by RC Boldt
“What are we doing?” I whisper.
He backs away slightly, enough to meet my eyes. “We’re dancing.”
“You know what I mean.”
Glancing away briefly, when his eyes return to mine, for once, I swear I can see vulnerability in them. “I don’t know.”
That’s not good enough. Because I know we’re playing with fire. And I can’t afford to get burnt. “Well, then I—”
“What I do know,” he interrupts, his eyes boring into mine, “is that I don’t want this to stop.” He leans in closer, his cheek brushing lightly against mine before he whispers in my ear, “I don’t want this feeling—whatever it is that’s happening between us—to stop.”
My eyes fall closed at his words. “I don’t want it to stop, either.”
Silently, I repeat my response, adding on the one word my heart demands to be tacked on at the end.
Ever.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Foster
The last weekend in April is Shrimp Festival time in Fernandina Beach, which means an influx of tourists and locals alike, flocking to the historic downtown area for a variety of activities. The main one, of course, being the shrimp itself, offered by numerous venders.
“Ooh! Funnel cakes are a must, Kavanaugh.” Noelle grabs my hand and makes a beeline for what appears to be a ridiculously long line for a damn piece of fried dough.
“You’re on your own with that one, Davis.” No way am I eating that garbage.
We’re in line, people already behind us—thank God the line appears to be moving faster than I expected—and she stares at me like I’m crazy. “Sometimes you have to live a little, dude.”
“Listen, dude,” I lean in closer to her, bringing her free hand to lay the palm over my firm chest, “these babies were hard earned. And it wasn’t from eating fried dough.”
She lets out a disappointed sigh. “I get it, I do.” Bringing up her index finger, she wags it at me with a stern look. “But one bite of funnel cake won’t kill you, you know.”
“We’ll see.” Meaning, no, we won’t see. Because I’ve got willpower for days. My body is my temple, and I take care of it to the best of my ability. Hell, my mother’s cooking alone causes me to add more to my workouts in order to burn it off.
What did I say about willpower, again? Because the moment Noelle finally manages to get her beloved funnel cake, which is liberally dusted with powdered sugar and takes a small bite, the powdered sugar clinging to her lips, is when my willpower begins to weaken. It isn’t until her tongue darts out to collect the remaining sugar my willpower disintegrates.
Fucking. Disintegrates.
I would give anything to be alone with her right now instead of surrounded by thousands of people, to be able to pull her close and use my own tongue to lick that sugar from her lips.
Shit. Time to adjust myself as discreetly as possible. As soon as I’ve done so, I find Noelle watching me curiously.
“Will you please try a little piece? For me?” Her fingers tug off a small piece of funnel cake and hold it up in offering.
Amused, I eye her, one brow raised. “You’re going to feed me?”
With a huff, she rolls those gorgeous blue eyes of hers. “Just open your damn mouth already.”
I acquiesce, and she pops the funnel cake in my mouth, but I grasp her wrist before she can remove her fingers. Wrapping my lips around them, I suck off the powdered sugar clinging to them, watching as her lips part, eyes widening.
“Well, hell. I need a damn cigarette after watching that play out, darlin’.”
Noelle tugs her fingers from my lips in alarm, both of us turning to see Kane standing a few feet away, eyes sparkling with amusement. I’m relieved Doc’s beside him, especially since he’s the one I worry about the most as he’s more closed off than the others. And that’s saying a lot coming from me, I know. But I still worry about him. Being a SEAL sniper isn’t a job for the tenderhearted.
Doc pretends to pat all of his pockets as if he’s searching for cigarettes, when we all know he wouldn’t touch a cigarette to save his life, before turning to Kane. “Damn, I’m fresh out.”
“Huh.” Kane appears slightly dejected before suddenly brightening as if he’s thought of a solution. “I can just have Noelle feed me some funnel cake then.” He leans forward and parts his lips. Noelle gives a little laugh, but just as she raises her hand to feed him a piece, I snag her wrist, guiding her fingers into my mouth while I stare—hard—at Kane.
“Foster!” Noelle exclaims just as I release her hand, but my eyes remain on Kane as I chew and swallow.
“Get your own funnel cake, Windham.”
My threat—as all of my threats do, unfortunately—rolls right off his shoulders, which is evident when his toothy grin widens. “Aw, now, you’d best get that burr out of your saddle, Fos. You know I’m just playin’. No one’s poaching on your woman.”
“Oh, but I’m not his—”
“Ready to find the others?” I interrupt Noelle’s protest, knowing exactly what she was about to say. Not that I care to admit just how much I don’t want her to finish that sentence.
Oh, but I’m not his woman. That’s what she was about to say. I know it, and it burns deep, piercing my chest, the way she had spoken so hastily, so quick to deny it. Which is bullshit because it’s not like I do relationships.
Placing my hand at the small of her back, I steer her toward the direction we need to head in to join the others at Shenanigans. The Shrimp Festival crowd is heavy like every year but it’s always festive with many dressed in pirate garb and handing out beads, the scent of shrimp being prepared every way you can imagine, the sound of live music from various bars throughout the historical downtown area drifting over you.
I see the looks from other men as we pass by, the lingering of their eyes as they take in the way Noelle looks tonight. God, this dress is fucking making me come undone. Those two wide straps are taunting me; I’m mentally tugging them down to bare the breasts I already know are braless. Sure, the dress might have thick enough padding to disguise any signs of her nipples, but I know her breasts by now. And the fact that I know it wouldn’t take much effort—or time, for that matter—to get my mouth on one of her pretty pink nipples is the reason I’m having to continuously adjust myself.
Tossing the now empty paper plate from her funnel cake into the trash bin outside Shenanigans, we offer our IDs to the bouncers at the door and enter in search of the others. Laney had sent me a text message saying they were in the large room reserved for live bands, a room with a great deal of space for a dance floor. Laney had sweet-talked the owner into lowering the price for us to reserve the large VIP table seating. We all chipped in and, after it was all said and done, it wasn’t a huge expense. It’s a necessity on a night like this since the place is packed with locals and tourists alike. We have a bouncer assigned to our section of seating who watches over the tables and ensures no one messes with our drinks or the women’s purses.
As soon as we approach the others who are sitting with drinks and chatting, an arm loops through my own, drawing my attention from Noelle. Turning, I am faced with a random lay—someone I was hoping not to see again. Ever.
Ashley.
Chapter Forty
Noelle
Just as I move to take a step toward our friends seated at one of the large VIP tables in the corner, I notice Foster’s stopped. Turning, I see a tiny blonde with her arm linked through his, gazing up at him with big doe eyes. And there’s no mistaking the pinch in the center of my chest at that sight.
“Noelle! We’ve been waiting on you! Here’s your shot.” Laney motions to me to take the empty seat beside her, sliding a shot glass toward me.
Let it be known I’ve never been able to hold my liquor well. And when I say well, I mean at all. We’re talking, someone’s going to be dancing on tables shortly before that same someone will be puking beneath them.
Classy, right? Mmm, yeah, not so much. But
right now, I’m not considering that. Right now, I’m riding high on the Why should I let it bother me that some chick is touching Foster Kavanaugh? Especially when I’m pretty sure his penis touched a ton of random chicks’ vaginas? Answer: It shouldn’t.
So I toss the damn shot back, cringing at the way it burns my throat. Pretty sure my esophagus is hating me right now. And I request another shot. Along with a vodka and Red Bull.
Because, screw it. I’m going to have fun.
“Whoa, whoa, darlin’. Might want to slow down.” Kane slides in beside me at the table, eyeing the drinks the waitress sets down before me. I refuse to turn around to see what happened to Foster because I know what—or who—is detaining him.
“I’m good, Windham.”
His eyebrows raise in surprise at my sharp tone. Holding up his hands in defense, he tells me, “Fine. But I’ll be the first to call not it at holding your hair back.”
My dirty look merely makes him chuckle before tipping his head in the direction of my newest shot. “Toss that back real quick so I can get your gorgeous self out on the dance floor.” Before I can respond, he turns to Doc beside him. “You’re joining us.”
Doc’s eyebrows arch as he eyes us curiously. “I am?”
“Yes, sir. I need a wingman with this sugar muffin here.”
I choke on my drink; coughing so hard the alcohol burns my throat and nose. When I finally get myself under control, I stare at Kane in disbelief. “Did you really just call me ‘sugar muffin’?”
He flashes his trademark grin. “Yes, ma’am.” Nodding to my empty glass, he holds out a hand. “Ready to cut a rug?”
Sliding my hand into his large one, I immediately note the differences to Foster’s. Shaking off my thoughts, I offer a bright smile. “Ready.”
Kane leads me from the table to make our way to the dance floor, Doc trailing behind. Passing Foster, I force my eyes to stay straight ahead, but can’t help but notice in my peripheral vision the blonde still standing with him. The only difference is that her hands aren’t on him. Small mercy. Though I feel the weight of his gaze, I force myself to remain cool and collected.
As soon as we get to the dance floor in front of the elevated stage where the live band is playing, they begin their cover of Fall Out Boy’s, “Sugar We’re Going Down.” Instantly, I work my way closer to the stage since I love this song. Once I get to a spot I’m satisfied with, I sing along with Doc and Kane who, surprisingly, know all the words.
We end up getting silly and the two of them take turns twirling me every so often. One song turns into another and another. Finally, the three of us declare we need drinks and a quick breather from dancing.
Just as we turn to head back to the table, the band begins to play the cover of Gwen Stefani’s, “Sweet Escape,” and their female lead singer is killing it. As Laney and the other girls rush over to us, I attempt to yell over the music, trying to communicate to Kane and Doc that they’re good to go, that the girls will be joining me. They nod and I turn back to face the stage, singing along and dancing as I wait on the ladies to make their way to me.
When I feel hands at each side of my hips, I start, feeling a thumb sliding back and forth before a familiar voice speaks close to my ear. “I’m sorry I got held up.” Then, after a brief pause he adds, “She doesn’t matter to me.”
And I do?
My attempted shrug does nothing to budge him. When I try to pull from his embrace and fail, I turn my head, exasperated, and shout, “I’m disgusting and sweaty.” I mean, really. I know he can feel the slight dampness through the fabric of my dress. Not to mention, I’m sure my makeup’s on its way to melting off my face.
Oh, and the looks I’m getting from Laney and the others? Yeah, they need to work on the whole I’m watching this go down discreetly thing. As in, the whole discreetly thing? Fail. Major fail, ladies.
“You’re beautiful. No amount of sweat can deter from that.” With that, he steps away, his hands releasing me, and I’m instantly bereft, missing his touch.
I hate that. Hate the fact that I’m beginning to get some sort of addiction to this man. A guy who is a confirmed bachelor. Who is so adamantly opposed to relationships.
When will I ever learn? When, damn it?
Apparently not now. Foster pulls me toward him, into his embrace, as the band slows it down and plays Sam Hunt’s, “I Met A Girl.” He reaches up, brushing back some stray hair from my face, eyes holding mine, then he goes and shocks the hell out of me.
Foster actually sings part of the chorus to the song as we dance, about meeting a blue-eyed girl who’s changing his world. And, as he sings—albeit somewhat out of tune—the entire time, his eyes don’t leave mine. As though he’s singing to—and about—me.
Damn it. How the hell am I supposed to not fall for him when he does crap like this? I mean, he shouldn’t be singing those freaking lyrics to me. Doesn’t he know what that kind of thing does to a girl?
When the song ends and the band begins playing a faster paced song, I’m torn. Because while it felt incredible being held by Foster as we danced, while he sang, and the way he was watching me, the wiser part of me pings my brain with a sharp reminder.
Foster Kavanaugh might make me feel incredible right now, but the man is incredibly dangerous.
To my heart.
Chapter Forty-One
Foster
“You sure you want to head back to your place?” I know I’ve asked her this multiple times, but I can’t help it. I really like having her at my house. In my bed.
She lets out a long sigh. “For the one point five millionth time, Foster, yes.” I hear the dry amusement in her tone.
“You know my bed is better.” I don’t take my eyes off the road since I know there’s a likelihood of people driving who’ve had too much to drink and didn’t make the right choice of having a designated driver or taking a cab. Even so, I feel the weight of her gaze, know there’s a good chance she’s giving me the look that screams, Really, Kavanaugh?
“Did you really just say that?” At her tone, I grin in the darkness of the truck. Called it.
“It’s the truth.”
“You’re full of it.”
“Of greatness, you mean?”
“Yeah. That’s totally what I mean.” I can practically feel her rolling her eyes at me.
Pulling into her driveway, I park and get out to come around to help her down, letting my eyes linger on her legs, looking unimaginably long in those heels she’s wearing.
“Eyes up here, Kavanaugh.”
Meeting her laughing eyes, I cock an eyebrow. “The view’s equally as nice down there.”
“Ha, ha.” Shaking her head, she steps around me as I shut her door, pressing the key fob to lock the doors to my truck, before following her up the steps to her door.
Without turning around when she slides her key in the door’s lock, she tosses over her shoulder, “Since it’s well past one in the morning, are you just seeing me safely to my door or are you assuming you’re invited in to stay the night?”
I falter because … hell. I’ve never actually been in this position before. Never. I’ve always been the one calling the shots. I’ve never been—
She spins around to face me, looking amused. “Relax, Kavanaugh.”
Crowding her against the front door, I dip my head, bringing our lips close but not touching. “That’s not funny.”
Her lips curve into a smug grin. “I think it is. Seemed like you were getting your panties in a bit of a twist.”
“But I’m not the one wearing panties. You are.”
Her eyebrows arch with an innocent look. “Oh? Am I?”
Wait just a minute. My eyes drift down, trying to recall if I saw panty lines earlier, but then I remember she wears thongs that normally don’t show. Shit. Did she really go without underwear in that damn dress the entire night?
“Well, it’s been fun, Kavanaugh.” She lets out a loud, exaggerated yawn. “Night, night.” Giving me a
quick peck on the cheek, she turns, steps inside, and quietly shuts the door.
In my face.
I’m standing here like a fucking idiot on her doorstep. Shit. Roughly running a hand over my face, I hear the slight rasp of my palm against the start of my scruff along my jawline.
“Time to take your sorry ass home, Kavanaugh,” I mutter to myself. God, I’m pathetic. Just as I turn to descend the stairs, I hear the door open behind me.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who’d like to snuggle with me naked tonight, would you?”
My shoulders sag in relief, turning toward her as I try to appear thoughtful. “I might know someone…”
“Oh?” Noelle appears like she’s trying to stifle her smile, standing with one hand on her hip. “Well, he has to be a fan of funnel cake.”
I take a step closer. “What if he only likes funnel cake when you feed it to him?”
“We might be able to work something out.” Her voice comes out husky as I step closer. Reaching out, I slide a hand behind her head and cup the nape of her neck to brush a light kiss against her lips. She links her fingers with mine, turning and stepping inside, closing the door behind us and locking it.
And it’s only then that I realize I can breathe easier.
Removing our shoes at the door, we stand, watching each other; her back is against the wall and mine is against the front door. I realize I have my holstered weapon at my side, loaded and ready, having determined it was wiser—especially with everything currently going on—to keep it on me if I’m at her place. Of course, I left it unloaded and locked in the console of my truck while we enjoyed the festivities earlier, the clip of ammunition remaining safely in my pocket. Reaching for my holster to remove it and set it aside, something catches my eye, drawing my actions to a halt.
The alarm system lights aren’t lit which means that someone’s tampered with it. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, my ears catching the faintest shuffling sound in her small home.
