Page 38 of Foster

He smiles at me. “Really.” And then I feel it… not the pain of the cut but his thumb gently stroking over the back of my hand, and nothing seems to hurt anymore. “Although I think your guitar playing days are going to be on hold for a bit. Come on… first aid kit is in my bathroom.”

I let Foster lead me out of the kitchen and down the short hall to the master bedroom. I’ve only been in here one time when he gave me the original tour of the house. Since then, I’ve avoided it so I don’t intrude on his sacred space, although I have offered on more than one occasion to do his laundry if he will just leave the hamper out. He never does.

When we walk into his bedroom, I do a quick survey of the heavy dark furniture that is surprisingly traditional and the mint-green duvet cover with taupe and cream stripes running through it. The walls are also taupe and adorned with black-and-white photographs of, weirdly enough, birds.

“Do you have a thing for birds?”

Foster chuckles as we head into the bathroom. “No. They kind of freak me out actually. But Bowie Jane picked those out. I let her decorate my room this summer.”

“She did a good job.”

“She’s got a good eye,” he agrees. “Except for the birds.”

In the bathroom, Foster leads me to the large garden tub and says, “Sit.”

I lower onto the tile ledge, clutching the paper towel he’d wrapped around the end of my index finger.

I watch as he rummages through a small pantry to the left of the vanity and my cut is again forgotten as I take in the honed muscles of his back and his low-slung jeans. I did not fail to notice when he stood up from the kitchen table the sharp V of muscles at the lower part of his abdomen. The guy is ripped but I guess I should expect nothing different from a professional athlete. I’ve never dated anyone so perfectly formed before nor have I ever thought that such a perfectly formed body would be attractive. But just… damn.

When Foster turns back, he has antibacterial spray and a Band-Aid. He squats in front of me and gently removes the paper towel, setting it on the ledge beside me. A tiny bit of blood oozes from the cut and I quickly look away. I feel the coolness of the antibiotic spray and then he’s wrapping the tip of my finger in a stretchy Band-Aid. The tight support feels good on the cut.

“There you go… all patched up,” Foster says as he wraps his hands around my wrists. He rises, pulling me up with him until we are standing face-to-face, barely a few inches separating us. He’s so much taller than me, my head coming to his shoulder, and I have to tip my head back to look him in the eye.

He stares down at me intently. His hands don’t release their hold but rather squeeze a little tighter.

“Thank you for fixing me up.” Why is my voice so breathy?

Foster doesn’t smile, his entire bearing far too serious and intent. “My pleasure.” And why is his voice so husky?

It’s so awkward standing here like this, so very close that I can feel his body heat, with our eyes locked in a standstill, and yet, it’s also exhilarating. I can’t deny my attraction to this man and if I’m reading the vibes right, he’s feeling the same way.

Disappointment slams into me when he releases one of my wrists, only to have my pulse jackhammer when he raises that hand to tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear.

Such a tender, intimate gesture.

Maybe it’s just a friendly move—Leo does that to me all the time, especially when we’re talking about serious stuff or I’m feeling emotional.

I’m just about to accept that everything about these last few minutes with Foster is nothing but the actions of a concerned employer, also noting that I again feel slightly defeated because I swear I felt something magical between us.

Then his head dips, his face coming closer to mine and his eyes drop to my mouth.

I let out a quavering sigh of relief that he’s actually going to kiss me which is… wrong.

Oh my God. So very wrong.

I scramble back, duck around him and then whirl to face the man who seems to have a magical pull that makes me lose my ever-loving mind.

Foster slowly turns to face me, his expression inscrutable.

“We can’t do that,” I stammer.

“Do what?” His tone is lazy, slightly amused.

“Kiss,” I snap. “You were getting ready to kiss me.”

“And you were ready to let me kiss you,” he points out.

“But I came to my senses and stopped it,” I retort. “Because this is wrong.”

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