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“And here I was thinking you wanted some lengthy photoshoot.”
“That was before you showed up; checking out my ass like it was one of your porn movies, and insinuated you wanted my dick in your mouth.”
“Foster,” I gasp, hugging Mason to my chest, “you can’t say dick in front of a baby. Shame on you.”
He tosses me a look which clearly says he knows I’m full of shit and sits down on the blanket, pulling all sorts of packages out of the basket.
“What’s all this?”
“I thought I’d bring an English style afternoon tea. These used to be some of my mum’s favorites. I’ve got some cucumber and cream cheese finger sandwiches, salmon sandwiches, macarons, and scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream.”
Clotted cream? I hope it’s better than it sounds.
I start to get Mason unstrapped from the carrier, but the wind picks up, wiping my hair around Mason and I, and I pause. He grabs a handful, carrying on a full conversation with himself, and living his best life. I’m nervous. The photographers are glancing around, and the sky is already much darker than it was five minutes ago. It’s not looking like the sunny afternoon it started out as.
“Did you check the weather?” I ask, and his eyes meet mine before he looks around the park with a frown.
“Tag said it was supposed to be clear all afternoon.”
As soon as the last word comes out of his mouth, the first drop of rain hits me.
“I don’t think he was right.”
“Bollocks.”
The rain picks up to a steady drizzle, and only intensifies with every passing second. I curl around Mason, protecting him from most of the downpour, but my shirt is already dampening and clinging to my skin. That damn little tree Foster has set us up under is cute, but isn’t going to do shit to keep us dry.
“Go back to the apartment,” Foster orders as he jumps up, glancing quickly toward the photographers who are scrambling to get to their cars. A shadow crosses his face but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’ll pack up and be right behind you.”
With a nod, I hike the diaper bag over my shoulder and make a run for it.
I’m not very fast, especially cocooned around Mason, but I manage to get to my building before the sky completely opens up.
I’ve barely made it inside the front door before thunder rumbles overhead and lightning dances across the sky.
Damn, that was fast.
For a moment, I contemplate waiting for Foster, but I can’t see a single thing beyond the sheets of rain, and I need to get Mason in some dry clothes before he gets cold. Not that he seems to care at all; his smiles and coos tell me he loves all this excitement.
Dry clothes turn into a quick bottle, and as time ticks by, Mason falls asleep on my shoulder. Poor guy must be tuckered out after all the fresh air and slow running he witnessed. As I stand up to put the baby in his crib, there’s a knock at the door.
I was prepared to see Foster, but I wasn’t prepared for how absolutely drenched he is.
It looks like he went for a swim in all his clothes.
His hair is dripping, water cascading down his neck and his unamused face. His already tight-fitting shirt is like a second skin, clinging to every muscle in his arms and chest.
The poor bouquet of flowers are mostly stems, the petals having blown off somewhere between the park and my front door.
They look as disheveled as he does.
Most guys would’ve ditched the flowers and picnic basket and gone straight home. Lucky for me, Foster is not most guys. Even though he’s soaked and looks a bit grumpy, he’s still the perfect representation of a book hero.
All I can think of is Mr. Darcy—AKA Colin Firth—stripped down into his iconic white shirt after he went for a little swim in his pond. He came back dripping and dashing, and that whole scene made me feel all the things.
Just like Foster.
Only I hope he’s not about to inquire as to the health of my family and the weather.
