Foster and I step up to the house and just as he reaches for the screen door, the inside door swings open and Laney greets us with apparent excitement.
“Hey, you two!” Excitement seems to be paired with a little hint of something else in her eyes. Which means nothing but trouble. T-r-o-u-b-l-e.
“Laney McBrainy. Are you flying solo tonight?” The affection in his tone is apparent and even though she rolls her eyes at him, Laney’s love for her brother is easy to see.
After we step inside, she affectionately punches Foster in the shoulder. “Zach has parent-teacher conferences scheduled back to back. He’ll be home later than usual.” Foster hooks his arm around her shoulders and ruffles her hair.
“Fos! Stop it! I’m not seven anymore!” she hollers, instantly gaining their mother’s attention from within the kitchen. Momma K.’s voice carries out to them as we stand—or I stand—while these two crazy kids wrestle each other; one apparently trying to give the other a wet willy and the other trying to break free.
“You two had better behave,” their mother admonishes from where she’s likely preparing a heavenly meal, like always. I can hear the love beneath her stern tone. Like she’s used to this kind of behavior from her kids, yet she knows they’re only playing around.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, watching Foster and Laney, as his sister squeals when his wet finger hits its target—her ear. But that isn’t the only reason for my smile. It’s because in moments like this, I witness a lightness in his eyes, watch as the blanket of darkness lifts the slightest bit. I get to see a glimpse of the lighthearted boy beneath the hardened, closed off man he’s become.
Laney finally gets loose when Foster relinquishes his hold on her and scrubs a hand over her right ear with an expression of disgust intermixed with humor.
“Dude. You’re disgusting. God only knows where that tongue’s been.” She wipes her hand down the side of her shorts.
Foster’s eyebrows raise tauntingly. “And now it’s touched you.”
She turns away from him, heading toward the kitchen, muttering, “I don’t understand how you put up with him on a daily basis, Noelle.”
“Tell me about it.” My dry response elicits a nudge at my side. Looking over, I see Foster’s amused expression.
“You like putting up with me, Davis.” He grins wide and it has cocky written all over it. “You wouldn’t have stayed this long otherwise.”
The problem with being around Foster when he’s at his mother’s house and around his sister? I get even more harassment from him, yes. But it’s also more dangerous here because his harassment shifts to something more intimate with a lightheartedness to it. It’s beyond perilous to my defenses. Having Foster Kavanaugh—burly, tough, intimidating, and stern—harassing me is something I can handle. I can put him in a box far more easily. The Do Not Touch: Off Limits box. When his demeanor changes—when his teasing changes—is when my defenses begin to dwindle. Because he’s just so darn adorable in these moments.
Not that I’d ever tell him. Not in a million freaking years.
Trying to remain expressionless, I toss out flippantly, “Or maybe I just need a job to keep me from having to turn tricks on the streets.”
I turn to follow the path Laney took to go see Momma K., but am immediately stopped by Foster. His grip around my wrist isn’t painful, but firm enough to bring my movements to a halt. His touch, the feel of his calloused fingertips against my skin, sends tingles of awareness throughout my body.
I raise my eyes to meet his, watching warily as he steps closer to me. He lowers his head to speak in a low tone. “You need to let me know if that’s ever the case.”
Chapter Fifteen
Foster
Noelle appears confused, brows furrowed. “What?”
“If you ever consider turning tricks because you’re not making enough.” I hold her gaze, hoping my quiet tone conveys my seriousness.
Her lips part, likely to give me a sassy response, but then she falters, like it finally dawns on her I’m actually serious. Dead serious. And concerned. Because no two ways about it, it’s troubling as hell she might be considering this as a possible option.
Tipping her head to the side, she gives me a weird look. “Kavanaugh, first of all, you pay me plenty. Second, I seriously doubt anyone would pay me for this.” With her free hand, she gestures to encompass her entire body, as if implying she isn’t the least bit appealing. Like any guy in his right mind wouldn’t give his left nut to be with her.
I don’t think—I just act—tugging her against me, so close she has to tip her head back to meet my gaze. I can see the different hues of blue in her eyes. My voice is quiet and husky with warning. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?” She draws out the word in a question.