Page 21 of Foster

I paused to consider that offer, unsure if it’s the exact right approach. I don’t think you have to be scarce. Just let me be around her as much as possible.

Understood, he texted back. We’ll figure out some fun things to do.

I sent a thumbs-up emoji and didn’t hear from him again until he texted me that they’d landed, along with their ETA.

I sit in the living room, perched on the sofa, waiting for the garage door to roll up, which will indicate their arrival. I shopped earlier today, stocking the house with a list of Bowie Jane’s favorites that Foster provided me. And I made chocolate chip cookies because those always make every situation better.

I glance around at the house I’ve only been living in for a day. Moving in took no time at all. I packed a single suitcase along with my toiletries to get me going but figure I can bring more stuff over from my parents’ house as needed. I’ll most likely be going there on any evenings off I have, although Foster was clear to me that this should be considered my permanent home seven days a week.

I like this house. It’s not overly ostentatious, even though I had prejudged it to be when I knew I’d be interviewing with a professional athlete. I mean… don’t get me wrong. It’s really nice and I love the white clapboard siding and gentle slopes to the roof that give it a cozy quality. The living room is so comfy, I expect Bowie Jane and I will spend a lot of time in here, especially since it flows right from the kitchen area where I can see her doing homework while I cook dinner.

As I wait on the plush, cream chenille couch, I marvel at how un-bachelor-like Foster’s house is. The living area alone screams of a female touch, done in a soothing blend of grays and soft whites, large pillows, and a casual throw rug that contrasts the glossy hardwood floors. He chose a gray ottoman that actually acts as a serving table with a beautiful tray on it with decorative but expensive fake flowers. There are two sets of built-in shelves on either side of the TV, and they’re overflowing with books, plants and knickknacks.

It’s the plants that surprise me most of all because they’re all healthy and thriving and I wonder if Foster has the green thumb or maybe he has a weekly cleaner handle it. I’ll have to ask him as we didn’t get into other service vendors that might have access to the house while I’m here.

The motion sensor for the garage chimes and then I hear the distinct rattle of it opening. I imagine Foster pulling his big white truck in, another thing that surprised me—no fancy sports car, which is me unfairly stereotyping all rich athletes. In fact, I’m doubly shocked because his truck isn’t a newer model. I have no clue how old it is, but it’s definitely been around a handful of years. I’m guessing he prefers utility over show.

It’s going to be a tight fit in the garage… his truck and my Audi, but one of the last things Foster did before he left for the airport yesterday was give me the remote control for the far left garage and told me to park there rather than in the driveway or on the street.

“For safety,” he added.

I move into the kitchen, which is so bright and airy given the expanse of windows that look out over the backyard. The white cabinetry has glass fronts where neatly stacked plates and bowls are displayed along with pretty glasses. The substantial kitchen island is done in a royal blue and the counters are white-speckled granite. There are four high-back barstools with woven rattan seats that lend a bit of rustic charm to the otherwise clean lines. The pendant lights are vintage with Edison bulbs which hang from a coffered ceiling, but best of all is the six-burner Viking stove that has me itching to cook all the things. I love experimenting with food, creating recipes out of my own head. I firmly believe if I weren’t so passionate about childcare, I would’ve gone to culinary school to become a chef.

I hear footsteps coming up the short flight of stairs that lead from the garage into the kitchen and then the door swings open. Bowie Jane walks in first, a little red backpack with white unicorns on it slung over her shoulder. Her dad trails behind, carrying only one suitcase, and closes the door with a kick of his foot.

Setting down the case, he moves to Bowie Jane and puts a hand on her shoulder. I smile at the little girl who is a miniature Foster McInnis with long brown hair and large hazel eyes. She ducks her head slightly, as if overcome with a case of shyness.

“This is Mazzy,” Foster says, making the initial introduction.

I move closer to her, bend at the waist, and after only a brief glance at Foster, I hold my hand out. “Hi, Bowie Jane. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She tentatively takes my hand, a small smile playing at her lips. As we shake, I lightly tease her. “Now… handshakes are great ways to meet new people but I’m hoping you and I become fast friends. That means we might progress to some fist or hip bumps, possibly a hug or two, and if we’re feeling really sassy, the always-popular jumping chest bump, which could potentially knock both of us on our booties.”

Bowie Jane giggles and I waggle my eyebrows at her. I nod at her dad and add, “But that’s just for us girls. Your dad’s so big, if he tried a hip or chest bump, he’d knock us into the next neighborhood.”

The little girl’s giggle turns into a bubbling laugh and I pull my hand from hers. “Are you hungry?”

She nods and lets the backpack slide from her shoulder where it lands on the floor. I don’t look at it but casually say, “Perfect. I made a breakfast casserole and I’ll start dishing that up. But first… why don’t you pick up your backpack and at least place it on the stool and then go wash your hands.”

“Okay,” Bowie Jane says as she heads to the half bath down the short hall. I’m relieved that the very first boundary I put in place—not throwing stuff on the floor—was easily accepted and didn’t make her wary of me. I’m nice like Mary Poppins but I can be a stickler for neatness.

“Well done,” Foster says as he nods to the backpack she placed on the stool. He holds his fist out and I laugh as I bump it.

I move to the foil-covered glass pan on the stove, having already pulled three plates from the cabinet. “I’m kind of a neat freak so I’m not going to let stuff like that slide.”

“And I’m glad of it,” Foster says as he moves to the single-brew fancy coffee machine. “Want a cup?”

“Sure,” I reply as I dish up the concoction of shredded potatoes, eggs, ground sausage and cheese. I was relieved to hear that Bowie Jane isn’t a picky eater, so I have latitude in what to cook.

Foster puts a cup in the machine, presses a few buttons and it starts grinding beans. He leans a hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “Although admittedly, you might have to yell at me a time or two for leaving things where they shouldn’t be.”

“As long as you don’t fire me over it, I’ll get you turned around in no time. And… I don’t yell, although I’ve been told I’ve got a very firm, no-nonsense stare.”

Foster laughs and it’s rich, punctuating the deep timbre of his voice. “I cannot see you looking no-nonsense at all. You look like you’re always on the verge of some unexplained joy or about ready to have the time of your life. It’s a vibe.”

I blink at him in surprise, putting a last heaping serving of the casserole on a plate, which will be Foster’s because he’s bigger and needs more food. “I’ve never heard anyone describe me that way.”

“People aren’t paying attention then,” he says breezily as he pulls out a brewed cup of coffee and slides it across the counter toward me. He grabs another cup and starts the process all over again. I’ll need him to teach me how to use that machine. “How do you take your coffee?”

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