by Roni Loren
I rubbed the corner of the pillowcase between my thumb and forefinger, staring into the darkness. “You said you’d had a bad day. What happened?”
He sighed and his hold on me loosened a bit. “I thought I was going to get some answers about a situation I’ve had questions about for a long time, and I hit another dead end.”
I chewed my lip, debating whether or not to push for more details. It really was none of my business. Just because we were curled up naked together didn’t mean I had some right to know about all his personal business, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’m sorry. What kind of situation?”
“A family one.” He was silent for a long time after that, and I figured he’d decided that was enough of an answer—even though it was no answer at all. But then he laced his fingers with mine and let out a breath. “I’m searching for my sister, Neve.”
I turned in his hold to face him, confused. “What do you mean—‘searching’? Did she run off?”
I couldn’t see him well in the dark, but I felt the tension in his muscles. “No, angel, she was taken—a very long time ago. Has been missing since I was ten.”
“Oh my God.” The weight of the words landed solidly on my chest, pressing down. “I’m so sorry.”
He brushed his knuckles over my cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve lived with that knowledge for a very long time. I just got my hopes up tonight that we’d have a breakthrough in the case, and the informant backed out. I should’ve known it’d be a dead end. They always are.”
“Oh, Foster,” I said, my heart breaking at the hopelessness underlining his tone.
“Shh,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’m just sorry that I took my frustration out on you. You didn’t deserve that.”
“It’s okay, I—”
He put his fingertips over my lips. “No, it’s not. But let’s not get into it now. It’s late, and you need to get some rest.”
I let my head sink back into the pillow, and he turned me to spoon again.
His embrace was comforting, the bed warm. But it was a long time before I was able to fall asleep.
I could handle mysterious, sexy neighbor Foster.
And funny, texting Foster.
Even intimidating, kinky Foster.
Those are guys I could write off as fun fling candidates.
But I had no idea how to handle this man. This man with vulnerabilities and wounds and history. A man who hadn’t given up on finding a sister who’d been gone for more than twenty years. I didn’t need to know these things about him. The more I learned, the more this mattered. The more he mattered. And the harder it was going to be when I left.
Maybe Foster had been right all along.
We had to end this.
Because as I lay there, listening to him breathing, I found myself wanting it to be real, wanting to be his.
***
“What the hell are you doing, man?”
Foster glanced over his shoulder at Pike, who’d plunked down at the breakfast bar, the new dog sniffing at his feet. Foster couldn’t even tackle that turn of events yet. Pike taking on the responsibility of a dog. The mind boggled. “I’m making pancakes. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“And what the fuck was that last night?”
Foster sighed, keeping his back to Pike as he waited for bubbles to appear in the batter he’d ladled onto the griddle pan. Bette, the housekeeper who’d taken care of him for much of his life, had told him never to flip a pancake until there were bubbles. “Sorry I jumped your shit. Yesterday . . . sucked, and well, I was already in a bad place when I came home.”
“Dude, I’m over that. You’re a possessive asshole. Not breaking news. But I’m talking about what you did with her. What happened to leaving the vanilla girl who’s moving away alone? Now you’re making her pancakes? You don’t cook breakfast for anybody.”
Foster flipped the pancake with a little more vigor than necessary. “Last night wasn’t planned. I gave her the chance to leave. She didn’t.”
“Ah hell, don’t do this to yourself.”
Foster turned to give Pike a narrow look. “Do what? Sleep with her? It’s not like it hadn’t happened before.”
Pike took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t give me that shit. You didn’t just fuck her, and you know it. You’re getting attached. It’s written all over you. You’re making fucking pancakes, for God’s sake.”
“It’s just a pancake,” he said a little too loudly, holding the spatula out to the side. Batter dripped to the floor, and the dog scrambled to take care of it. “I’m well aware she’s leaving. I’m not attached.”
The lie rolled off his tongue with ease.
Truth was, he was a fucking mess after last night. He hadn’t slept after their middle-of-the-night talk. He’d just lain there, watching her sleep, trying to come up with a scenario where she didn’t pack up and move away in a week. He turned back to ladle more batter onto the griddle, avoiding Pike’s pointed stare.
“She can’t stay, Foster.” Pike said quietly. “She won’t. Last night, she was telling me about what’s waiting for her back home. She’s spent her whole life preparing to take over half of her father’s practice. And she loves her family and the career she’s chosen. Her life is there.”
“I wasn’t going to ask her to stay,” he replied under his breath. Though, he was more than tempted to. But what could he possibly offer her in exchange for veering off the life plan she’d set up for herself? Sure, they were great together in bed. And yeah, he had enough money to give her anything she could want or need while she was here. But they hardly knew each other. Even if she liked last night—which he hadn’t even had a chance to confirm yet—there was no way she could be ready for the type of relationship he craved.
The smell of smoke snapped him out of his ruminating. He turned down the heat as the pancake started to burn around the edges. The sound of a door opening somewhere behind him had him turning around again, though. The dog scampered that way with a bark. Cela appeared in the kitchen a few moments later, wearing her wrinkled clothes and a haphazard ponytail. She had her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. And when she bent down to scratch the dog under the chin, she moved so gingerly, he cringed.
Shit.
“Hey there, Monty,” she said softly.
“Morning, doc,” Pike said, as casual as could be. Like Cela was here every morning. “Coffee?”
She rose and gave him a small smile, her eyes darting briefly toward Foster. “Actually, I really need to get back to my place. I’m due at work in an hour.”
Foster frowned and set down the spatula. “You should at least eat some breakfast before you go.”
“He made pancakes,” Pike said, a wry tilt to his mouth.
Foster shot him a shut-the-fuck-up glare.
She curled her lips inward and glanced toward the door, clearly ready for escape. But he could tell manners were so deeply ingrained in her that she couldn’t do it. She gave a quick little nod. “Yeah, okay, I can stay for a minute. You didn’t need to go through so much trouble.”
Foster breathed a brief sigh of relief that she wasn’t leaving yet and turned to pile a few pancakes on a plate. “No trouble.”
Pike sniffed.
Foster put the burnt pancake on Pike’s plate.
When he turned around with both plates in his hand, Cela was sliding into the chair next to Pike, the strained press of her lips the only indication that she was feeling the effects of last night. God, he was an asshole.
Yes, she’d pushed him last night, had asked to be with him, but he’d taken it too far. Not that he’d never left a girl with marks or bruises the next day—it was part of the deal. But up until now, he’d only done it to women he knew were totally into it, who thrived on submission and pain play. But with Cela, he had no idea what her pain tolerance wa
s or if she had limits he’d crossed. It’d been completely irresponsible on his part to scene with her. The girl didn’t even know what a scene was, and he’d chained her to his fucking door. Then later, he’d laid his shit about his sister right on her. Like she needed to know about his family’s tragedies on top of everything else. No wonder she was ready to bolt.
He set the plates in front of them and grabbed the bottle of syrup off the counter. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, though there wasn’t much conviction behind it, and took the syrup from him. “Thanks.”
Pike grabbed his plate and stood. “I think I’m going to eat this in the living room. Hit me with a little syrup, doc.”
“Pike, you don’t have to—” Cela started.
“Nah, doc, it’s okay. My morning show’s on. Gotta get my daily dose of Lara Spencer.”
Cela frowned but poured syrup over his pancakes and said nothing else.
“Come on, Monty, let’s see how you like Foster’s cooking.” Pike gave Foster a quick glance, then sauntered off toward the living room, Monty fast on his heels.
Cela put a bite of food in her mouth, looking down at her plate like it held all the answers. He had no doubt everything was setting in now. Last night when she’d woken up, it’d all still been comfortable in the darkness—safe. But now in the light of day, her body was probably aching, her skin sensitized, leaving no path for her mind to deny what she’d participated in last night. And knowing Cela, that probably meant a heaping dose of shame and guilt.
Foster blew out a breath and served up his own breakfast, then grabbed a bottle out of the cabinet. He tapped out two pills and set them next to Cela’s plate, then poured her a glass of water. “Take those. It’ll help.”
She eyed the pills. “What are they?”
“Ibuprofen.”
“Thanks.” She picked them up and swallowed them down, her gaze staying on him. “So will I have, like, bruises and stuff? I kind of feel like I got tackled by an NFL lineman.”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, leaving his food untouched next to him. “You shouldn’t. That particular flogger is pretty harmless in that regard. Though you may get tiny speckle bruises where the tips wrapped around your hip.”
“Oh.”
“Does that bother you?”
She pushed a syrup-soaked bite around her plate with her fork. Great, she couldn’t even look at him. “I don’t know.”
He carded a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone there with you.”
She looked up sharply.
“I’m sorry. Last night . . . it never should’ve happened.”
“Right.” She shook her head, smirking, and shoved her plate away. “Look, thanks for breakfast, but I’ve got to go.”
“Cela,” he said, pushing up from the counter. “Wait. Don’t leave yet. We need to talk about last night. If I freaked you out . . .”
She grabbed her keys off the edge of the counter and looked at him. “You didn’t freak me out, Foster. I freaked myself out. A few weeks ago, I was virgin. Now I’m waking up in some guy’s bed feeling like I’ve been rolled over by a truck and can’t even find my panties.”
Some guy. The words punctured his chest like rusty nails.
“This has become too . . . intense. And I’m starting to like this, you, too much. You told me you want to own a woman. And as I was lying in your bed this morning, can you believe I actually found myself wondering what that would be like?” She looked heavenward. “How fucking insane is that?”
His heart leapt at the mere mention of her even entertaining that notion, but reality quickly kicked it right back down. Clearly, she wasn’t happy about that thought. And she was leaving. Leaving. He had to get that through his head. “Cela . . .”
She continued like he hadn’t even spoken. “Being with you has been—well, I can’t even describe it. But Foster,”—she met his eyes and put her hand to her chest—“I don’t even know who this person is. I’m not sure I want to know.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and he couldn’t stop himself from walking over to her and pulling her against him. She let him fold her into his embrace. He set his chin on the top of her head. “It’s going to be all right, angel. You’ve just been through a lot of big life changes these last few weeks. You’re still the same person you always were. I’m sorry I added shit to that mix that made you even more confused.”
She sniffed against his T-shirt. “You didn’t make me do anything. I brought this on myself.”
“Shh, you’re just going through life trying to figure stuff out like all of us are. In a week, you’re going to go back home to your family and the job you’ve worked so hard for, and things will get easier. Everything will fall into place.” The words hurt coming out, but what else could he say? Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy . . .
Shit. Now he was quoting ridiculous pop songs. This girl was making him lose his mind.
Cela pulled back and looked up at him, gaze somber. “I can’t keep doing this. It’s starting to hurt.”
He wiped a tear off her cheek. “I know, angel.” Me too.
She nodded, resigned. “Maybe if I didn’t have to leave, but . . .”
He pressed his fingers against her mouth, unable to bear the conjecture. “No what ifs in life, just what is, right? Let’s not go there.”
She grabbed his wrist to move his hand then pushed up on her toes to brush his lips with a soft kiss. “Thanks for giving a small-town girl a walk on the wild side.”
He forced a smile, even though the words were way too reminiscent of how things had ended with Darcy. Maybe he’d always be relegated to that role in his life—the kinky guy to have fun with for a while before a woman went looking for something real. Something normal. “Hey, the pleasure was all mine.”
She smirked. “That is definitely not true.”
He laughed despite himself.
“I’ll make sure and stop by before I head out of town. And tell Pike if he has any more questions about Monty to call me.”
“Will do. Do you have everything you need for the move?” he asked, moving into safe conversation, topics that wouldn’t remind him that he would never touch her again.
“I still have a lot of painting to do, but I’ll get it done in time.” She was heading toward the door now.
“Let us know if you need help.”
“Thanks.” She peeked back at him and smiled, but he knew she’d never call for that help.
This was the end. And they both knew it.
He stood there staring at the door long after she’d shut it behind her.
Chapter 20
I turned up the radio as I pulled onto the highway on the way to my brother’s place, trying to chase away the depressing thoughts that were infiltrating my brain. I’d come home last night after going to a movie with Bailey to find my apartment fully painted, every corner cut, every baseboard glossed. An invoice from a local painting company had been on my kitchen counter, the charge paid for by one Ian Foster.
The gesture had both touched and frustrated me. I’d spent the last week trying to forget the way Foster had looked at me, the way he’d made me feel that night in his room, the crazy things he’d made me want. I’d almost walked next door a hundred times to try to talk to him about it—to try to figure out why I was feeling so . . . undone. But I knew the minute I saw him, it would just tear the bandage right off the wound again. No matter how electric the connection had been between us, I needed to stay away from him. I was leaving in just a few days. And he was looking for something bigger than what I could offer anyway.
That last night with him had scared me. Everything had been so intense, so out there. And I’d responded to it, given in like some slave girl. The more he’d pushed me, the more turned on I’d gotten. I’d wanted to please him, and pro
bably would’ve allowed him to take me even further than he did. Plus, I got the sense he’d only shown me a glimpse anyway. I couldn’t imagine what other things lurked in that closet of his.
And the next morning, instead of being appalled at how achy and sore I was, I’d gone into the bathroom to look at my back in the mirror. When no marks were there, I’d actually felt disappointment. Which proved I was losing it. I was a doctor, goddammit. My whole career was focused on healing, and here I was letting some guy hurt me. And not just letting him, but enjoying it.
Yes, I needed to stay away.
Even if I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Even if part of me was desperate to know why he made me feel this way.
My life waited for me somewhere else. My family was counting on me. I was moving. And even thinking of changing that for some guy I’d slept with a few times was ludicrous. It had to be that whole weird evolutionary chemical thing that made me want to fall for the man I’d lost my virginity to. My body was under some misguided impression that it was going to mate for life. Logically, I knew this.
But when Foster did things like paying for my whole apartment to get painted, he made it harder for me to keep my scientific brain in charge. So, despite knowing it was a bad idea, I’d stopped by his apartment on the way out to thank him and to tell him I was going to pay him back. I didn’t want guilt-laden gifts. He didn’t owe me anything. But only Pike had been home.
“Sorry, doc. He’s out,” Pike had told me as he leaned against the door frame. No smile. No invitation inside. The completely un-Pike-like behavior had made my stomach drop to my toes.
“Out?”
He gave a little nod.
“Like leather-pants out?” I’d asked, trying to keep my tone nonchalant even though my throat had gone Mojave dry.
His gaze had slid away, his shoulders sagging. “I’m not sure.”
“Got it,” I’d said, the words clipped. “Thanks a lot.”
I’d turned to leave. “Hey, doc.”
I’d spun back around, arms crossed in what probably looked to be anger but felt more like a desperate attempt to hold myself together.
