Page 27 of Foster

“Mazzy,” King says, as if he’s trying it out on his tongue. “I like that a lot. She looks like she’d be hard to get. A woman like that would be worth the effort.”

“And I’m telling you don’t bother with the effort,” I growl, and all the guys bust out laughing.

“Oh, man… you got it bad for her,” Rafferty says with sympathy.

“So obvious,” North agrees.

“Shut the fuck up, all of you,” I retort. “I don’t have anything for her. She’s a great person who happens to be a great nanny, and yeah… she’s gorgeous, but none of that means I’ve got anything for her.”

“Got it bad,” Rafferty repeats.

I glance at King who’s nodding. “So bad.”

“It’s totally inappropriate,” I mutter, picking up my bottle and taking a long pull.

“Makes it all the hotter,” North suggests with a waggle of his eyebrows.

I rise from the table, taking my beer with me. “I’ll get the next round. I suggest you find something else to talk about. Here’s an idea… why don’t we talk hockey?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rafferty says with a wave of his hand. “We’ll lay off the nanny comments.”

“Good,” I say, pointing my index finger of the hand holding the bottle at him. “Because I’d hate to knock your teeth down your throat.”

Rafferty nudges King’s arm. “That’s cute. The forward talking smack to defensemen.”

“I throw a mean punch,” I warn him, but it’s all in jest.

I walk away from their laughter as I head to the bar to order another round. I’m glad for the slight break from the conversation because every time they pointed out that I have the hots for Mazzy, internally, I wasn’t denying it. I think a little of me is in awe of her and she’s a hard woman not to be attracted to.

But like I said… it’s inappropriate and needs to be permanently banished from my brain.

CHAPTER 11

Foster

Mazzy and Bowie Jane’s voices wash over me as soon as I open the door to my bedroom. Only a short hall separates the master suite from the kitchen and main living area. After rolling out of bed, I slip on a pair of workout shorts and I’m pulling my T-shirt over my head as I traverse the few steps before I come into view. Belatedly, I think about running a hand through my messy hair but realize it’s probably so fucked up nothing would help it.

I can’t believe I slept this late. I’m normally an early riser but when my eyes snapped open and I saw the glare of nine thirty a.m. staring at me from the bedside alarm clock, I made haste with getting up and out into the kitchen. I only had three beers last night and we didn’t even stay out all that late, but man… I must have needed the sleep. I’m guessing I’ve developed some comfort and trust in knowing that Mazzy will be taking care of my daughter but I still feel guilty for sleeping in.

I step into the kitchen. Bowie Jane sits at the island, a colored pencil in her right hand as she draws in a sketchbook, a piece of bacon in her left. She sees me, eyes lighting up with joy, and jumps from the stool to rush me.

“Daddy!” she exclaims as she throws one arm around my shoulders. The pencil was discarded but the other hand holds steadfastly to the bacon. “It’s about time you got up. You promised we’d hang out today.”

Chuckling, I kiss her cheek and she squeals because of my stubble, pushing my face away. “We will hang out,” I promise as I lower her back to the floor. I give a pat to her butt to indicate she needs to get back up at the counter. “As soon as Daddy has some coffee and a shower, and you need to finish your breakfast.”

I glance over at Mazzy wiping down the counter. “Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” she says brightly. “Can I make you an omelet?”

I wave her off as I move to the coffee pot. “No, you don’t have to.”

Before I turn fully away, I see the eye roll I’d been expecting, which I get at least five times a day when she tries to offer me something and I refuse. I have in my mind that Mazzy is only here for Bowie Jane, and Mazzy believes she’s here to help the family unit. We’ve had a few mini-arguments the past ten days.

“The correct answer is,” she drawls, dipping her chin and lasering her eyes onto me, “yes please, I’d like an omelet.’”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Yes please, I’ll take an omelet.”

Her triumphant smile should irk me, but I find it adorable. She opens the fridge, disappears from my view and says, “One sardine-and-pig’s-feet omelet, coming right up.”

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