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Oh, how naïve I was.
Not anymore.
Before I could go further down the rabbit hole, Mason cries, letting us know he’s done with his nap—and this conversation. His fussing couldn’t have come at a better time. I don’t know what to say to Foster, and it’s clear he doesn’t know what to say to me either.
“Let’s change that diaper.” I hurry past Foster, making sure not to look at him as I scoop Mason up from his portable crib and carry him into his room.
Maybe Foster will take the hint and go back to his place.
Or the bar.
Or wherever the hell guys like him go to pick up women.
At the end of the day he’s not my type, and I’m so far out of his league I might as well be in space.
It’d be best for the both of us if we moved on and forgot last night—and Cramington—ever happened.
CHAPTER NINE
I expect Foster to be gone, but he isn’t.
I’m not sure what his angle is or why my brother would encourage him to come over and bring me dinner. It’s like I’ve been dropped down into the middle of the twilight zone. In what world would Rhett actually encourage one of his friends—a hockey player on his team—to spend time with me?
It’s bizarre.
Foster and I are friendly, but in all reality, that’s about where it ends.
Sure, he’d come over and talk to me whenever I hang around the team. But half the time, I think he did it to annoy my brother—not that it takes much—but there was another part of me that hoped he enjoyed our conversations.
After last night, I’m not so sure.
He apologized, and it seemed genuine, but I’ve been fooled before.
Which is why I needed the breather.
As I come out of Mason’s room, I lurk in the shadows, hanging out in the hallway to the bedrooms and watch him. It might make me a creeper, but since he kissed me to get some random girl to leave him alone, I think I’ve earned that right.
And don’t get me started on the whole Cramington mess.
He’s made himself at home, unpacking the containers of Mexican food along my island, occasionally stopping to look around my apartment. It’s not much, but it’s mine. Lucy helped me paint over her beloved pink accent walls with something more neutral, and get new furniture—mostly gray and black with occasional pops of color.
His gaze lingers on the few photographs I have of my brothers and me scattered around the room, and finally, it comes to rest on my bookshelf.
I wonder what he’d think if he knew they were all romance books.
Dirtyromance books.
Would he laugh at me? Make me feel bad for reading smutty fantasies? Or would he be intrigued?
Would he read one?
Ron used to make fun of me for reading them. He said they were for old ladies with too much time on their hands and not enough dick.
I know; it was charming.
He didn’t understand why I wanted to write them either. He thought it was a phase I’d grow out of once I got a little older. He didn’t understand my passion, my drive, my goals. He never understood me.
I can’t help but wonder if Foster would be different.
