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I would never dream of such a thing, though I’d been close to shoplifting plenty of times just to eat. I didn’t necessarily fault the others who did or panhandled for money because desperation could make you do unthinkable stuff. But those methods weren’t sustainable. I had come up with my own ways to survive, and so far, they were working for me. Even if it involved relying on the generosity of strangers in dire circumstances.
I turned the faucet handle on the shower, then stripped out of my clothes, shivering as the cool air hit my skin. The steam from the shower was tantalizing, and once I stepped under the spray, the hot water felt like heaven dousing my hair and rolling off my shoulders.
I stood there like that for far too long, until I remembered it would be a good idea to wash my hair and skin. It felt strange reaching for his bodywash, but as soon as I began rubbing it onto my chest and arms, the smell overtook my senses. Like fresh linens and old books mixed together. I smiled to myself because that fit Foster perfectly.
But then my stomach turned as I remembered the ruined book. As soon as I was done with my shower, I’d pull it from my cart and see about drying it out.
Trying to step it up, I washed my hair with his vanilla shampoo before finally turning the knob, reaching for a towel, and stepping out. I hoped I didn’t use up all the hot water.
I tied the towel around my waist, realizing I didn’t have any clothes to change into, and just as I was about to call for him, there was a knock. “I’ll leave these sweats outside the door for you. And they’re yours to keep if you want them.”
“Thanks.” I opened the door and gathered them in my arms. Slipping them on felt like pure luxury, even though I had to tighten the drawstring to fit my waist. Even the T-shirt felt soft and warm. And the hoodie? It smelled like that bodywash I’d just used, which meant it smelled like Foster. I made a frustrated sound. No way I should get too comfortable wearing clothing that didn’t truly belong to me.
I walked out with my pile of dirty clothes, unsure what to do next.
“Oh, over here,” he said, motioning me the rest of the way down the hall to the washer and dryer stacked inside a closet. He was also in sweats and a T-shirt that hugged his lean form. “Okay if I pop them in the washer with the other wet things?”
“That would be great.”
“Cool.” He opened the washer to shove my clothes inside, his cheeks striped pink, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was second-guessing himself.
10
FOSTER
I tried not to stare at the man who normally wore multiple layers of clothing. He was thinner than me, but that might not have always been the case. His dark hair was nearly to his shoulders, his beard a bit scraggly, but no doubt, Lachlan was a striking man. And I wanted to know his story more than ever, but he was a private person, and my curiosity might scare him off. It was a miracle I got him to agree to stay the night.
He followed me to the living room, seeming uncertain of himself again.
“The storm is still raging,” I pointed out, and he padded to the window to get a bird’s-eye view of the city. Was he worried about his friends?
“I can’t believe how fast it’s coming down.”
“You might’ve been floating along a river by now if Oscar hadn’t checked on you.”
Hearing his name, Oscar rose from his pillow in the corner of the room and went over to sniff at Lachlan.
He gently stroked his fur with fingers that looked like they’d been broken and never been set. “You really think that’s what he was doing?”
I lifted a shoulder. “What else would explain it? He’s never acted that way before.”
“Suppose I should thank you, then.” Lachlan crouched down to his level, and Oscar gave him a lick on the cheek for his effort. “You, uh…said you didn’t notice it was raining?”
“No, I was napping.” I looked away, thinking of some way to explain that didn’t sound superfluous. “Sometimes after work I—”
He held up a hand. “No need to explain.”
“Yeah, okay.” I breathed out in relief. Maybe that was how he felt about some of my probing questions. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Want something to eat?”
“No, you don’t have to—”
I motioned to the kitchen. “But I want to. I’m not much of a cook, but I can make a mean turkey sandwich.”
He frowned, likely because he didn’t have that luxury—or maybe I was reading too much into it. He stood and glanced out the window again. “The truth is, I’m used to only eating once a day, so my stomach probably wouldn’t like it.”
