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Foster guides us around the table and across the dance floor toward the corner of the room where the bar is set up. Halfway there, the smiling and happy newlyweds stop us in our path.
“Congratulations,” Foster and I say in unison.
“Thanks,” Hillary says to me, gleaming.
The men start a small side conversation.
The bride admits to my ears, “I was so nervous.”
“What for?” I question, in total awe of her beauty. “Everything was perfect.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“Absolutely. Seriously, one of the best weddings ever.”
“Thank you. That means a lot. And I’m so happy you came with Foster. He’s a really great guy.”
“I agree. He’s something special. I’m lucky to have met him at all.”
Foster glances at me quickly—so fast in fact that it’s quite possible I might have imagined it.
“I’m positive he feels the same about you,” Hillary states, clasping my hand.
“We need to keep going,” Parker tells his new bride. “More guests to greet.”
“Yes, we don’t want to keep them waiting,” she says with her husband pulling her away. “It was nice talking to you, EJ.”
“Likewise,” I say, feeling Foster’s arm slide around my waist.
“Are you ready for a drink?” he asks, his soft lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Very.”
Foster escorts me to the bar with his hand on my hip and then orders me a glass of white wine and himself a beer. Once our drinks are served, he leans his backside against the bar’s edge, and we toast to the evening.
“Are you having a nice time?” I question after taking a generous sip of chardonnay.
“It’s tolerable,” he jokes. “You’re making it even more tolerable.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yes, it is.” Foster shakes his head and leans an elbow on the ledge of the bar. “How about you? Are you having a good time?”
“It’s more than tolerable,” I tease back, stepping closer until the smell of his cologne occupies my senses. “And yes, I’m having a nice time.”
“Well, somebody should.”
A familiar sensation comes over me as we smile at one another, basking in each other’s company.
There are moments with him, where it’s only him.
This is one of them.
Taking the wine glass from my hand, Foster sets it on the bar next to his beer and then holds the tips of my fingers in his hand.
Concentrating on my recently manicured nails, rubbing his thumb along the length of my middle digit, he softly says, “You’re really good at this.”
“At what?”
