Page 41 of Still The One

‘Puh-fucking-lease,’ Jeff, technically a member of Matty’s team along with Foster, says.

Foster laughs, flipping him off. ‘Never listen to Jeff the Heff. He’s all sorts of jealous,’ he says with a smirk.

The dynamic between these two can best be described as a blend of competitiveness and friendship, or ‘frenemies’, if you will. My gaze shifts toward the track, where Tommy is stationed at the starting line, eagerly anticipating the signal to go.

‘He’s most likely doing his standard crowd- and judge-favorite stunts; the Superman or an upside-down Nac-Nac. Although these tricks are difficult to execute, he’s only been riding about five years so that’s usually why he doesn’t earn high scores.’

‘Supermans, Nac-Nacs, I don’t care how easy or hard they are. Forme, a girl who knows nothing about this sport, and thinks the solid ground is safer, every trick is terrifying.’

Foster gently takes hold of my arms, turning me to face him. His touch sends a shiver down my spine. As I meet his gaze, his voice drops to a low and intimate tone. ‘Do you trust me?’ he asks, his eyes searching mine for an answer.

I find it strange that my heart races every time I even think about this guy I have known for only a few weeks. As I gaze into his eyes, I feel like I’m tumbling through a kaleidoscope of emotions, each one more vibrant and alluring than the last. And despite my rational mind telling me that this is too soon, Idotrust him.

‘Yes, but?—’

‘No “buts”,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’ll be OK. You’ll be incredibly impressed. And tonight, instead of partying with the guys, you and I will celebrate my win – romantically. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ I say without skipping a beat.

He doesn’t have to beg me to hang out with him because it’s literally all I want to do. I feel like a teenager in love as he kisses me softly. My skin is electric as his fingertips slide down the back of my arms and I like it – a lot.

‘Coming up, Famous 15, Guy Foster.’ An announcer’s voice rumbles through the track, detailing some of Foster’s achievements. I read about these things when I googled him after we met. He’s never bragged about them, but I’m seriously impressed. He’s placed in the X Games – many times.

‘Go. Win,’ I say, pushing him from me with one hand on his chest.

He steps back, smiling excitedly. ‘I’ll be alright, I promise. I’m always alright,’ he says, grabbing a helmet and sliding it over his handlebars, then speeding off to the track, doing a quick run around the outside to flirt with his fans.

His riding gear is black, white and green and covered in sponsor logos. His bike is a bright grass green color. The duplicate riding shirt I got when we met is on and tied at my waist. My eyes are on him and despite the danger of this sport, he is incredibly sexy while he does it.

‘He’llprobablybe fine,’ Matty says, stepping beside me.

‘Reassuring,’ I say, not exactly amused. ‘And if he’s not?’

‘He’s pretty damn tough. I’ve never seen him not walk away from a fall. But if this is the moment he doesn’t, I could set you up with Jeff. He’s single and hot for pretty much anything that walks. He wouldn’t even think twice.’

I glare over at him. ‘I amnotinterested in Jeff the Heff.’

Matty laughs. ‘You say his name like poison! Just like Foster does. He’s really gotten to you. Are you in love with our boy?’

‘It’s been three weeks,’ I remind him. Not long enough to fall in love.

‘Instalove is a real thing,’ he says with confidence. ‘Just ask my wife…’

There is no way that’s a thing. I don’t think… Then again, with the way my heart is racing in my chest as I see Foster stop at the start position, this can’t be normal. This is the racing heart of someoneonthe bike, and I’m standing on solid ground. Crap-ola. Am I in love with Foster after three weeks?

17

GUY ‘FOSTER’

I groan as I open my eyes, my stomach growling and my body aching. After a few confusing moments, I realize I’m still injured, at Eve’s instead of at the hospital, and I’m sleeping in her bed. And this is not night number one. The lingering effects of morphine make my head throb, but my mind is starting to work again after a couple of days (weeks, really) of endless sleep.

As I sit up, I take notice of Eve’s room – something I didn’t bother to do yet besides noticing the flowers yesterday. The curtains are a sheer navy lace, fluttering in the gentle breeze through the open window – that I don’t remember opening. Each wall is adorned with a mismatched array of paintings and photographs, while string lights create a dreamy ambiance. A pile of vintage clothes sits in one corner, waiting to be sorted through. Soft, romantic touches intermingled with bold, free-spirited elements and I’d bet money just about everything is vintage, thrifted, or antique. She could never drive by a second-hand store because ‘what if something that spoke to her soul was there and she missed it’? I can see now that each item has a home in her space, and it all works together and somehow equals her.

I push aside the patchwork quilt covering me. My feet sink into the softness of the shag rug beneath me as I make my way toward the bathroom, using the walls for support.

‘Morning!’ her sweet voice greets me before I see her.

All I can do is grumble something incoherent as I enter her bathroom, which is just as eclectic as her bedroom. The sink is an old-fashioned pedestal style, adorned with baskets of make-up, hair products, and antique bottles filled with various bath salts and oils. The shower curtain is a bold paisley print, adding contrast to the otherwise soft and romantic space.

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