed with the scent of the citronella candles wash over me, before I realize there’s another familiar fragrance I’m picking up.
Lowering my head slightly, I sniff Foster’s shirt that’s engulfing me and the smell of cologne, or deodorant, or whatever the hell he wears, which is nearly intoxicating. Who knows how long I would have continued sniffing his shirt like one of those creepers who collects random women’s underwear, lives with his mother at age fifty, and skins cats alive for fun, when I suddenly hear a strange sliding noise from behind me.
Turning, Harley comes through some sort of doggy door that automatically goes up and down to let him come and go. Foster pulls open the sliding glass door next, holding some sort of wooden tray in one hand, a beer dangling from the other.