“Because she’s my favorite, of course,” Momma K. teases.
“Whatever, Ma.” Brushing off her remark with a smirk, he leans down to kiss her cheek. “We all know I’m your favorite.”
“Now, you know I love my children equally. Why, I remember when—”
“Yes, we know, Ma,” Foster and Laney answer in unison, grinning at one another. Foster continues, “You remember the moment you looked down at our wrinkly faces and fell in love.” He bends down to give his mother a hug and says in a loud whisper, “But we all know I was the cuter baby.”
His mother’s hand swipes the side of his head playfully. “Foster Bryant Kavanaugh. Don’t you start.”
“Bye, Ma. Love you.” He turns to Laney, hooking an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a headlock kind of hug before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Momma K. steps up to me, embracing me while whispering in my ear, “Be careful and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, my dear.”
I nod with a weak smile, a lump in my throat, because this woman is seriously the best. She is the kindest, sweetest, most genuine lady I’ve ever known. Momma K. pretty much took me under her wing from the start, inviting me into her home for dinner with the rest of what I’ve come to think of as “the crew”; the group of friends who act more like family than friends. And there’s a part of me wishing she were my own mother.
Even worse—and scarier—is the fact that there’s a small part of me that imagines her as my mother-in-law. That’s clearly the part of me that’s on strict lockdown. Because we all know there’s no way it would ever happen.
As long as I don’t get too carried away, it’s okay to have dreams, right?
Yeah, it’s confirmed. I’m screwed.
Chapter Seventeen
Foster
“Would you stop adding crap to the shopping cart?”
I brought Noelle to the grocery store to load up on whatever she needed to restock her fridge. She’s getting exasperated with me whenever I add something to the cart that I think she should add to her diet. Like a container of raw almonds and an additional container of fresh spinach.
“I don’t need protein bars.”
“Those are mine.”
“Oh.” Her lips press thin. “Well, I still say I don’t need that much spinach.”
“I’ll show you how to make some good salads with it, trust me.” What the hell am I saying? Inviting myself over and making salads? I glance down at my crotch, barely resisting the urge to pat myself to ensure my balls are still there after saying that shit.
And the look on her face? She’s giving me a weird look, as if to say, Who are you and what did you do with Foster Kavanaugh?
Hell, if I know.
I need to get us out of this store ASAP and distance myself from her and whatever spell she’s put on me.
Finally, she shrugs and turns away, muttering, “Fine. But that’s enough food, for God’s sake.”
Nearing the checkout lane, I realize she’s fully prepared to pay for the entire cart of groceries and that just won’t do.
“Hey, Davis. Do me a favor? Go to my truck and see if my wallet’s in there?”
She flashes me an odd look. “I can pay for your damn protein bars, Kavanaugh. Six bucks isn’t going to break me.”
Shit. Okay, well that didn’t work. Letting out a sigh, I take her by the shoulders and steer her to stand near the handle of the cart, moving in front of her to better swipe my card on the reader before she can do anything about it.
“What are you doing?” she sputters.
“I want you to watch over my protein bars,” I tip my head in the direction of where they are sitting, in the top, upper portion of the shopping cart near the handle, “so no one grabs them. They’re the best kind, and they run out of stock all the time.”
Lies. All lies. My mother would start saying fifteen Hail Marys if she were here right now.
“How are you doing today?” the cashier—Celeste, according to her name tag—asks. I estimate her to be in her early twenties, at most. She’s cute, but young, and it’s clear she’s interested in me. A little too clear, actually, because her smile is super bright when I politely answer her and she continues peppering me with questions without uttering a single word to Noelle. Which is just plain rude, assuming outright we’re not together.
As discreetly and quickly as possible, I swipe my card on the reader while the chick is yammering on some more, basically telling me her work schedule—which isn’t safe in the least. I could be a serial killer, for Christ’s sake. This girl needs to wise up. Just when I’m at the point where I’m tired of hearing her disclose—freely—far too many personal details, Noelle sidles up to me, linking her arm through mine.