And, no, he didn’t put on a shirt. Commence Operation Vajayjay Lockdown, pronto.
“You like that doggy door, huh?” Foster asks, walking over to set the tray on the table beside me. It includes a bunch of sliced cheeses and some prosciutto, salami, some olives and an array of crackers. Yum.
“That sucker’s pretty cool.” I reach out for the tray of food but freeze, realizing my bad manners. Darting a glance at Foster, I see him watching me, corners of his eyes crinkling slightly with amusement.
“Go on,” he tells me, tipping his head in the direction of the food. “Help yourself.”
Nabbing a piece of prosciutto and some cheese, I forgo the cracker because let’s be real. That’s filler. What I have in my hand is the good stuff. Manna from the Gods, if you will.
“Tell me how this doggy door thing works,” I say to Foster, settling back into my chair, ready to partake in my treat.
“He’s got a sensor in his collar which communicates with the receiver in the door, telling the door to slide up or down.”
I take a bite of the meat and cheese and—it’s official—I am in food heaven. My eyes close and I start formulating a plan on how I might hoard the entire tray of goodness. Foster can have the crackers. That’s totally fair, right?
As I chew, I remember how much I love this stuff and how bad this stuff is for my ass. But right now, after the shitty day I’ve had, I don’t care.
Silence. It’s the silence setting in, reminding me that, Um, Davis? You’re not alone. Oops. Opening my eyes, I find Foster still sitting across from me, but the look in his eyes is… Hell, I don’t even know how to describe it.
Actually, that’s a lie. He’s looking at me like he wants to shove me up on this table and eat all of the delicious prosciutto and cheese off of me. And, well, I’m pretty sure my eyes are giving him the green light and telling him to do it. Bad eyes, bad eyes. Look away. Look. Away.
I clear my throat loudly. “Sorry about practically inhaling that. It’s really good.” My words come out sounding hurried, rushed. “I shouldn’t eat too much anyway because my ass definitely doesn’t need any extra padding, that’s for sure.”
Why did I just say that? I’m an idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Id-i-ot.
“Excuse me?” The low, growly voice of his draws my attention. Whoa. Foster appears fierce and a little angry.
“I was just saying.” I pause, still trying to figure out why he appears upset. “I can’t eat too much of this or my ass will get out of control.”
He stares at me. For longer than I feel comfortable with, making me begin to fidget. That’s the moment he raises an eyebrow. “Does it look like I think you shouldn’t eat more of that? Like I have a problem with it?” His tone is low, husky, and it takes a moment for me to realize what he’s saying.
The moment my eyes lower, there’s no way I can mask my sharp inhalation. Because Foster Kavanaugh is hard, pressing against the fabric of his khakis. For me. For me eating. And while this is hot, and I mentally do the whole click, click, click thing to save this in my memory bank for one of those moments when it’s just me and my battery operated boyfriend, I have to push things back behind those lines he and I have drawn long ago.
To keep us both safe. Which is why I say what I do next.
“Now, don’t you be trying to sweet talk me, Kavanaugh. Let’s be real. You have a problem.” I draw out the last word slowly, with a sly grin. “In fact, it’s probably something the wonderful people on the The Jerry Springer Show could help you with: Getting aroused by food.” I smirk at him and pop another piece of cheese into my mouth, chewing as I watch his expression change, as the heat in his gaze subsides.
Secretly, a tiny part of me is sad about the heat leaving his eyes.
The corners of his mouth tip up, giving me a subtle nod as if to say, I see where you’re going with this, before shifting in his seat, reaching back and pulling something from his pocket. I realize it’s my cell phone.
“Thought you might like this back. But,” he pulls it out of my reach for a moment, “if you get anything—calls, texts, whatever—that are harassing, we need to let Ty know.”
“Okay,” I agree, and he lowers the phone into my outreached hand. I see I have numerous notifications of text messages and missed calls. Swiping across the screen, I scan them. A few of the most recent ones are from Foster’s sister, Laney.
Laney: Hey, let me know if you need anything else, okay?
Laney: Don’t get pissed at what I brought you to wear. It’ll all look hot on you. Foster will looooooove it!
Laney: Let me know if you need anything. Tell Fos to be nice!
I smile because that’s Laney. She’s a horndog, but she’s got a heart of gold. My smile drops as soon as I see a dozen or more messages from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: You think you’re so smart? You’re not.
Unknown Number: Did you like what I did?