AllFreeNovel
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I don’t move for a little while—I can’t. He’s tucked himself in the far corner of the sectional, his long legs stretched across the ottoman, and Mason is in his arms. I can almost imagine him here like this on a regular basis.
Almost.
Focus, Avery. Dinner. You need to eat dinner, not ogle the hockey player.
With a curse, I grab a plate and fill it with chips, tacos I made from the fajita meat, and a southwest egg roll. And then I cover everything with queso, because cheese makes everything better—even overactive hormones and imaginations.
By the time I’m done fixing my plate, Mason is done eating and is burping very loudly over Foster’s shoulder.
I’m mildly concerned about a possible spit-up incident resulting in Foster’s ruined shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care, so I guess I shouldn’t either.
Still, I can’t help but keep a watchful eye on the two of them.
“This little guy was hungry.” Foster glances my way and frowns. “You haven’t eaten yet.”
Just to un-prove his point, I shove a chip in my mouth, crunching it much louder than expected. And yes, I underestimated the size of it so now I’m chomping away while he continues to stare at me, raising a brow and smirking with those sexy lips of his.
Not that I’m looking, I’m busy chewing.
“I was just getting started.” I grab a couple of waters from the fridge, uncap one, and chug half of it. “Do you want me to make you a plate?”
“If you don’t mind. Can you put the queso all over mine, too? That looks amazing.”
I nod as I load him up and juggle our plates, waters, and the extra chips and queso into the living room.
“Do you want me to take him? I’m very skilled at doing things with one hand.” Wow. That came out way airier than I meant it to, and now I sound like a hussy.
“I’m good, baby Remington. Mason and I are bonding.” Foster grins as I set his food down on the ottoman in front of him. “Besides, I’m good with one hand too.”
Between the one hand comment which has me imagining him unbuttoning his pants, freeing his cock and rubbing it with said hand, and the baby Remington nickname, I’m half dead. There’s nothing I can say in response that doesn’t sound super inappropriate. Well, except one thing. “I’m sure it’s all the years playing hockey.”
“Yeah, hockey,” he chuckles, and we both know that’s not what he meant.
This dinner really is going to be the death of me. Between his smiles, those bright blue eyes, and the gentle way he holds Mason, I don’t stand a chance.
We fall into a semi-comfortable silence as we eat.
Every now and then I feel his eyes on me, and I pretend not to notice.
Or be affected at all. I don’t think it’s working, but I’m trying. I’m also still trying to puzzle out why he’s here. Why now?
He didn’t need to bring me dinner and sit here and eat with me to apologize. He could’ve called.
Foster clears his throat, breaking the silence, and leans back on the couch, propping Mason on his chest. “I hope you don’t mind me asking… but what’s next for you, you know, now that you’ve had Mason?”
That’s a good ass question.
“I was planning on staying at home for the first six months if I could swing it financially.” He gives me a look like he wants to say something, and I continue before he can. “I know my brothers would help me, but I don’t want to take money from them. Before this whole car thing, I could’ve probably gone about seven months, which would give me plenty of time to work on my… things.”
Holy shit, I almost said novel, and I’m not ready for anyone to know. The only one who did was Ron, and look how that turned out. It’s better that I keep that to myself, at least until I know if I have the skills to finish it. It might turn out to be a half completed, steaming pile of shit.
“Your things?”
“Yes. I have things. Now I have to worry about the tow and the car repair, so I might have to find work sooner rather than later.”
He nods, humming to himself and tapping his chin with his free hand.
“So… what’s new with you?” I hedge, taking a quick sip of water and getting the conversation away from me. “You know, aside from the Cramington thing.”
