“Aha! So you admit it—it is ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
She pushes the door open and heads inside, leaving me to trail behind her. Mike doesn’t care and pads his way through the house like he’s been there a thousand times.
“Quit your bitching and get in here to clean me up. I have things to do today.”
“That’s an odd way to say, ‘Thanks for coming to take care of me, Foster. I really appreciate it.’”
“I only need help because of you and your dog.”
I click her door shut behind me and look around the famous blue house.
The walls are painted a soft gray, and the big bay windows facing the street are uncovered, allowing the natural sunlight to filter through. There’s a massive gray couch sitting against one of the walls, a TV opposite it. The tables and cabinetry are all whitewashed wood, the furniture a mishmash of things I’m certain she’s collected at local thrift shops. There are pops of color throughout the room, mainly oranges and yellows, in the form of vases and bowls. She’s arranged her books carefully, all the spines perfectly blending with the flow of the room.
Nothing matches, yet it does. It’s bright and cheery and perfectly Wren.
“So this is the famous blue house, huh.”
“This is it. I had to do some painting and remove some horrendous carpeting from the floors, but other than that, it’s all original.” She waves her hands around as she talks. “Mr. Carlton is a pretty cool landlord and doesn’t mind me doing whatever I want, probably because I’m doing a rent-to-own thing, but still. It feels good to make it mine.”
“You’ve done good. It looks nice. Very…you.”
“Which is your way of saying what?”
I lift a shoulder. “Nothing bad. I always liked your style.”
She eyes me, pursing her lips and considering my words before nodding and accepting them. “Follow me.”
Wren leads us down a narrow hallway, and my eyes instantly fall to the photos hanging along the walls.
It takes no time at all for me to know it’s Winston’s work.
“Damn.” I whistle quietly, scanning over the images. “Our boy has improved over the years, but this one is still my favorite.”
She stares at the photo I’m studying. It’s one of Molly Daniels, taken about three months before she passed. She has no idea the camera is focused on her.
Her gaze is trained on the ocean as she holds her hat to her head, trying not to let the wind take it away. Her seafoam green dress is wrapped around her body, the ends of it flowing to the side in the breeze.
She’s in the middle of yelling at Simon to not go too far out with Wren, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile on her lips as she watches them together.
I only know all these tiny details because I was there.
The Daniels family was made for the beach. We all lived on the other side of town, wishing and hoping we could one day have the ocean in our backyards. We trekked down to the shoreline nearly every weekend, not able to ignore its siren call. Molly would pack a hodgepodge dinner and we’d all load up in their station wagon—because they were still old school enough to have one—and make the twenty-minute drive, all bouncing in our seats the whole way over.
It didn’t matter if the water was too cold or the sand too crowded or that we were all way too old to be smooshed into the back of the wagon; we were there every weekend without fail.
This particular picture was taken on a Sunday in October, just days before Halloween. We were all together to celebrate the twins’ birthday.
It was chilly out, way too cold to be in the water, but Wren didn’t care; she wanted her birthday to be celebrated on the beach. Winston and I—the total pussies that we were—ate ham and cheese sandwiches on the blanket with Molly while Simon and Wren—the two who could never resist the allure of the water—braved the cold.
I remember sitting on the beach watching Wren splash in the waves, her and Simon flinging salty water at one another, each of them turning bluer by the second. With her being so far away, I could watch her unabashedly—which was one of my favorite things about being on the beach. Every time she’d throw her head back in laughter, the sound would carry up the shoreline, and that ever-present pinch in my chest would get just a little tighter.
I was mesmerized by her.
I was enraptured.
I was in love.
And she had no fucking clue.
“One day, Foster. She’ll see you one day.”
My mouth goes dry and I flit my eyes to Molly, who’s not paying any attention to me—or so I think—her gaze still trained on Wren and Simon.
I lick my lips. “W-What do you mean?”
She laughs, and the lines around her lips are the exact same ones Wren has. If Wren didn’t color her hair all those off-the-wall colors, she and Molly could pass as sisters.
“You know exactly what I mean. When she sees it, she won’t be able to look away. Just give her time.”
And that was that. She knew how I felt about Wren and never said another word about it. I kind of always took it as her way of saying she approved.
“She was stunning,” I murmur. “God, I miss that woman.”
“Tell me about it.”
I glance at Wren, watching her look at the picture of her mother. When she feels my eyes on her, she shifts hers my way, and I see the sadness sitting in her blue pools. I want to reach out to her, wrap her in my arms, and hold her, take all her pain away and bear it as my own.
My eyes drop to her lips when they part, her tongue darting out to wet them, and my gaze follows the movement with rapt attention.
There I go getting enthralled again.
Her baby blues flit to my lips too, lingering for just a moment too long.
I could kiss her right now, and I think she’d let me.
Wren clears her throat and I pull myself from the haze, not noticing I’ve leaned toward her until this moment.
Turtlenecks. Need some sex.
Well, that went well…
I take a step back. “You wanna get this cleaned up or what? You’re running out of sudsy time.”
She makes a face. “Let’s not have you referencing me being in the shower, Foster. You’re like my brother. That’s weird.”
There it is again, the reminder that we grew up together and I shouldn’t have feelings for her because we’re “just too close” or we’re “like family”.
Well, it’s too late. I have feelings—a lot of feelings.
And I’m tired of pushing them away.
Maybe the reason all these dates—hell, my marriage even—didn’t work out is because I was never with the right person.
Maybe…just fucking maybe…that right person is Wren.
If only I could convince her I’m more than just her brother’s best friend.
Slice Seven
Wren
Having Foster in my house is weird in a way I wasn’t expecting.
I mean, having any man in my house is a strange experience, because let’s be honest, it’s been a long, long time since I brought a man back here.
But there’s something about Foster specifically. Having him in my space feels almost…normal, and that surprises the hell out of me.
When he was staring at my mom’s photo in the hallway, I couldn’t help but want to reach out and hug him. Winston and I aren’t the only ones who lost her; she was practically his mom too.
When our eyes locked together, I could see the sadness settled in his like it was totally at home there, and it broke me just a little more.
My eyes dropped to his lips and, for a split second, I wondered what they’d taste like.
Which is completely insane because it’s Foster.
What is going on with me?
I shake my head and lead us into the bathroom.
Flipping on the light, I reach for the first aid kit I keep beneath my counter. I fought Drew on purchasing it because there was no w
ay I was spending ten dollars on some Band-Aids and scissors when I already had both, but boy am I glad to have it now.
“Here,” I say, handing Foster the box. “I have no clue what is even in here.”
“I can see that. You haven’t even opened it yet.”
“Nope, sure haven’t.” I hop up onto the counter, watching as he rips the packaging off the box, handing it to me to toss in the trash can on the other side of the toilet. “Good thing you’re here to teach me what everything is.”
“It’s not hard to figure out. It’s all labeled.”
“I don’t read.”
“Bull. You’re always reading.”
“I listen. I don’t read. Totally different things.”
He just lifts a brow at me, not buying it as he tears open what I assume is another alcohol wipe.
“Scoot over here some. The lighting in here is horrible.”
“Oh my god, isn’t it?” I wiggle my way closer. “Imagine trying to do your makeup in it.”
“I would never be able to get my contouring just right,” he teases, taking a step toward me. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Foster steps between my legs, my thighs spreading with ease to fit him, and my back goes ramrod straight at the intrusion.
Not because it’s unwelcome, but because it feels so…right.
He fits between my legs like he was made to be there.
He gingerly takes my arm in his hand, turning it toward the light.
The mix of sunshine and pine and just a hint of salt from the beach, a scent that is all Foster, filters into my senses, and I can’t help but lean into it, wanting more.
“This is going to sting…” he murmurs just before running the towelette over the deep cut.
“Ow!”
I try to pull away. His fingers tighten their grip, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to keep me there.
“Stop being a baby.”
He blows on the cut, trying to cool the sting, and embarrassment floods me when my nipples come to full attention against my thin sports bra.
I see the moment his eyes flit toward the development, and I want to call him out and make some sort of snarky comment, but I can’t.
His eyes…
They’re…hungry.
He’s staring at me like he wants nothing more than to dip his head and pull one of my beaded nipples into his mouth.
The craziest part?
I want it too.
What is wrong with me today?
Maybe I’m just sex-deprived.
Yeah, that must be it. Just sex withdrawals. Nothing else.
Because this is Foster I’m thinking about. My brother’s best friend. My best friend. The guy I’ve known since…well, forever.
I can’t think about his full lips, let alone ponder how soft they’d feel closing over my nipples. Or trailing up my neck. Or against my own lips.
It’s not right…right?
“Wren? You doing okay?”
“Huh?” I snap my eyes to him, surprised to find his bushy brows pinched together as he stares down at me with a frown.
“You okay? You’re breathing pretty hard and I haven’t even really started working on cleaning this thing out. I don’t want you passing out on me or anything.”
“Oh, I-I…” I clear my throat. “Yep, I’m good. Just keep working on it. I still need to wash this sweat off me. I’m certain I stink.”
“Is that what the smell is?”
I smack at him with my free hand. “Stop it. I don’t smell that bad.”
“You sure about that?”
“Ugh.” I groan. “Just fix me up, doc.”
Foster concentrates on cleaning out my wound, making certain all the dried blood, sand, and debris is gone.
I concentrate on breathing, something that’s becoming increasingly hard to do with him so close.
His focus is trained on my arm, mine trained on him, on the way his too-long lashes kiss his cheeks. The way his freckles dart across the bridge of his nose. The way his brows pinch together when he’s concentrating hard, his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth. The way his overly long hair falls across his forehead.
I don’t notice I’ve reached out until my fingers brush against his soft locks…and by then it’s too late to pretend I’m not doing what I’m doing.
His breaths quicken when my fingers push his hair aside. I don’t remove my hand right away, though we both know I’ve long since finished the job I set out to do. Instead, I let my digits roam through his overgrown brown curls.
I almost forgot his hair curled the longer it grew, and how boyishly cute it makes him look. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him and even longer since I’ve seen him with hair this length.
“I forgot your hair curled,” I confess, fingers still aimlessly plunging through the waves. We both know they’ve overstayed their welcome, but I can’t bring myself to pull away.
He doesn’t complain, so I don’t try any harder to move them.
“I think maybe I’ll take you up on that haircut after all,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear him over the erratic beating of my heart. “I’m almost done.”
With reluctance, I drop my hand back to the counter, trying to focus on anything but the fact that I just played with his hair for far too long.
I mean, I’m a hairstylist. It’s totally normal for me to play with people’s hair, right? It wasn’t that weird.
We fall into a silence as Foster works to finish cleaning my wound and I work to regulate my erratically beating heart.
“Sunscreen and honeysuckle.”
“Huh?”
His eyes flit to mine for only a moment, but it’s enough to see the fire dancing within his green gaze. My breath catches at the intensity.
What the heck is happening? First his lips and now this?
His tongue darts out as he wets his lips then focuses back on my arm. “Sunscreen and honeysuckle. You were worried that you smell. You don’t. You smell like—”
“Sunscreen and honeysuckle. I heard you.”
He presses his lips together like he wants to say more but thinks better of it.
I watch as he applies the antibiotic ointment. Then the dressing.
He moves away from me, and I can’t help the cold that settles into my bones at his absence.
“All done. That will be roughly five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand? For some Band-Aids and gauze?”
“Don’t forget the ointment. And”—he waggles his fingers—“my magic touch. That part is priceless.”
I hop off the counter, forcing him to take a step back, something that’s hard to do in this already small bathroom. “I’m not paying a penny. Your dog caused this.”
“Are you going to hold this against him forever?”
“If I scar, yes.”
He points to the hallway where Mike is lying down, sleeping soundly. “But look how cute he is.”
As if on cue, Mike wakes, lifting his head, his tongue flopping out the side of his mouth.
“Cute, schmute.” I feel the grin tug at my lips though, blowing my annoyed façade.
Glancing back to Foster, I realize for the first time just how close we’re standing. His chest is practically brushing mine with every harsh breath he takes.
Or is that every harsh breath I take?
I can’t tell at this point.
“Cute, huh?”
Yes, you are.
The thought is automatic, giving me whiplash because…what in the world is happening here?
I stare at him, trying to figure out what’s going through his mind and my mind. It’s barely past sunrise and I’m now up to three awkward and sexually charged moments.
Three.
With Foster.
How is this possible?
“Do you really have to think that hard about it?”
His words bring me back to the present.
Right. The dog. We’r
e talking about Mike, not him.
I shrug, trying to play it off like that’s exactly what I was doing. “I mean, he’s okay.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t have anything else to say.
Instead, we stand here awkwardly, which is something we’ve never done before. It’s always been easy with us, effortless, but today it feels like we’re tiptoeing around one another.
Foster brings his hand to the back of his neck—something he’s always done when he’s in an unfamiliar situation—and clears his throat. “Right. I’m, uh… I’ll let ya shower now.” He points toward the living area. “I’ll just go make myself at home on your couch out there, test it out, see if it’s as comfy as it looked.”
“It is,” I assure him as he makes his way out of the room. “I’ll be out in a jiffy!”
“Great, now I want peanut butter. I’m raiding your cabinets.”
I roll my eyes and shove him out the door, locking it behind him, not because I don’t trust Foster, but because my worst fear in life is dying naked and what if someone breaks into my house and tries to murder me while I’m showering? I’ve seen horror movies—the naked chick in the shower always dies.
I strip bare, cinch my shower cap down, and dive into the shower before the water’s even warmed up, desperate to wash all the sand off. Thank gosh I wore a hat so I can get away with not washing my hair, especially since I don’t have time to now. I love the water, but I hate the sand. It makes me feel so gross and itchy.
As the water tumbles over me, I let my mind wander, relaxing for just a moment because I know today’s going to be a dreadfully long day with three hair appointments this morning and yet another shift at Slice this evening.
Crap. Make that four hair appointments today—I still have to cut Foster’s hair.
Speaking of Foster…
Have his arms always been so big? My lungs were working overtime to stay ahead of him on the beach. If I hadn’t, I knew I’d have spent the entire time watching the way his sweat-stained shirt clung to his body. Then I would have tripped again, and we’d have never made it back here.
He hasn’t always been this in shape, right? I would have noticed.
Though I’m beginning to realize there’s a lot about Foster I’ve never noticed before.
A Pizza My Heart Page 9