“Nope. Not one.”
Her eyes flicker off to the side before coming back to me. Leaning closer, she nudges me with her elbow. “You’d better watch out or someone else is going to snag her tonight.” She nods toward where Noelle is seated at the table, far enough away from me that it doesn’t look suspicious. Far enough away to make me angry because I want her sitting closer to me and not beside the guys I was talking to earlier. And, really, how the hell are they that fucking funny? Watching her tip her head back while laughing at something one of them says makes me grind my teeth together.
“You could always sing a song to her.” Laney’s suggestion is spoken in my ear, causing me to stare at her in a mixture of disbelief and horror.
“You know I don’t sing,” I shout over the music. She smiles wickedly, and I instantly recall what I forgot to do.
Fuck. Me. My own sister threw me under the bus. I had forgotten to buy myself immunity, so entranced by Noelle’s entrance to the bar. And my own damn sister had signed me up to sing.
Glaring at my own traitorous flesh and blood beside me, I declare, “You’re dead to me.”
Laughing with far more joy than should be acceptable, considering what she’s just done, she shakes her head. “Trust me, Fos. You’ll be thanking me later.”
“Doubtful,” I grumble.
So fucking doubtful.
Chapter Fifty
Noelle
I’m having a pretty good time even though I’m not nearly close enough to Foster. But it’s for the best. I don’t need another episode like the one involving Miller earlier. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give my left arm to sit beside him, just to be close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to accidentally-on-purpose brush my arm or leg against his. To be close enough to witness the way his eyes appear more golden when he looks down at me teasingly.
The guys I’m sitting between seem nice enough, but the one has already exceeded his quota of the whole eyes-slipping-down-to-check-out-my-boobs thing. I know my dress has that slim V-shaped cutout but it’s not obscene or anything. At least, it hasn’t been any other time I’ve worn it. It’s getting a little exhausting trying to refrain from pointing to my eyes and saying, “Eyes up here.”
When I excuse myself to use the restroom, it’s more to give myself a reprieve from his eyes. Weaving my way through the karaoke bar to slip through the entrance to the attached martini bar where the restrooms are located down a long, much quieter hallway, I’ve only taken one step into it when my wrist is caught. Startled, I stop and turn, only to sigh in relief.
“Foster,” I sigh before tensing and glancing around us. Noticing my apprehension, his brows furrow and he leads me down the hallway, past the doors leading to the restrooms and to the end of the darker hallway, steering me into a supply room with the door propped open. As soon as we’re inside, he closes it, ensconcing us in darkness.
“Uh, Foster? What are you doing?” My voice wavers because we can’t get caught. We don’t do—haven’t done—this kind of thing before. We’ve kept it restricted to my place or his. Aside from that slip-up at the office, of course.
Pressing my back against the door, one of his fingertips grazes a trail from my shoulder, over my collarbone and down the center of my chest left bare by my dress.
His hot breath washes over my skin. “You’ve been driving me crazy tonight in this damn dress.”
“You don’t like my dress?” I ask softly.
A huff of breath against my neck sends shivers through me. “I like it too damn much.” There’s a pause and his voice is lower, quieter. “Those two dudes seem to like it, too.”
A smile plays at my lips, and I’m glad we’re in the dark, so he can’t see it. “Are you jealous, Kavanaugh?”
“No.” The sharp denial startles me enough to make me jump. I can’t deny the fact that his answer is disappointing. But, hey. I should know better.
“Gotcha,” I say softly. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be missing us back there so we should—”
“Yes.”
His random response is confusing. “Yes, what?”
“Yes.” It sounds like he’s gritting his teeth as he speaks, “I’m jealous.”
My lips part in surprise—shock, really—because, holy shit. Foster Kavanaugh just admitted to being jealous.
“I’m jealous as fuck,” he whispers against my throat, dragging his lips down the length of it. “Jealous of the fact that they get to sit next to you, jealous of the way they’re making you laugh.” He presses his body against mine, and I feel his arousal. “Jealous of the fact that they can look their fill and not care about anyone noticing. Jealous that they’re up close and personal with you looking fucking breathtaking in this dress.”