Trying to process his words, I know my brows wrinkle. Because it sounds like he’s planning on staying here with me tomorrow night. Maybe even indefinitely?
“Davis,” Foster says on a sigh. “Just go with it for now. Please.”
If it weren’t for the concern in his voice, I probably would’ve put up more of a fight. That and the fact that my nerves are completely shot. It’s taking all of my power to not give into these crazy shakes and shivers trying their damndest to take over my body. Avoiding his eyes, merely nodding, I pull my arms tighter around my legs.
Suddenly, Foster crouches down in front of me, waiting for me to meet his eyes. Once I do, my relief at not witnessing any judgment in them is palpable.
“Ready to head home?” His large palm is out, open in offer.
“Will you … help me throw some stuff into a bag real quick?” Hating how fragile I sound, I swiftly grasp his hand to assist me in standing, wavering slightly for a split second before righting myself. I know Ty offered, but I feel calmer, safer having Foster with me.
His reply is immediate. “Of course.”
Heading on over to my bedroom, not allowing my gaze to veer in the direction of the other room, I enter and pull a small bag from my closet. Foster enters a moment later with the package from earlier, all of the contents shoved back inside of it, and stuffs it inside my bag before heading to my closet.
“Tell me what you need out of here.”
Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, I pull out a drawer holding my pajamas. “I don’t need anything from the closet since tomorrow’s Sunday and I’m coming back here.”
“Humor me.”
My head whips around to stare at him, but his back is to me, staring at the array of clothes in my closet, awaiting my directions. When I still don’t answer, he lets out a slightly exasperated sound.
“Davis, there’s a chance I might not be able to get someone out here to complete the installation of your new window for a few days. Especially if any bad storms hit. This is just in case.”
Oh. Okay, then. That actually makes sense.
“The teal and white polka dot dress, my black pinstriped pencil skirt and a blouse that would go with it, and one of the red dresses in there. Please,” I tack that final word on the end because I don’t want to sound completely ungrateful.
I head to my attached master bath to retrieve my toiletries and anything else I might need before reentering my room, placing the items in my bag and zipping it up. Looking up, I see that Foster’s leaning against the bedroom doorway, clothes draped over an arm, watching me with his usual unnerving intensity.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” I answer with far more conviction than I actually feel.
This is how I end up having yet another “slumber party” over at Foster Kavanaugh’s place.
Minus the whole braiding each other’s hair, painting our nails, and gossiping about men kind of thing, of course.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Foster
Noelle’s coming home with me. Again. While there’s a small part of me who finds this appealing, the bottom line is I don’t find the reason why she’s coming home with me appealing. At all.
Part of me is royally pissed we were interrupted back at her place, just when it was getting good. God, I swear my hands and fingers still burn from the memory of holding her, caressing her. My lips feel as though they’re aching for her, which is ridiculous. I’ve never ached in any capacity for a woman before in my life.
But when it comes to Noelle Davis, there’s just something that happens to me—inside and out. Just being near her sets me on edge because now that I’ve had a taste of the passion this woman has within her, I’m like a junkie—like I might even get the damn shakes due to wanting her so much, aching for another taste.
We drive to my house in silence and I find myself running through the night’s happenings in my mind. What if we had lingered outside her door a few seconds longer? What if something would have happened to Noelle? What if she had been hit by that brick instead of the bedroom window?
“Pretty sure if you clench that steering wheel any harder, it’ll break.”
Her words, the barest hint of humor beneath them, still sound delicate, lacking her usual sassiness and bravado. But it brings attention to the fact that my hands are practically strangling the steering wheel, and I’ll be surprised if there aren’t indentations left in it.
“Just thinking about tonight, that’s all.” My tone is noncommittal, as if I’m not on the edge of becoming a fucking emotional wreck.