She thinks she’s got me with that Dr. Nefario reference, the character from the animated movie, Despicable Me. But she forgets my sister is a fifth grade teacher, which means I get exposed—whether I want to or not—to some of the pop culture shit geared toward kids.
As we near the door, I hold it open for her, waiting until she’s crossed the threshold, and lean down—at just the right moment—whispering in an Eastern European accent similar to Dr. Gru in the same movie, “I said cookie robots, not boogie robots.” Steering her dazed form out the door, I close the door behind us, grinning cockily at her back.
Because I, Foster Kavanaugh, just got the last word, damn it.
Chapter Fourteen
Noelle
“We’re not going back to my place?” I glance over at Foster as we drive down South Fletcher Avenue—in the opposite direction of my house.
“Ma wants us to come over for dinner.” He says it casually and, no, it’s not weirding me out. I’ve gone to eat dinner at Foster’s mother’s before.
I’ve just never ridden in the same vehicle with Foster on the way to dinner at Momma K.’s house before. Me and Foster. Together. In the same vehicle. On the way to his mother’s house.
It feels like a date. Even though it isn’t. But I can’t help it. I’m starting to feel all girly and thinking things like: What if he were to reach his hand over the middle console and grab mine to hold? and What if he were to lay his arm across the back of my seat? Would his fingers play with my hair?
I’m having a total ‘What the fuck?’ moment here. Noelle, get it together!
“You’re awfully quiet over there, Ursula.” His deep voice snaps me out of my inner turmoil.
Facing my window, I let out a melodramatic sigh. “Just plotting, Jafar. Just plotting.”
He pulls the truck into the driveway of his mother’s small one-story home right beside Laney’s car.
“Laney’s here, too?” I love Foster’s sister—I do, really. But if she’s not reined in by her friends when Foster and I are in the same vicinity, she will pick, poke, and prod because she wants her brother and I to be together—as in a couple. And it makes me feel like I’m a teenager anticipating getting asked to prom.
Which means, this feeling? No bueno. I don’t want to ever revert back to those days.
“Guess so.” He shrugs, turning off the ignition, flashing me a curious look. “What? You don’t like my sister?”
“I like your sister. I just…” I trail off and tip my head to the side, trying to find the right words. “I’m not a huge fan of her pushing us together.”
One eyebrow raises and there’s a gleam in his eyes which instantly puts me on the defensive. His next words confirm it. “Why’s that? Because let’s be honest. Deep down,” he lowers his head with a cocky expression, “you know you want us to be pushed together.”
Why does the word pushed sound so dirty all of a sudden? How does he do that?
“Kavanaugh.” My tone is full of warning, giving him my best flinty-eyed stare. Which does nothing, of course, because here’s a guy who can probably bench press three or more of me, for God’s sake. His grin is full of mischief and cockiness.
“Davis.”
“Time to go inside.” My words are short—abrupt—as I turn, gripping the door handle in order to exit. Before I can get the door open his hand stops me, his large palm resting on my forearm.
Turning back, his expression is serious. “I’m sorry in advance if Laney makes you uncomfortable. I know it’s the last thing you need, considering everything that’s going on right now. She just…” He shakes his head with a tight smile. “She just wants me to have what she has.”
“I know,” I tell him quietly. “I get it.” We stay this way for a moment before I realize he hasn’t removed his hand, his thumb is now grazing my skin, back and forth in the lightest caress. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.
“Ready?” My voice comes out sounding hoarse, making me cringe internally. Geez, I’m acting like I’ve never been touched by a guy before. Apparently, my embargo on men—which, in turn, means zero sexy time—for the past year, is taking its toll.
With an inscrutable expression, he nods, pulling his hand away from me. Instantly, I feel the absence of his touch.
Mentally shaking it off, I turn and exit the vehicle, both of us coming around the front of the truck to walk up to the front of Momma K.’s house.
Momma K. is pretty much the mother I’ve never had. Being raised by my Aunt Bev, who was much older and didn’t exactly jump up and down in The Price is Right style when I was sent to live with her when I was a wee one, was not exactly fun. It was more a cross between Series of Unfortunate Events meets Cinderella. Minus the whole magical component, of course, because no, I didn’t end up with a fairy godmother. I ended up learning to cook like a champ, sew, and fend for myself, thanks to good ol’ Aunt Bev.
That woman’s long gone now—off terrorizing and haunting other children along the hallows of hell somewhere, I’m sure. Aunt Bev was super cool like that.