As we sit there on his deck in silence, Harley lying at my feet with his chin resting atop one of them as if to offer me comfort, it hits me.
Whether or not I want it to happen, whether or not he wants it—and let’s be honest, he likely does not—Foster Kavanaugh will always have a special place in my heart.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Foster
“I know you probably don’t feel up to it, but Ma is expecting everyone for dinner.”
Noelle is curled up on the other end of the couch with Harley next to her. After I got back from my morning run and showered, we decided to binge-watch the series Strike Back. It definitely took me by surprise to discover that she loves the show as much as I do. It was nice to just chill and watch television with a woman. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever done this before. Aside from Laney, of course, but she obviously doesn’t count.
“It’s Sunday, isn’t it?” She says this with a groan-yawn and stretches, her arms raised above her head, stretching the fabric of her tank top over her sports bra. I thank God she’s wearing a sports bra beneath the top, even as a part of me curses the fact that she’s wearing one.
I’m such a fucking perv.
“Yep. Afraid so.”
“Do you mind if we …” she hesitates before scrunching her nose in a wince, “maybe don’t stay super long?”
“Not at all. You just let me know when you’re ready to head out and we’ll leave. Ma will understand.”
She’s exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes a testament to this. She only caught a few hours of sleep, part of it out on the deck where she passed out, yet again, like the last time. Only she doesn’t know that, unlike last time, when I carefully scooped her up in my arms and realized how deeply she was actually sleeping, I sat back down in my own chair with her on my lap. Just holding her close because there was a part of me which needed to have reassurance that she was all right.
And I may have fingered the strands of her silky hair once or twice. There was also a chance I might have brushed my lips against her forehead. Maybe.
Fuck. Okay, so it all happened. But no one witnessed it except for Harley and the last time I checked, he couldn’t speak human so my secrets are safe.
I finally brought her to her own bed and tucked her in, hoping she’d manage to get some much needed rest. Changing clothes and putting on my running shoes, Doc readily agreed to keep an eye on the house while I went running. She was still asleep when I returned to shower and began to get out the necessary supplies to make breakfast.
By the time the coffee had begun to percolate, her bedroom door opened and she stepped out. I’m not sure what happened to me in that moment, but I felt myself falter, stilling, eyes locked on her. I can’t describe what it was that gave me pause, whether it’s the fact that her hair was a bit mussed, she had a slight crease on one cheek from the pillow case, her face was bare of makeup, or the way she looked so open, so vulnerable. Whatever it was, I can’t deny that I felt as though somewhere deep within me, deep within the recesses of my heart—the cold, desolate bastard that it was—an alarm was going off as if to warn me, Breach! Breach alert!
This couldn’t happen. For more than one reason.
“I really love some of the snappy, snarky dialogue Michael and Damien have.”
Her comment brings me back to the present and I nod. “One of my favorites is when they’re tying up some bad guys and he says, ‘You don’t know what you’re doing—’”
“And Michael says, ‘No, he just makes it look like that,’” she finishes and we both laugh. There’s a lightness to her eyes. There’s also the realization that we’ve embarked on something new, where we’re not continuously barking at each other, each of us trying to keep the necessary distance. Yes, there are still set boundaries, but it’s almost like we’re … friends.
“Or the other one where they’re arguing about who is Butch and who is Sundance and Damien tells Michael that he’s Sundance.”
“And Michael says, ‘But Sundance gets the girl.’”
“So Damien says, ‘You definitely can’t be Sundance then.’”
She chuckles before turning her attention back to the television, but my gaze remains on her. The way she looks, still in her pajamas, hair brushed and messily twisted up in a clip, her lips curved as she gets lost in the humor of the show, I know I’d be hard pressed to come up with a more beautiful sight than this one.
Scratch that.
A more beautiful sight doesn’t exist.
Chapter Thirty
Noelle
Momma K. is one of those women who takes everyone under her wing—all the “strays,” if you will—insisting that everyone come over on designated Sundays for a family dinner. Funny, as the only blood family present out of twelve of us are Foster, Laney, and Momma K., herself.
Along with her heart of gold, Momma K. has to be the sweetest little Italian lady I’ve ever met. And, man, can this woman cook. Just thinking about some of her trademark dishes makes my mouth water.