Page 56 of Foster

I got my crack at him too. Foster told me all about his parents and his sister, growing up in Vancouver. He told me how he left home at age fifteen to join the major juniors and eventually how he got drafted into the league at eighteen. I was amazed at how grounded he is given the trajectory of his career.

We talked about his marriage and divorce. I’m still curious about why his marriage deteriorated but we didn’t get into those details. Instead, we focused mostly on his daughter.

Foster was circumspect as he explained how it affected him. “I stayed far longer than I should have because of Bowie Jane. I just didn’t want to be away from her. It’s something I’ve struggled with for the past year and a half and I even considered leaving the league so I could move back to San Francisco and have more time with her.”

That really surprised me. It also endeared him to me because his daughter is more important to him than his career. I’m a firm believer that you can balance both in the right circumstances, but sometimes you have to choose.

We spent a lot of time talking about Sandra’s current behavior and it’s clear Foster has serious doubts over whether he can ever trust her again. When she flaked out and turned from dedicated mother into a head case who abandoned her kid, it woke something within Foster—an intense need to become his daughter’s protector and provider, and within that turmoil, the realization that he can do everything for her and still maintain a career.

He’d said to me, the candlelight between us causing his eyes to glow, “If it weren’t for you, I couldn’t do this for her.”

We learned so much about each other that night that I walked out of the restaurant with even deeper feelings for him. And yes, I did have a buzz from the two glasses of wine, but I knew very much what I was doing. I had my own desires that he inflamed. With just the touch of his lips—no, from the moment he brushed my hair behind my ear—I wanted him.

Admittedly, I’m disappointed we didn’t have sex. I might have been buzzed, but I would have never regretted it. I have enough of a connection with Foster that I felt completely comfortable with my desires. I’ve always been the type of person who goes after an experience because I never want to let moments slip by. I don’t think anyone would ever categorize me as impetuous, but I’m always ready to embark on new undertakings, usually after balancing caution with my eagerness to explore the unknown. I always evaluate risks, but I don’t shy away from them, and I embrace every opportunity I can for growth and new experiences.

But Foster was calling the shots that night, ruled by his own internal moral code. Frankly, I found it not only adorable but endearing that he was thinking with his heart and not his dick.

The way he made me feel, I can barely think about that night without an aching need between my legs. The confidence in which he tied my wrists together to put me under his control and the unending trust I had in him to do that. The things he did with his mouth and his fingers and his dirty words, I’ve never come so fast or hard in my entire life.

When he pulled me into his arms, the last thing I remember was that his belt buckle was digging into my belly but it felt so good being held, I didn’t care. I kept telling myself I would get up in just a minute to go upstairs to my room and put on pajamas but instead I fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next thing I knew, it was morning, I was in Foster’s bed still wearing the dress I’d worn to dinner, and he was gone. The bedside clock revealed that Bowie Jane would be home within half an hour and then I noticed the smell of bacon. I rolled out of bed, used his restroom, washed my hands and then flew into the kitchen, feeling guilty for sleeping in.

Foster was there with damp hair, indicating I’d slept right through him showering in the master bath. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and cooking breakfast. He glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled.

My eyes cut down to the pan. “That’s my job.”

“Not this morning. You were too cute to wake up with your soft snores.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You totally snore. Come here,” he commanded.

And I did. I crossed the cool kitchen tile in my bare feet and my messed-up hair, and I let Foster put a hand behind my neck so he could pull me into his body.

So he could kiss me softly on the mouth. He tasted like coffee and I was instantly embarrassed because I had morning breath. I attempted to pull away but he put his lips to my forehead and pressed another kiss there. “Bowie Jane will be here soon. Go shower and I’ll have breakfast ready by the time she arrives.”

That morning, he didn’t once act as though nothing had happened between us. He didn’t try to sweep our intimacy under the rug. That morning kiss was a testament that he had no regrets.

When Bowie Jane came home, we shared discreet looks, knowing smiles, and there was promise in his eyes. When we sat down at the breakfast nook to eat, Bowie Jane peppered us with questions about how our date went. She wanted to know details about the meal and what clothing we wore and what we talked about. She chastised her dad for not bringing me flowers and he promised he would correct that on the next date. Bowie Jane beamed a smile at me as if to say, I got your back, girl.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked me.

“The best,” I assured her.

Bowie Jane turned to her dad. “When are you going out on a date again? Because you must get flowers,” she reminded him. “Girls love flowers. And jewelry. But flowers first.”

Foster shot me a look before answering, “Yes, we are going out on a date again and yes, I will get flowers.” This was news to me because it wasn’t something we’d yet discussed.

That seemed to satisfy Bowie Jane and she started chatting about her new friend Amy who’d hosted the sleepover. She took great joy in telling us that they stayed up all night and got tummy aches from eating too much candy, but that it was worth it.

I grinned at Foster, because late nights and lots of candy are forbidden in this house. But he never said a word, more than happy that his daughter made a new friend. It was another way she was establishing herself here.

When we were done eating, I cleaned the kitchen and Foster went to pack. He was on his way to New York for a two-game, three-day trip.

My mind was lost in thought as I loaded the dishwasher, so I didn’t hear him come up behind me. He cornered me at the sink by spinning me into him, glancing over his shoulder to make sure we were alone and then pulled me in for a long, slow kiss.

When we broke apart, he said, “I’ll figure out a time for our second date. Assuming you want to.”

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