“Ready to roll?” Foster calls out as I’m finishing up in the bathroom, the door cracked about five inches.
“Yes, sir.” I’m attempting to maintain some modicum of our boundaries, of how we usually interact. But it’s beginning to feel … rusty. Especially after last night—or earlier this morning, I guess.
No clue as to how I was so brazen out there on his deck, reaching for his hand the way I did. But, in that moment, I sensed we were both feeling haunted, both needing comfort. As soon as I slid my hand into his, the most overwhelming feeling came over me. I felt safe merely holding Foster’s hand. I guess that’s what I can chalk falling asleep in the chair beside him, still holding his hand, up to.
The fact that he somehow carried me inside without waking me, that he tucked me into bed, pierces part of my heart.
“We’ve got to head in to the office,” his voice gets closer and I see his long, fingers curl around the door to push it open farther, “and get those contra—” His words cut off, and I turn after setting down my brush to look at him. His eyes are taking me in and his jaw appears to clench and unclench hard before he grumbles, “Damn Laney.” Turning, he tosses out an, “I’ll wait for you by the door,” before walking off.
Glancing down at the dress his sister loaned me, I’m confused, not understanding what made him get all moody. The dress is nothing out of the ordinary. Turning to face my reflection in the mirror again, I peruse my form. Laney’s dress is sleeveless, a shade of light blue and has some white swirly patterns on it. Nothing super fancy, nor does it look as though I’m about to go clubbing. Sure it’s a tad bit clingy material-wise, but still totally workplace appropriate.
Shrugging off the moment, I turn off the light, exiting the bathroom and grab my purse from the bedroom before heading down the hallway in search of Foster. Discovering him in the entryway, he’s standing with one hip propped against the front door, talking quietly on his cell phone.
Dressed in his usual work uniform of a dark blue polo with the TriShield Protection logo embroidered on it, tucked into a pair of pressed khaki pants and his manly work boots, he exudes every ounce of the I’m in charge persona. Nothing like his softer, more vulnerable persona from our deck encounter.
As I approach, bending slightly to slide on my heels, I hear him end his call with a groan. Straightening, I notice his expression is grim, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s heard more news about his friend Hendy.
“Ready, boss?”
With a short nod, he replies, “Ready.” He calls out down the hallway to Harley, “Gotta go to work. See you later, bud,” before tapping a few keys on the alarm system’s keypad.
Opening the door, he gestures for me to precede him. I step out and begin to descend the stairs of the house, hearing his footfalls behind me. Walking over to his truck, I wait until I hear the telltale beep, alerting me he has pressed his keyfob to automatically unlock the doors. As soon as my fingers grip the door handle, Foster’s hand presses over the window, fingers splayed, stopping me from opening the door.
He’s right behind me, and I can feel his body heat, see his reflection along with my own in the tinted passenger side window of the vehicle. Before I can question his actions, he dips his head slightly.
“You know my rules, Davis. I always open the doors.”
There’s no way in hell I can possibly restrain the shivers his husky words elicit. Releasing my grasp on the handle, I step to the side, putting distance between us as a part of me nearly whimpers at doing so. My eyes focus on his hand, his strong fingers, as he opens the door for me. I avoid meeting his eyes because I’m afraid he’ll see how hard I’m trying to resist throwing myself at him.
What is it about this man that makes me want to just say, To hell with it—To hell with my embargo on men? With the one man who couldn’t be worse for me? One who doesn’t want anything serious? Ever?
Stepping up into the truck as ladylike as possible without doing any crazy flashing of my girly parts, he closes the door once I’m safely inside. It’s only then that I let out a long exhale. When Foster comes around and gets in on the driver’s side, he buckles his seatbelt before glancing to ensure that mine, too, is fastened.
“Buckled up and ready to roll, Dad,” I say mockingly.
He turns to face the front to start the car, but I can see, even from his side profile, his lips twitch the slightest bit.
“Wiseass,” he mutters beneath his breath.
As he backs out of the driveway and pulls out onto the main road to take us to the office, I inhale what I hope to be a calming breath to begin the workday. At least it’s a Thursday—thank God for small mercies. Hopefully, I’ll be able to coast through today and Friday and have the weekend to get back to normal.