The sound of soft footfalls on packed sand left bare from the tide makes my head jerk up, nervousness instantly strumming through my body. I see a man approaching the bottom steps of my deck—a very fit, familiar man. The same man who looks perfect even when he’s slightly sweaty from his morning run, shirtless, and showcasing his firm pectorals, abs, and tapered waist.
The sight of him brings on the urge to dart inside my house like a meek little mouse because here I am, in all my glory, with hair that probably resembles the chick’s hair in The Exorcist, dressed in sloppy pajama pants, and an old, ratty tank top beneath this hoodie.
Oh, and no bra and underwear to speak of. So, yeah. Nipples? Could you please refrain from saluting my boss for once? Pretty please?
Wrapping my arms around myself in an attempt to hide what I know will happen shortly—damn traitorous nipples—Foster climbs the wooden steps, making his way to me. Why? Why does he have to show up now? When I’m not feeling the least bit ready for him? When my defenses aren’t fortified due to my near sleepless night? And lack of coffee?
Oh, shit. Coffee. Great excuse.
“Morning. Good to see you. Time for my coffee.” My words come out rushed and, well, rude. But, hey. It’s all I’ve got right now. Sliding open the door, I slip inside and am pouring myself a large cup of coffee when I hear the telltale sound of the door sliding open.
Without turning from the counter, I stir some agave into my coffee. “If you’re going to harass me, or get close to me, I’d suggest taking a serious raincheck on both because I slept like crap and haven’t brushed my teeth. Word to the wise, dude.”
A thick, muscled arm reaches around me to open the cabinet above me, and he grabs a coffee mug from it before nudging it closed. I freeze, my stirring coming to a halt. How the hell does he know where my coffee mugs are? Is nothing sacred from his creepy, astute former SEAL brain?
I feel him behind me. I can smell him and am surprised to find he doesn’t actually smell bad, considering he’s probably run his usual eighty miles or something crazy like that. Instead, Foster smells like the ocean—salty and fresh with his trademark musky scent.
Yeah, I think of it as his trademark scent because it’s unique. Not like I ever inhale deeply whenever he’s close by just because I really like the smell of him. Nope. Not ever.
Okay, maybe once or twice. But those were really weak moments.
Foster pours coffee into his mug, and I can’t refrain from grumbling. “Go ahead. Make yourself at home.”
“You’re just a ray of sunshine this morning, Davis.” Is that amusement in his tone? Yeah, it can take a flying leap. Then he adds, “Maybe you should come running with me? Work out the grouchiness.”
My turn is slow, gradual, as I face him and give an incredulous look, clearly conveying my hope for him to be kidding. With a touch of You’re an ass for even mentioning that just in case I wasn’t getting my point across.
“By the way,” he begins, “nice looking—”
My hand shoots up to stop him. “Don’t you dare say a word about my hair.”
“—pajama pants.” He grins. He has the audacity to grin, for God’s sake. “Guess you didn’t realize they have this tiny hole right,” he reaches around the back of my pants and I jump at the feel of the pad of his index finger against the bare skin of my ass, “here.”
“Kavanaugh.” I twist away. “Totally inappropriate.”
“What? We’re both off the clock.” His expression is one of pure innocence. “I’m just helping a friend out by letting her know about a hole in her pants.” Lowering his head, his grin is wicked which lets me know he’s enjoying this. “Nice to know you’re bare underneath.”
My lips thin as I continue to glare at him while he simply stares back with the same damn grin. Making a face, I let out a huff of frustration. “It’s Saturday, for crying out loud. Can’t I ever get a break from you?”
For a split second, it almost appears as though I hurt his feelings. Which can’t possibly be the case. I mean, he’s Foster Kavanaugh. There’s no way I can hurt a tough, former SEAL’s feelings.
Right?
Lifting his mug to his lips, he takes a sip of coffee, eyeing me over the top. Swallowing, he shrugs. “I saw you outside. Thought I’d be neighborly and check on you.” He peers closer, appearing concerned. “You don’t look well-rested, Davis.”
I point my index finger at him, flashing a dangerous look. “If you go on to say something like, ‘Are those bags under your eyes?’, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”
The corners of his lips tip upward. “I would never.”
Rolling my eyes, I take my coffee and head back outside, not caring he will get another look at my ass through the hole in my pajama pants. Maybe if I’d had more sleep, I’d care more.
Resuming my position, slumping into my chair on the deck, I sip my coffee and close my eyes as I allow the caffeine to begin working its magic. When I hear Foster slide a chair over beside me, lowering himself into it, I pray.
Dear God, Can you please have him be silent? And not harass me, please?
and
Dear God, Can you make him ugly when I reopen my eyes? Maybe make him less appealing? I’m a weak, weak woman right now.