Out of Love Page 12

  The laugh—that little melodic laugh she lets out as soon as he kisses her makes me feel as though someone has punched me in the solar plexus. That sound, the fact that she’s appreciating my dog’s affection, the way she’s murmuring sweet sentiments to him as if I’m not even present—did someone cut off the oxygen supply in here? Because I’m having trouble breathing.

  Of course, that means I have to go and be dick about it.

  “Whenever you’re done making out with my dog, your bag and clothes,” I hold them up, dangling from my fingers, “will be in your—the spare bedroom.” Heading off in the direction of said room, I ignore the loud whisper that follows.

  “Someone sounds like he’s jealous of all the love you’re giving me, doesn’t he? Oh, yes, he does.” A small chuckle sounds. “I love you, too, Harley. You know exactly how to make a girl feel better, don’t you?”

  It’s in that moment—for the first time ever—I realize Noelle’s actually right. I’m jealous of my own damn dog getting all that attention and affection. I want to be the one who makes her laugh and the one who gets to kiss her. Maybe not in the same sloppy manner, but—

  “Thanks for, uh, rescuing me once again.”

  So lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t registered her approach. Which is not at all like me. No one sneaks up on me.

  Seems like this woman is creating a lot of firsts for me.

  “Anytime, Davis.”

  The smile she gives me is tinged with sadness and remorse. “I hope it won’t have to happen again.”

  Stepping away from where I set her bag on the bed, moving closer to where she’s standing in the doorway, I cup her face in my hands. Fully realizing I’m giving in to the urge to touch her once again, I ignore the voice in the back of my mind telling me I’m crossing lines again.

  Gazing down into her eyes, allowing the pads of my thumbs to swipe slowly across her cheekbones, I watch her eyes widen at the touch, pupils dilating.

  “Even if it were to happen, I’d still do it, again, in a heartbeat.” My words are earnest, my tone husky, but it’s the truth. “Anything for you,” I add because something inside of me wants to communicate the fact that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, to keep her safe.

  There’s also a part of me that recognizes how dangerous this is—that this woman manages to trigger something deep within me, feelings, emotions, I thought were long since dead, closed off for years.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Noelle

  I’m convinced Foster has connections with the people who make the most amazing down comforters in the world. Kind of crazy because the sheets on this bed are super soft, too. As in, a bazillion thread count or something. Yeah, I should really splurge once in a while. Maybe at Christmastime, I’ll upgrade to a three hundred thread count instead of the cheap ones I find on clearance at Target.

  Even with all the plush comfort of this bed, I still find myself unable to fall asleep. Foster had poured me a glass of wine last night in hopes that it would relax my body and mind enough to be able to rest. No such luck, though.

  Thoughts have continued to run through my head and, unable to turn them off, they were becoming nearly deafening. Throwing back the covers with a soft grunt, I kick my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. Immediately, Harley sits up and cocks his head to the side.

  “I’m good. Just can’t sleep,” I whisper, checking the time on my cell phone. Damn it, it’s three in the morning. I’ve been tossing and turning for far longer than I’d expected.

  “Want to go sit out on the deck for a minute with me?” Harley moves to stand and I grab my zip-up hoodie, pulling it on and zipping it up as I step over to my bedroom door, opening it as quietly as possible. Just when I reach the living room, barely a few feet away from the sliding glass door leading out to the deck, I realize the alarm is probably set. Crap! I hadn’t considered that. Just as I’m about to head to the kitchen, resigning myself to getting a glass of water before heading back to bed, Harley goes through his little door and I notice movement out on the deck, realizing Foster’s sitting out there.

  Cautiously sliding the door open and stepping on the deck, I close it softly behind me. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this. I mean, seriously. Do you ever sleep, Kavanaugh?” My tone is teasing but a part of me is serious. And maybe even a bit concerned.

  He’s facing the ocean, and I can barely make out his side profile in the dim moonlight, sitting in the chair with his bare feet propped up against one of the boards of the deck’s railing. He hasn’t once looked my way so when he speaks, I’m caught off guard by his words.

  “You might want to get the blue throw blanket that’s folded on top of the couch. Your legs are going to get cold out here.”

  I still, glancing down at my bare legs clad in only a pair of loose fitting cotton shorts. How in the hell did he— And without looking my way? Damn creepy, former Special Ops guys.

  There are traces of amusement in his voice. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Get the blanket, Davis. Trust me.”

  Without a word, I slip inside, grab the blue throw and come back to settle in the chair beside Foster, tucking the blanket snug over my legs. He’s right—although I’m not about to tell him that—because it is pretty chilly out here with the breeze coming off the ocean.

  “Told you.”

  My head whips around to stare at him but his gaze remains focused in the direction of the ocean a few yards before us. “Seriously, Kavanaugh? Would you stop it with the creepy mind reading?”

  He finally turns to face me and studies me intently for a moment. “Sometimes, I wish I could read your mind.” His words are spoken so gently I barely hear him. And then there’s a shift and the corners of his lips tilt up. “Pretty damn relieved you can’t read mine, though.”

  Whoa. The way he says that is just… I feel like I should fan myself. Or hose myself down, maybe? Because the intense heat in his words, the way his voice dropped to something low and seductive makes my heart race. It makes me go back to a few hours earlier, recalling what happened outside my front door and then again in my kitchen.

  I can’t help but think that maybe fate intervened because it knew I was heading down a path of self-destruction yet again. Even though a part of me is certain it would’ve been more fun to go down this path with Foster, I know it’s probably for the best.

  Probably. Maybe. Damn it. My inner slut totally takes over at early hours of the morning.

  I should probably imagine that this blanket is made of steel or something. Like a chastity belt of some sort, perhaps. With a force field that repels sexy, handsome guys who actually are knights in shining armor—without any ulterior motives, no less. Men whose smile—when they really smile—makes your heart feel as though it turns a bit mushy. Men who know how to kiss you, making you feel like they need to kiss you if it’s the last thing they do on this earth. Men who cup your ass, pull you into them, and let you feel how hard they are and—

  “You need to stop looking at me like that.” Oh, shit. Had I been staring at him the entire time my thoughts had been running rampant?

  Yeah. I had. Brilliant job, Noelle. You just eye-fucked the hell out of your boss.

  “I’m not complaining,” Foster interrupts me from my inner scolding. “I just… Hell.” Running a hand over his face, the beginnings of his scruff create a faint rasping sound against his palm, and he exhales slowly. “I’m not feeling noble right now and when you look the way you do—all beautiful and soft—and keep looking at me like that, it’s hard to stay noble. To do the right thing.”

  Redirecting his gaze back out to the ocean, his voice is gentler. “And you’ve had another traumatic experience tonight. Emotions run high for a while, and I don’t want you to do something you might regret.”

  He’s right—absolutely right—because I would give anything right now to experience the closeness that comes with having sex with someone. While it might be only temporary, that closeness is so utterly
tempting right now.

  Following suit, I fix my gaze ahead and blow out a long breath. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he replies just as softly. “Just know I’m going to get to the bottom of this and ensure it ends as quickly as possible.”

  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.

  And adds inches to my hips and ass. As if they need help getting larger.

  “Noelle, darlin’. Did you get more beautiful since I last saw you?” Kane and his damn flirting. It could easily go to a woman’s head. If he hadn’t just said the same thing to Momma K. a mere five minutes ago, that is.

  “I’m not buying into whatever sweet talk you’re selling, Windham.” I wink at him playfully. This man has got to be one of my favorites. Because, really. What’s not to love about a sweet, handsome, and—clearly—flirtatious Texan who also happens to be a former Green Beret? I say absolutely nothing.

  “Aw, now. That wounds me deep.” He lays a hand over his heart, giving an expression of mock pain. “A kiss might make it better,” he says suggestively.

  Before I can form a snappy response, I hear, “Not gonna happen.”

  Foster freaking Kavanaugh. I glare at him. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Yeah, Fos. How could she not want to kiss this?” Kane waves his hand, gesturing to himself. “I’m hotter than a south Texas day in the heat of summer.”

  Unable to withhold my laughter, it bubbles over. “Windham, you’re one of a kind, you know that?”

  He scoffs with a grin. “Why, of course. God knew the world could only take so much of my awesomeness.”

  My stupid phone has been lighting up with incoming text messages—thank goodness I had the foresight to put it on silent mode—and I feel the anxiety setting in, my muscles beginning to tense. Which pisses me off royally because that means he’s succeeding in getting to me again, in getting under my skin.

  I had stupidly thought that maybe I’d get a day of reprieve. I mean, really. The asshole busted my window. And it was Sunday. Didn’t even the devil himself take a day of rest?

  Clearly not.

  Excusing myself from the usual pre-dinner chatting—or harassment amongst friends—I make my way to the restroom to try and compose myself. Okay, okay. To have a slight panic attack that my past is at it yet again.

  Staring into the bathroom mirror, I take deep, calming breaths and tell myself that it’s just boredom; that’s the only reason he’s doing this. Bracing my hands on the vanity, I whisper softly to my reflection. “You can do this. Don’t let it get to you. You’re safe now.” Hearing the slight trembling in my own voice pisses me off. What the—

  A knock on the bathroom door sounds, startling me from my failure of a pep talk. It’s probably Laney coming to check on me. Who knows how long I’ve been in here being a weirdo. Carefully pulling the door open, I’m startled to see none other than my boss on the other side, looking … worried?

  In a flash the look is replaced by his usual cockiness. Leaning one arm against the door frame, h
is eyes hold mine.

  “You having some issues, Davis? Because you’ve been in here for a while.” Out comes that trademark smirk of his. “Or are you hiding out, sexting your latest guy?” The last question has an edge to it that doesn’t sit well with me.

  Crossing my arms across my chest, I set my narrowed gaze upon him. “Really, Kavanaugh?”

  When he leans in closer without actually stepping into the bathroom, I can smell his trademark scent, all musky and manly, allowing my eyes to gloss over his face, over those lips that appear fuller than most men’s, his nose which I suspect had been broken at least once as it’s slightly crooked.

  “Are you sexting someone?”

  “And if I am?”

  There’s a pause before he responds and his voice is lower, hushed. “I’d be curious to know what you’re saying.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Huh. Must’ve caught boss man on a very weak moment. Which means I’m going to go easy on him, right?

  Wrong. So, so wrong.

  Stepping closer, my index finger traces a line from his right shoulder, gradually taking its time, moving downward over his pectoral, down the center of his chest, and over his firm abdominals. As my finger moves, I feel the tightening of his muscles beneath his shirt, and I speak softly as I go.

  “I was saying something like, what are you wearing? Because I’m wearing a snug black skirt, sleeveless red blouse and a matching bra. But my panties,” I lean in closer, bringing my lips to his ear, lowering my voice to a sultry pitch, “are the largest, comfiest, most ragged and holey pair of granny panties you’ve ever seen.”