Doc waits until I refocus on him. “Honestly,” he tilts his head to one side, “every possibility I’ve run through in my head comes out to be the same thing.”
He pauses and we both utter quietly in unison, “Bad fucking news.” And it’s true. Nothing feels or sounds legit about this. Not one iota. We both sit there in silence, equally as lost in our own thoughts, only to be jolted out of them by the sound of the alarm sounding on my phone, alerting me to an event marked on my calendar.
Silencing my notification on my cell phone, I exhale loudly. “Ready to head out to yoga?”
I started going to yoga with my employees, to encourage bonding. They’re not “mandatory” as much as they are an unspoken stipulation. I don’t want anyone going off the deep end with remnants of PTSD. Yoga, though I’m admittedly not the biggest fan, has shown to have great benefits to relaxation, calming and decreasing stress levels—having been proven to be effective for many battling PTSD. We make it a point to attend one of the classes Miller’s wife, Tate, teaches at the gym at least once a month.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Doc says with a wink. As we prepare to leave the office for the day, he decides to play interrogator.
“So, you and Noelle, huh?”
I don’t look up from where I’m separating files containing information I will need for the following day from files containing prospective plans and programs scheduled to be implemented at given sites within the next few months. “There is no me and Noelle to speak of.”
There’s a reason I’m not making eye contact with him. Not like it would matter, though. He’s too damn astute for his own good.
“Uh-huh.” See, that right there? That says it all. In Doc-speak, it translates to, Yeah, you’re bullshitting me and I can see it a mile away.
“I’m done here.” Rising to my feet, I push in my desk chair, grabbing my keys and wallet.
“I’ll walk out with you.”
As we exit, I set the alarm, and lock the door; he makes another attempt. “So, is Noelle dating anyone?”
Shooting him a sharp look, I answer succinctly. “No.”
“Huh.” There’s a pause and just as I hit the key fob to unlock my truck he adds, “You think she’d date me?”
My head whips around to stare at him. “What?”
“You think she’d date me?”
Searching his face for any clue, any indication he’s screwing with me has me coming up short. “No.”
Tipping his head to the side, appearing perplexed, he continues. “Why not?”
“Because she’s…” Mine. All mine. That’s my initial response but, of course, I can’t say that shit. Because it’s not the least bit true. I have no claim on Noelle.
“Because she’s…?” he raises his eyebrows expectantly. But I see it. I detect the fucking glimmer in his eyes. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Abruptly turning to open my truck door, I flip him the bird. “See you at six thirty.”
And all I hear before I slam my door shut is the sound of his laughter.
Chapter Forty-Six
Noelle
Never trust anyone who puts their hands inside people’s mouths for a living. Going to the dentist is an experience chock-full of anxiety. Even if it is only for a routine dental cleaning.
By the time I get home, I realize I have to be at the gym for a yoga class at six thirty. I only have about twenty minutes to change clothes and drive over there. Luckily, it isn’t too far of a drive, but I’m really not feeling like doing yoga tonight. What I’d really like to do is curl up on my couch and have a glass of wine. Now, that sounds like a great idea. Maybe I can— My phone vibrates on my counter, alerting me to an incoming text message. As soon as I read it, I deflate, my grand plan going up in smoke.
Foster: Don’t forget. Yoga tonight at six thirty.
Damn it, I let out an internal groan. Just to be a thorn in his side, I respond.
Me: Not going to make it. Still at the dentist.
Within seconds, there’s a response and it’s one that has me wanting to bang my head against the wall.
Foster: No, you’re not. You’re at home. Likely considering having a glass of wine. Trying to get out of going to yoga.
I let out a long groan and then sigh in defeat.
Me: You’re not my favorite person right now.
Foster: That’s not what you said the other night when my tongue was inside of you.
My fingers, without conscious thought, start flying over the keys.
Me: Maybe if you promised me that tongue—and something else—later on tonight, I’d be more willing to do some yoga.
Stunned, I stare at my own response in dismay. Seriously? What the hell am I thinking, typing this? Oh, wait. The answer is I’m thinking with my freaking vajayjay. In my defense, it’s all Foster’s fault. He does this to me.
Before I can try to formulate a response, there’s a knock at my door. Instantly, I tense because, well, it’s only been a week since the incident with Brad. Even though I know he’s in custody and hasn’t posted bond—thank God for small mercies—I still feel like I’m walking on eggshells.
My phone vibrates again.
Foster: It’s me.
Still poking the bear, I type back.