by RC Boldt
The same table we’re due to eat dinner on tonight.
It’s a pretty damn sturdy oak table, though. It could probably withstand—
Fuck. See? My brain is fried.
I can’t do any of this because it would be so fucking foolish. Not only because I’m not the kind of guy she needs, but I’m not in the market for a relationship. Ever.
“Hey—” My attempt to salvage anything is cut off when Laney calls out again.
“Fos! Noelle! I’m about to eat all of the prosciutto!”
This gives Noelle an excuse to turn, still not meeting my gaze, and start off in the direction of the kitchen. Just as we’re about to enter and join my sister and mother, I slide an arm around her waist, drawing her to a halt, her back against my front. With my mouth close to her ear, I notice the tiny shivers my breath induces when I speak softly.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the kiss.”
She attempts a casual shrug. “No worries. We can forget it ever happened, Kavanaugh.”
The fact that she can—and wants to—dismiss what just happened chafes. A whole hell of a lot.
“I don’t want to forget it.” My voice comes out in a low growl. “In fact, I don’t think I could even if I tried. I’m more concerned about you feeling safe with me. Not worried because you think I’ll try to take advantage of you.”
She pats the arm I still have wrapped around her waist in the most placating manner, setting me on edge. “Nothing to worry about, Kavanaugh. You use it as spank bank material, and I’ll continue feeling safe around you and keep my job. It’s all good.”
Then she walks right into the kitchen, casual as can be, joining my sister and mother. And me?
I’m left standing here, my lips burning with the memory of our kiss. The kiss Noelle wants to forget. The kiss I should forget. The kiss I don’t want to forget. Which means one thing.
I’m so fucked.
Chapter Sixteen
Noelle
“Did you know he was obsessed with the lawn mower when he was little?” Laney snorts, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes which dart over to her brother for a brief moment before they return to me.
“Laney,” Foster growls out a warning. Which does nothing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, it spurs her on even more.
Grin widening further, she tosses her thumb in her brother’s direction. “I have soooo much dirt on this guy.”
He’s sitting beside her, across the table from me, and I’ve been torn the entire time we’ve been sitting here, eating dinner. Torn because a part of me wanted him to choose to sit beside me and the other part—well, the other part knew it was smart he chose to sit beside his sister.
Except for one tiny thing. Every time I happen to look up and catch his eyes, for a split second they shine with the heat they did when we kissed. But it only lasts for a split second before it disappears, vanishing so quickly I find myself wondering if I’m imagining things.
“Seriously, though, Fos. You had a toy lawn mower, and Ma would have to threaten to take it away from you just to get you to come in and eat dinner some nights.” Turning back to me, Laney continues. “He would mow the lawn for hours, I swear. Just like the guy down the street. The best part,” she leans across the table, “is since the lawn mower was green, he also had to wear his matching pair of green shorts and green knee socks.” I can’t help but snicker as I try to imagine this much younger version of Foster.
“Oh, honey.” Momma K. shakes her head with a smile. “I remember when that lawn mower finally kicked the bucket and the wheels fell off. You were so sad.”
“You made us have a moment of silence when we put it out for the trash.” Laney is clearly enjoying this, as is evident by her wide grin.
“Are you two done yet?” He flashes them a look that might come off as stern or intimidating, but I can see beneath it. “Besides,” he grins and raises one arm into a flex, pressing a kiss to his large bicep muscle, “all the lawn mower pushing clearly paid off.”
“Eww, Fos!” His sister shoves him with a laugh, shaking her head at him. “Weirdo.”
“Foster Bryant,” his mother reprimands, eyes sparkling in amusement, clearly fighting a smile.
Glancing over at everyone’s empty dinner plates, I turn to Momma K. “I can help carry things back into the kitchen and clean up, if you like?”
The older woman’s kind, brown eyes smile at me. “Thank you, dear. I’d appreciate that. We can rinse the dishes off and put them in the dishwasher.”
We all stand, pushing in our chairs. I gather the dishes and silverware in my hands. Walking into the kitchen, placing them in the sink, I use the sprayer attachment to rinse them off before placing everything in the dishwasher. When I hear someone else moving around the kitchen, I assume it’s either Momma K. or Laney.
Until a tanned, muscular arm reaches around me to place another dish in the sink, the front of his body so close to my back I can feel the heat radiating from him. “Here’s another one.” His words, his breath dust against my ear, make me visibly shiver.
“You okay there, Davis?” I hear the amusement in his voice. He knows exactly what he’s doing, damn it.
“Fine. Just fine.” My response is quick, short staccato spurts.
“Dude. Can you please stop humping your woman for a minute?” Laney’s voice startles both of us. Or maybe just me. Because Foster doesn’t appear the least bit startled.
“Laney McBrainy. If you don’t know the difference between humping and standing behind someone then Zach clearly needs to up his game.”
She waves him off. “Please. He’s beyond phenomenal. Why do you think I married the guy?”
Foster’s hand flies up as if to stop her. “I don’t need—or want—to hear this.”
Laney folds her arms across her chest, eyes narrowed in challenge. “So if you weren’t humping her, then why were you standing so close to her?”
“I added another dish to her pile.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Laney’s tone is full of mirth. When I glance over to see Foster staring at his sister, it appears as though they are doing some creepy mental conversation thing. And here I thought that was reserved for the Special Ops guys only.
Rinsing the final dish, I place it in the dishwasher just as Momma K. comes in with a large casserole dish holding the remaining lasagna rolls she made. Setting it on the counter, she grabs smaller containers to spoon some of the leftovers into, likely for the three of us.
“Are you two at it, again?” She shakes her head at Foster and Laney. “You need to stop. Otherwise, you’ll scare Noelle off, and then I’ll never get to see her.”
“Ma, she’s been working for him for a while. Pretty sure if she scared off that easily, she would’ve been long gone by now.”
Turning, I busy myself with one of the nearby dish towels, drying up stray water around the sink because I really don’t want to get involved in this conversation if it’s headed where I think it is.
“This is for you and Zach,” I hear Momma K. say.
“But why’s that one larger? It better not be for Fos,” Laney warns.
“Of course not. It’s for Noelle.”
I smile as I drape the towel over one of the knobs of the kitchen cabinets. Turning, I catch Foster giving his mother a look.
“Why does Noelle get more leftovers than me? Or Laney?”
“Because she’s my favorite, of course,” Momma K. teases.
“Whatever, Ma.” Brushing off her remark with a smirk, he leans down to kiss her cheek. “We all know I’m your favorite.”
“Now, you know I love my children equally. Why, I remember when—”
“Yes, we know, Ma,” Foster and Laney answer in unison, grinning at one another. Foster continues, “You remember the moment you looked down at our wrinkly faces and fell in love.” He bends down to give his mother a hug and says in a loud whisper, “But we all know I was the cuter baby.”
His mother
’s hand swipes the side of his head playfully. “Foster Bryant Kavanaugh. Don’t you start.”
“Bye, Ma. Love you.” He turns to Laney, hooking an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a headlock kind of hug before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Momma K. steps up to me, embracing me while whispering in my ear, “Be careful and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, my dear.”
I nod with a weak smile, a lump in my throat, because this woman is seriously the best. She is the kindest, sweetest, most genuine lady I’ve ever known. Momma K. pretty much took me under her wing from the start, inviting me into her home for dinner with the rest of what I’ve come to think of as “the crew”; the group of friends who act more like family than friends. And there’s a part of me wishing she were my own mother.
Even worse—and scarier—is the fact that there’s a small part of me that imagines her as my mother-in-law. That’s clearly the part of me that’s on strict lockdown. Because we all know there’s no way it would ever happen.
As long as I don’t get too carried away, it’s okay to have dreams, right?
Yeah, it’s confirmed. I’m screwed.
Chapter Seventeen
Foster
“Would you stop adding crap to the shopping cart?”
I brought Noelle to the grocery store to load up on whatever she needed to restock her fridge. She’s getting exasperated with me whenever I add something to the cart that I think she should add to her diet. Like a container of raw almonds and an additional container of fresh spinach.
“I don’t need protein bars.”
“Those are mine.”
“Oh.” Her lips press thin. “Well, I still say I don’t need that much spinach.”
“I’ll show you how to make some good salads with it, trust me.” What the hell am I saying? Inviting myself over and making salads? I glance down at my crotch, barely resisting the urge to pat myself to ensure my balls are still there after saying that shit.
And the look on her face? She’s giving me a weird look, as if to say, Who are you and what did you do with Foster Kavanaugh?
Hell, if I know.
I need to get us out of this store ASAP and distance myself from her and whatever spell she’s put on me.
Finally, she shrugs and turns away, muttering, “Fine. But that’s enough food, for God’s sake.”
Nearing the checkout lane, I realize she’s fully prepared to pay for the entire cart of groceries and that just won’t do.
“Hey, Davis. Do me a favor? Go to my truck and see if my wallet’s in there?”
She flashes me an odd look. “I can pay for your damn protein bars, Kavanaugh. Six bucks isn’t going to break me.”
Shit. Okay, well that didn’t work. Letting out a sigh, I take her by the shoulders and steer her to stand near the handle of the cart, moving in front of her to better swipe my card on the reader before she can do anything about it.
“What are you doing?” she sputters.
“I want you to watch over my protein bars,” I tip my head in the direction of where they are sitting, in the top, upper portion of the shopping cart near the handle, “so no one grabs them. They’re the best kind, and they run out of stock all the time.”
Lies. All lies. My mother would start saying fifteen Hail Marys if she were here right now.
“How are you doing today?” the cashier—Celeste, according to her name tag—asks. I estimate her to be in her early twenties, at most. She’s cute, but young, and it’s clear she’s interested in me. A little too clear, actually, because her smile is super bright when I politely answer her and she continues peppering me with questions without uttering a single word to Noelle. Which is just plain rude, assuming outright we’re not together.
As discreetly and quickly as possible, I swipe my card on the reader while the chick is yammering on some more, basically telling me her work schedule—which isn’t safe in the least. I could be a serial killer, for Christ’s sake. This girl needs to wise up. Just when I’m at the point where I’m tired of hearing her disclose—freely—far too many personal details, Noelle sidles up to me, linking her arm through mine.
“Oh, Celeste, aren’t you just the sweetest girl to let us know your schedule. We would love to come back and check out in your line next time.” She offers a saccharine sweet smile to our cashier and Celeste falters, her smile fading before giving Noelle a once over. For whatever reason, she appears to find Noelle lacking because her eyes take on an icy glare before turning back to me, ignoring Noelle once again.
“You come back and see me. Once you’re done with,” holding the receipt for me, she tosses a brief glance at Noelle, “things.”
Noelle lets out a little huff and walks a few feet away to peruse the display of touristy trinkets, appearing enthralled with the cheesy variety of postcards, keychains, magnets and bottle openers boasting the small beach town of Fernandina.
My eyes come back to rest on Celeste because no way in hell am I about to let anyone disrespect Noelle like that. Narrowing my eyes, I accept the receipt, lean in and lower my voice dangerously. “You might be young, but you’re old enough to know better than to disrespect a man’s woman like that, Celeste.” She visibly pales, quickly averting her gaze on the next customer in her line.
As Noelle and I walk out, with me pushing the cart through the exit doors, we’re both silent. The silence continues while we load the backseat of my truck with the groceries. It isn’t until we both get buckled in and I start the ignition, truck still in park, that I speak.
Turning, I see her gazing out the passenger side window. “I’m sorry about that back there.”
She shrugs before facing me. “No worries.” There’s a brief pause. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know?”
“Do what?”
“Defend me. I wasn’t worried.” Looking away, she gives another shrug as if she doesn’t recall sliding her arm through mine, displaying what was clearly jealousy, merely minutes prior.
“Huh. That’s interesting coming from the woman who all but pissed on my leg in front of the cashier.”
Her head whips around to stare at me. “What are you talking about?”
I raise one eyebrow. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Davis.” Impersonating her voice, I say, “You’re the sweetest girl to let us know your schedule.” Then, in a normal tone, I add with a smirk, “Us. You said ‘us.’ Like we’re a thing.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Kavanaugh. Alert the news crew.” She has a look of disgust on her face, but she avoids my eyes. “I was just messing around.”
With a small chuckle, I back out of the parking spot and pull out of the lot to head to her place, musing about her show of jealousy. Usually, I don’t care much for shows of jealousy. It normally turns me off.
For a minute there, though, I found myself imagining what it would be like to be with Noelle. There’s no way in hell I’d ever admit to it, and I’d deny it ’til the day I leave this earth, but in that moment, imagining Noelle and I as … a thing?
It was a pretty damn sweet image.
Chapter Eighteen
Noelle
“Dude. What’s with you and the grouchiness? With a scowl that dark and scary, I wouldn’t put it past you to rough up some Girl Scouts for Thin Mints.” Miller has a smirk on his face, leaning back casually in his desk chair, flipping a pen back and forth with his fingers. The man is a doppelgänger for the former University of Florida quarterback, Tim Tebow; over six feet tall, extremely fit and muscular with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
Kane, of course, jumps right in. “Now, darlin’. That’s just blasphemous talk. Tagalongs, maybe. Those are where the magic’s at.” Turning to Foster, he gives an analyzing look. “Yep. Definitely more of a Tagalong kind of guy.”
“Or maybe he’s roughed up some Boy Scouts for some of their popcorn. Which reminds me; I totally missed out on last year’s fundraiser sale. I really liked the chocolate covered cara
mel corn they had.”
“Or he joined a cult and ‘the darkness’ is taking over. Like one of those cults where you have to have the same haircut. Or dress the same.”
“Or have some secret hand sign? Like this, maybe?” Miller does the Star Trek sign, spreading his fingers apart into a V.
“What if it’s something like David Koresh and the Branch Davidians? Weren’t they the ones who drank the Kool-Aid?”
Miller shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t them. That was the Jim Jones guy in Jonestown.”
“Maybe he’ll have a secret question and answer they’re usually required to use in cults. Like,” Kane deepens his voice, “Clam chowder, red or white?” His eyes crinkle with humor.
Miller holds up a hand, his face a mask of seriousness. “White. Always the white. I refuse to acknowledge the red.”
“Are you ladies done?” Foster rolls his eyes in exasperation. Silently, I have to agree because it’s slightly disturbing how much info they’re spouting off about cults.
The two other men glance at one another before turning back to Foster and say in unison, “Maybe.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, running a hand over his face.
The contract file I successfully got e-signed by the proper channels for a new site finishes printing. Rising from my chair, stapling the paperwork, I walk over to set the hard copy on Foster’s desk. He’s a bit old-fashioned and likes to peruse the printed contracts himself.
“Davis. I’m craving a burger.”
Giving him an odd look, amusement lines my features. “A burger?”
“Yes. A thick, juicy burger.”
I stare at him for a beat. “Huh. Well, they say pregnancy cravings can be a bitch.” I turn to head back to my desk.
“Funny.” Miller and Kane, of course, are snickering while Foster grits out, “I’m not knocked up.”
“Oh?” Moving the mouse to activate the screen on my computer, I question, “Just menstruating, then? That explains a lot.”
