Out of Love Page 18

  Shifting his focus back on his plate, he adds, “I actually enjoyed the story a lot. Very well written.” The corners of his lips turn up. “Was kind of bummed when it ended.”

  I mull this over for a brief moment before batting my eyelashes and asking sweetly, “Since I was hospitalized, does that mean you’ll read to me?”

  His head whips around, flashing me a look I can’t decipher. “You want me to?”

  Scanning his features, I drop the teasing tone to answer honestly. “It might be nice, actually.”

  “Then,” his voice is low and deep and has almost a tender quality to it, “I’ll read to you after dinner.”

  Wait! Wait! Mayday! Mayday! my brain is screaming in protest. Because, shit. What the hell did I get myself into? Foster Kavanaugh got all sweet with me and agreed to read a romance novel to me?

  I glance down at the floor beneath where his large, manly feet—and now I’m a weirdo lusting over his feet—are hooked over one of the rungs of the barstool. Because I’m pretty sure it’s down there somewh—

  “Drop something?”

  My head jerks up at Foster’s question. “Nope.” Quickly, looking down at my bowl, I shovel a spoonful of soup into my mouth. Because I’m lying to him, of course. I was totally looking for something that dropped to the floor at his feet.

  My freaking heart.

  * * *

  “Wait a minute,” I protest, making Foster pause in his reading. “There’s no way in hell she can resist Simon. I mean, come on. He’s hot.”

  I’ve been badgering him to give me hints about the story, but he won’t budge. I’m the kind of person who likes to read the spoilers online for movies and I sometimes—okay, often—read the end of the book before I finish it. I’m impatient, damn it. It cannot be helped.

  He peers at me from over the top of the book, only his eyes visible but I can see the amusement in their depths. “You have to wait and see.” The book raises, hiding his eyes as he mumbles, “Just like I said the last two hundred times you asked me.”

  With a content smile, I close my eyes and listen to him, one of his large hands resting on my shin, where both of my legs are draped over his thighs. I’m lying back on the couch while he’s sitting, his thumb grazing my skin every so often. Harley’s lying on the floor, snoozing softly. Me? I’m over here, listening to Foster’s deep, sexy voice as he reads a sexy scene and feel myself getting hot and bothered. Shifting my legs, trying to ease the arousal beginning to strum through my body, my leg brushes against his crotch and, oh my. Someone else is getting turned on.

  Opening my eyes, I watch him, that nearly imperceptible tic in his jaw evidence of him trying to maintain control. Moving my leg again, it’s instantly immobilized by his strong grip, his eyes meeting mine.

  “You’re killing me with your squirming.”

  Raising an eyebrow, I smile. “Why don’t you put the book down and get over here?”

  Something crosses his face and I realize he hasn’t touched me nor has he kissed me since we got home from the hospital.

  “I don’t want you to feel …” he begins but breaks off, setting the book down while he runs his other hand over his jaw, “obligated.”

  Oh, wow. Foster thinks I’d actually feel as though I should repay him in sexual favors for all of his help the past few weeks? Huh. Not sure if I should feel insulted or endeared he’s holding himself back.

  Pulling my legs back, I sit up, moving closer to him before settling into a seated position with my legs beneath me. “Hey,” I speak softly.

  His eyes hold mine for a beat. “Hey.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt the least bit obligated to do anything with you, least of all sexually.”

  Foster’s eyes drift over my face as if trying to determine whether I’m telling the truth. When he finally speaks, his voice is husky and subdued, a crease between his brows. “I was so damn worried about you.” He trails an index finger along my cheekbone. The way he’s looking at me makes my breath catch in my throat.

  Grasping his hand, I slide it over to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to his palm. “No need to worry about me anymore.”

  Something flickers across his face. “I need to worry about you more than you think.”

  Before I can ask him what he means by that, his thumb brushes over my bottom lip, the calloused pad a contrast to the softness of my lip. The heat of his gaze and the indecipherable look in his eyes sets me into motion. Sliding a leg over to straddle him, I rest my hands on his broad shoulders.

  Everything that has happened has made me realize that life is too short; it’s never guaranteed. That much was confirmed when Brad showed up at my house with a gun in hand, intent on doing hell knows what. It’s time I start being an active participant in life instead of a bystander. Even though I’m nearly one hundred percent certain I’ll end up getting hurt, I don’t want to try and suppress what I feel for Foster.

  Leaning in, I dust my lips across his. “I need you, Foster.”

  His eyes hold mine for a millisecond before his hand cups the nape of my neck and he presses his lips to mine in a slow, soft kiss.

  In the far recesses of my mind, I can hear his mysterious words replay. I need to worry about you more than you think. And I realize the same can be said for me. I need to worry about him more than I think.

  I need to worry about him stealing my heart.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Foster

  Heading back to the office after spending most of the day at one of our contracted sites, I’m relieved to find Doc’s truck parked in front. Noelle had taken off early for a dental appointment and the others were still working out at their designated sites. Earlier, I had briefly spoken with Doc on the phone during lunch and he’d confirmed he had some information for me. Which meant Mercer had gotten in touch with him.

  Walking through the door of the office, I slide my sunglasses on top of my head, and sink into the chair at my desk. Tossing my keys and wallet onto my desk with a clang, I lean back into my chair, fixing my eyes on Doc.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Well,” he starts, leaning forward and propping his forearms on his desk, “Mercer had some interesting finds.” With a meaningful pause, he tips his head to the side. “That law office you got the call from actually exists. But after doing some digging, he found someone was spoofing the calls to make it look like it came from that law office when, in fact, the call originated outside of Baghran.”

  He pauses to let that sink in and, damn, does it sink in. Hard. Because Baghran is right smack dab in the Helmand Province, where Hendy was last known to be; where terrorist activity was ridiculously high year-round.

  I’ve been caught up in trying to keep Noelle safe—not that I regret any of it one bit—and if I’m being completely honest, it’s been a good thing because it’s helped to take my mind off of Hendy no longer being … around. Now, in light of this news, it’s screwing with me. Why would someone be trying to contact me all the way from Baghran? And disguising themselves as an employee at a law office near where Hendy lived?

  It reeked. Bad.

  “I don’t like it, Fos.” Doc’s green gaze is locked on mine. “Nothing about this feels legit.”

  Running a hand over my face wearily, I blow out a long breath. “So what do I do now?” I feel like my damn hands are tied and I don’t like it one bit.

  “Well.” Doc leans back in his chair, stretching his arms back, fingers linked behind his head, looking away in thought. “There are some possibilities here. One, we dig deeper and accidentally trip something, inadvertently letting them know we’re on to them. Then the trail goes cold.”

  “Or?”

  “Or we tread carefully and bide our time, letting them come to us. They obviously want something. Unfortunately, right now we don’t know what that is. But they want something.”

  “What the hell do they want with me?” Grinding the heels of my palms into my eyes, I let out a groan of frustratio
n. “My fucking friend is dead.”

  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.

  Me: Why are you here bothering me?

  As soon as I open the door, I’m instantly crowded against my wall. The door shuts, secured with a click of the lock as a familiar, firm muscular body presses against my own.

  “Because I like—” Pressing his growing hardness against the notch of the apex of my thighs, Foster growls huskily, “bothering you.” His mouth finds mine and our tongues slide against one another as my hand holds onto his head, as if attempting to keep his mouth fused to mine.

  Finally coming up for air, both of our breathing labored, we stare at each other a moment before he speaks.

  “We need to join the others.”

  “Do we?” I ask naughtily. Because—make no mistake—I know what I’d rather be doing tonight. And it’s not getting sweaty in a yoga class at the gym, but in my bedroom with the man standing before me.

  The corners of his eyes crinkle with humor. “We do.”

  “Fine,” I say on a heavy sigh. “Let me grab my mat, and we can go.” Just as I turn to head down the hall, his hand grasps my forearm and tugs me back, causing me to stumble into him, my palm flying to his chest to steady myself. His other hand guides my head to him, brushing a soft, tender, lingering kiss to my lips before moving away. “That’s incentive to get your mat quickly.” Just as I turn to head down the hallway, I receive a swift slap on my ass.

  “Hey!”

  He looks smug. “More incentive, Davis.”

  Rolling my eyes, I walk to my room to collect my yoga mat. Once out of sight, I allow my smile to spread across my face.

  * * *

  That smile on my face earlier? Yeah, that sucker is long gone. The energy it takes for the muscles in my face to smile is too taxing since I’m using all of my other muscles—along with some I never realize I have until this class—and making them work in ways I’m convinced is unnatural for humans.

  “I think I’ll just stick to the Lotus position,” I grumble to myself, instantly getting shushed by some older lady in leopard print yoga pants currently executing a perfect Bow Pose or “Danansahsahsahnsa” diagonal from me. Okay, that’s not the actual name of the pose but that’s what it sounded like when Tate pronounced it.

  Flexible is one thing; a human pretzel is another. I’m going to give Foster serious hell for making us attend the “warm” yoga class, two steps up from the beginner yoga sessions we’ve attended the few times in the past. I’m clearly not ready for this kind of progression. Me and yoga one-oh-one are B.F.F.’s. We shouldn’t be broken up. Ev-er.

  Just when I attempt to give the damn Bow Pose another shot—and promptly fail—I lie there on my mat, sprawled in the most unladylike fashion, completely u
ncaring. Until someone flicks me right on the side of my thigh, making me hiss.

  “Ow!” I whisper-yell, glaring accusingly at Foster, only to get shushed again by leopard print pants lady. I swear to high heavens, if she shushes me one more time, I’m going to beat her over the head with my yoga mat.

  Okay, that’s a lie because my arms are far too sore and weak for that. Not to mention, I’m certain that goes against all principles of yoga. We’re supposed to be finding our Zen and peaceful happiness and all that jazz.

  Except, not only am I failing at this level of yoga, I’ve got this really hot guy beside me and every time he does a pose requiring him to bend a certain way, his shirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of his abs and recall the last time my lips were on them. The last time I licked them just before my lips moved lower, used my tongue to toy with his pierced cock which made him go wild and—

  A low, hissing reaches my ears. “Focus.” My eyes fly up to meet Foster’s amused gaze and I give him my best squinty glare. Because, really. He can’t be a good Samaritan and let me have a moment of lusting over his body since he’s the one who insisted we all suffer through this class?

  Finally—fi-nal-ly—Tate ends the class and I allow myself to remain sprawled on my mat. I don’t care because I’m sweaty, disgusting, and my muscles feel like goo. I even ignore the chuckles from my coworkers as they clean and roll up their own mats. It isn’t until a large hand is thrust in my line of sight I realize I’ve probably been lying here for far longer than is socially acceptable. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to get up.

  “Davis,” there’s a slight warning in Foster’s tone, “time to get up and go.”

  I groan. “Not ready yet.”

  He leans over me and whispers, “Get up and leave now; we can have that fun you were thinking about earlier.”