“You have to get your hair cut every week, Foster. You need to look clean…proper.”
“This isn’t the fucking Marines, Layla. I don’t think your dad’s housing development business is going to care if I have my hair cut or not.”
“You’re working with the CEOs, not the little men on the street. You will get your hair cut weekly and you will shave every day. End of discussion.”
End of discussion it was. I shaved daily, and I got my hair cut every damn week, blowing thirty bucks for a trim each time.
So the first thing I did when I finally got the balls to tell my ex-wife to fuck off was throw my razor out and save thirty dollars a week.
Turns out I could have pitched my razor years ago, because I can’t grow a real beard to save my life. I spent way too much money on shaving cream over the years. Also, my hair looks just fine with a cleanup every six weeks. No more pissing away money every seven days.
Now, though, I’m in desperate need of a cut.
“You’re right. It might be Hollister.”
I flip him off and he laughs.
“Just stop by on your way to the pizzeria. She lives—”
“In the blue house. Yeah, she told me.”
“I hear your tone.” He takes one last hit before setting the joint down in the ashtray, the one already full of several other butts. “I told you, man—you never asked.”
“I know, I know,” I mutter. “I’m not gonna bother her this morning. She’s been busting her ass at Slice for the last week and I’m sure she needs to rest after closing last night.”
“I bet you ten bucks she’s already out of bed.”
“There’s no way. If there’s one thing I know about Wren, it’s that the girl loves her sleep.”
He gives me a look like he knows I’m wrong but doesn’t say anything about it. “I’m having cereal. Want a bowl?”
“Nah, I’ll just make some toast and egg whites.”
“Egg whites? See, more basic bullshit.” He shakes his head, pushing off the recliner and heading toward the kitchen. “What the fuck has Cali done to you, dude?”
“It’s made me healthy!”
“Healthy is for pussies! I’m having Smacks—two bowls!”
Guess I probably shouldn’t tell him I’m about to hit the beach for a two-mile run.
Shaking my head, I amble down the hallway.
“He’s right, you know.”
Sullivan—or Sully, as he prefers—stands inside his bedroom, staring blankly into the mirror. I eye him, unsure if he’s talking to me or himself.
Sully is…well, odd would be the best way to describe him.
He’s not a bad dude, but he’s definitely different. I’ve been back and staying here less than a month, but so far I’ve only seem him and Winston interact a handful of times, and I have a feeling that’s their usual.
“About?”
“Wren being up at this hour. She’s an early riser, always banging on our door at the ass crack of dawn for random shit.”
This is news to me, because the Wren I know wouldn’t be caught dead awake before 10 AM at the earliest.
But a lot can change in four years.
“I believe you.” I hitch my thumb toward the kitchen. “Just don’t tell that jackass I said so.”
Sully gives me a secret smile then salutes me with two fingers. “Scout’s fucking honor.”
I give him a nod then hit the bathroom. After I’ve finished with my business and brushing my teeth, I grab some poop bags for Mike, and we head out.
I’m a little over a mile into my run, Mike loving being on the shore, crashing through the waves and digging around in the sand, when I finally see someone else on the beach.
I was beginning to worry I was the only weirdo who got up before sunrise to run along the water and see nature at its peak moment.
The figure draws nearer. Mike, being the puppy he still is, takes off when he catches sight of my fellow runner.
“Son of a—”
The runner goes down and Mike thinks it’s playtime, rolling all over them and licking at their face.
I take off at a sprint, racing to get my dog off this poor stranger. He’s harmless, but it’s just poor manners to not stop him.
“Mike!” I grab for his collar, pulling him back. “Sit!” He plops his ass in the sand. “Stay!” He puts his head down, digging himself a nice spot.
I turn toward the runner. They’re cowed down, arms over their face, trying to block out Mike’s assault.
“Shit, I am so sorry. He usually doesn’t do this kind of thing. I swear, he might be big, but he’s still a puppy. Just…”
My rambling fades away when I realize the stranger is laughing.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Unwinding her arms, Wren smiles up at me.
She’s lying at my feet in nothing but a pair of tiny shorts she should not be wearing out in public and a sports bra.
A fucking sports bra!
Her body is on display, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to strip off her barely there outfit.
Fuck.
“Yeah, Foster, I’m good.”
Her words pull me from my stupor, and I stretch my hand toward her.
“What in the hell are you doing out here?”
“Well, I was running until your dog attacked me.”
She clasps my hand with hers and I pull her up off the sand. “Since when do you run?”
“Since when do you run?” she echoes, adjusting the hat she’s wearing.
“I picked it up in Cali. Everyone runs on the beach out there.”
“I picked it up after you left. I couldn’t sleep and it didn’t feel right going to our spot without you…” She lifts a shoulder. “So here I am.”
She never went to our spot? In all the time I was gone, she not once went there?
Guilt eats at me. I’ve been back in town only a few weeks and I’ve already been there twice.
I’m such an ass.
I glance down and notice we’re still holding hands, and for a moment I hesitate to let her go. Her skin, though it’s covered in sand, feels so good on mine.
It’s just a hand, moron.
God, how am I going to date—fake date her if I can’t even hold her fucking hand without being stupid about it? What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I slide my palm away from hers, sad to let go.
She dusts the sand off her ass and arms. “You seriously named your dog Mike? I thought you were joking about that. Mike is the most basic name I’ve ever heard.”
“Have you already been talking to Winston this morning? We had this exact same conversation about twenty minutes ago.”
She taps her temple. “Twin brain.”
“God, I forgot how annoying that is.”
“You’re just jealous you don’t have any siblings.”
“I love being an only child. I get all the Christmas presents.”
“You’re right, orange would look cute on me. I should murder Winston.”
“I’ll even help you bury his body.”
She fake gasps. “His best friend and his sister? How could they!”
“They met him. That’s how they could.”
We laugh and Mike whines from beside me, wanting an official introduction, I’m sure.
“Up.” I pat my leg and he makes his way over. “Sit.” He plops his ass back in the sand. “Shake.” He sticks his paw out. “Wren, meet Mike.”
She bends to his level and gives his outstretched paw a shake. “Nice to meet ya, buddy.”
Though Mike is well trained, it doesn’t stop him from immediately reaching forward and dragging his tongue across her cheek.
I laugh. “That’s his way of saying hello, apparently.”
“He’s a cutie.”
She lifts her hand to wipe the slobbery kiss from her face, and my eyes are drawn to the red stream running down her arm.
“Oh hell.” I reach out, grabbing her
forearm and turning it over. “You’re bleeding.”
“I am?” She twists her arm, looking down at the gnarly-looking cut above her elbow. “Crap. What the hell did I do?”
I kick at the sand, uncovering a giant stick buried right where she fell. “You must have fallen on that.”
“I didn’t even feel anything.”
“Well, you were getting attacked by my dog…” I wince. “Sorry about that.”
“He’s lucky he’s cute,” she mutters, throwing daggers Mike’s way. He drops his head, giving her his best puppy dog eyes. “Yeah, I’m talking about you, you adorable little turd.”
Mike drops his tongue out of his mouth, tail wagging like mad.
She shakes her head, laughing, then looks at the deep cut again. “I need to get this cleaned ASAP. I don’t want any more sand getting in there.”
“Here.” I drop her arm carefully. “I have some alcohol wipes we can use for now, but we’ll need to clean it more thoroughly when we get back.”
“Alcohol wipes? Why the—” She falls into a fit of laughter. “Oh my god, Foster. Are you wearing a fanny pack? An actual fanny pack? What are you, eighty?”
“Hey,” I say, raising my brow. “You should be thrilled I have this fanny pack right now. It’s filled to the brim with medical supplies that are going to come in handy as you bleed all over the beach.”
“Whatever.” She waves a hand. “Just get the wipes before this thing gets infected.”
“I have vodka too, if you’d like some.”
“You carry vodka in your man purse?”
“You never know when you’ll need it.” I pull the bag open and dig around underneath the supplies and snacks I have stashed in there. “You know you might need stitches, right?”
“I don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know I’m not going anywhere near a needle.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t need stitches.”
“But it does mean I won’t get them,” she argues. “Can we walk and wipe? I need to get back home. I have a client coming in at eight and I’m going to need extra time to deal with this.”
I nod and motion for her to lead the way as I continue to dig through my bag, Mike following behind dutifully.
“I could have sworn I replenished my supply of those wipes,” I mutter. “I had to after I fell off my bike last month.”
“You bike too? Since when?”
“You get up early? Since when?”
She tightens her lips. “Fair enough, but this whole me-getting-up-early thing is entirely your fault, you know.”
“Oh, please do elaborate on this. I’m bursting with anticipation to know how I could be to blame for that.”
“That’s easy—you left me.”
Her words hit me square in the chest.
Fucking hell.
She can say she’s not mad about it, can tell me she’s over it all she wants, but I can tell she’s still upset I left town as quickly as I did.
“I didn’t want to leave you, Wren. I had to leave.”
“Right. You had to leave but you won’t tell me why.”
“I’m just not ready to talk about it yet. It’s…a long story.”
“Weird, because I have plenty of time.”
I glance down to the fitness watch I’m wearing. “You only have about an hour and twenty minutes. Forty of those you’ll need for a shower. Another fifteen for your makeup, and another twenty for your hair. You’re only going to have about five minutes to even get this cleaned up. Time is the last thing you have.”
“It’s weird you know my routine.”
“I mean, I did practically live at your house all throughout high school. I had to time my bathroom breaks accordingly.”
“Creepy.”
“Strategic,” I bicker. “Aha!” I pull the lone alcohol pad from my bag. “Found it.”
I tear open the packet and reach for Wren’s arm.
Step. Miss. Step. Miss.
“Okay, stop walking for just a minute.”
“I can’t. I have an appointment and she’s notoriously mean. I cannot have her leaving an angry Yelp review on me.”
“The world is so weird these days…” I murmur. “Okay, fine. We can run back to your house. I’ll follow you there and then help clean you up. I know what I’m doing so it’ll go faster.”
“Ugh. Fine. But I get to cut your hair after I get my client foiled. Your hair is looking all kinds of scraggly and if I’m going to be dating you, fake or not, I want my man to look good.”
“One, that sounds creepy. Two, um…thank you. I think.”
“Uh-huh. Now wipe this down and let’s get going before I change my mind.”
I run the moistened alcohol pad over the cut then toss the trash into my bag. We take off at a slightly less than leisurely pace, Wren just ahead of me, Mike pushing me to the back of the group.
Not that I hate the view…
As much as I try to fight it because I don’t want to be that guy, my eyes betray me and fall right to her ass, which is bouncing quite nicely in her army green running shorts.
Shit, shit, shit. Quit looking, you perv!
I don’t quit looking. I can’t.
Fuck, I curse myself again. I have no idea how I’m going to survive this whole practice dating bullshit. I shouldn’t have pressed her to do it. Hell, I don’t even know why I pressed her to do it. I know it’s a horrible idea.
I don’t want to fake date Wren. I want to date date her.
How am I supposed to pretend otherwise?
My eyes follow the lines of her body. Though she loves to eat, you can tell she works hard to take care of herself. She doesn’t have rock-hard abs, but her stomach is toned. Her long legs are tan, the runner’s muscles showing me she really has been running for some time now and this isn’t some spur-of-the-moment jog for her.
“I gotta admit, I’m surprised you took up running of all things.”
“Me? Why?”
“Freshman year.” I grin at the memory. “Track and field. You fell on your ass in front of the entire school during the four-hundred-yard dash and promptly proclaimed you’d only ever run again if someone were dangling a box of Girl Scout cookies in front of your face. That, and you run like a wet noodle.”
She stumbles over her own feet at my words, and I somehow manage to catch her, stopping her from falling.
Recovering smoothly, she continues moving like nothing happened.
We run for a few seconds and I keep up beside her, now ready in case I need to catch her.
“Unf!”
She thwacks me hard in the stomach, not missing a beat, and races ahead of me once again.
“What was that for?” I grumble as my steps falter and I fall even farther behind while my traitorous dog keeps up with his new best friend.
Jerk.
“For telling me I run like a wet noodle, whatever that means!” she calls back.
I trail my eyes down her body again, letting them linger while she’s not paying me any attention. “If it’s any consolation, your form has improved dramatically over the years.”
“Did you just make a comment about my form? Are you checking me out, Foster?”
Yes. “No. I mean your running form.”
She huffs. “A likely excuse.”
It’s the biggest excuse of them all, because I am most definitely checking her out.
God, if her shorts hugged her ass any tighter, they’d be tattooed on her body.
I feel my cock beginning to harden, and the last thing I need right now is a fucking boner on the beach.
No boner, no boner, no boner. I will my dick back down. I need to get her moving…
“Are we close?” I ask, because I know exactly what her response is going to be.
“Why? You tired?”
Called that.
“Tired? Pfft. Please. This is a kiddie pace.”
“Wanna race? I’ll show ya a kiddie pace! Ha!
I rhymed!”
Played right into my hand.
“You don’t want to race me, Wren. It’ll embarrass you.”
“Nope, we’re racing. Three…two…”
She doesn’t wait for one, sprinting ahead of me.
“Hey! Cheater!” I call after her, keeping up just fine.
My eyes fall to her elbow, where the blood is still trailing down her arm, probably from all the activity.
“Wait, Wren. Hold up. You’re bleeding pretty bad.”
“I’ll be fine. Besides, we’re almost there.”
We run another hundred yards or so then race up three stairs and down a long, wooden pathway.
She leads us down another short path, and then the blue house comes into view.
It’s so perfectly Wren.
I push my legs as fast as I can muster and blow past her, barely able to stop myself before skidding into her front door.
“Beat ya!”
She glides to a stop about four seconds behind me, raising her arms above her head, breathing hard from that last push.
“Good lord, you run like a cheetah.” She starts laughing, and I know the dad joke is coming before she even tells it. “Because you are a cheat-uh.”
I raise my brows. “Did you really just go there?”
“What? That was hilarious!”
“Riiight,” I drag out, but I feel my lips betray me anyway.
“See!” She points to my grin. “Told ya!”
“Dammit.” I try to wipe my smile away, but seeing her laugh so hard at the stupid joke just makes me smile bigger. “I do just want to point out that you’re the one who cheated, therefore ruining your already horrible joke.”
“Semantics. Now step aside.”
She pushes me out of the way, stretches up on her tiptoes, and pulls her key down from the top of the doorframe.
“Please tell me that’s not where you keep your house key.”
She looks at me. “Well, do you want me to lie to you, Foster? I thought we had a rule against that.”
“Jesus, Wren. You can’t be serious right now. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
“Sure I do, but do you know how uncomfortable it is to run with keys in your pocket?”
I point toward my waist. “I do. Why do you think I wear this ridiculous fanny pack?”
A Pizza My Heart Page 8
