“Nope. What the fuck kind of question is that? You’re my best friend. She’s my sister.” He spins his finger around in a circle. “Big fucking whoop. I’m not here for the dramatics of that bullshit bro-code shit. Can’t help who your heart digs.”
He says that last part quietly, like he has some experience in that area.
“Besides”—he gives me a sinister grin—“I think we both know I’ll kick your ass if you hurt her. She’s a twerp and annoying as shit half the time, but she’s my twerp. Feel me?”
I laugh, because I do feel him. My protectiveness of Wren might come from the complete opposite realm Winston’s does, but it’s protectiveness nonetheless.
I’d break the legs off anyone who dared to hurt her.
“Roger that, man.” I hold my fist out to him. “We cool?”
“Get the fuck out of here with that shit.” He shoves my hand away then stands, tossing the pen he was playing with on the desk and brushing past me. “Like we’d be anything else.”
“Sup, dillweed,” Wren says, gliding into the room and taking the seat her brother just vacated. “You guys having a powwow without me?”
“More like about you.” He stops in the doorway and shoots me a look. “I’m surrounded by morons.”
“What was that about?” Wren asks once we’re alone. “Why were you two talking about me?”
“I was asking Winston if he was cool with us doing this whole fake dating thing. Ya know, just in case we have a repeat of date one and you can’t keep your hands off me then things…progress.”
“What exactly do you think this is going to lead to?” she asks with a smirk, knowing exactly where I’m going with this. She drops her voice low. “Foster Marlett, do you think you’re going to…what was the phrase again? ‘Beat cheeks’ with me?”
My overeager dick jumps at the idea of Wren and me entangled in her sheets, and I have to will it not to get hard, something I’ve been having to do a lot lately when it comes to Wren.
“First, don’t say that. It doesn’t sound right leaving your lips. Second, after the other night…well, I’d be surprised if you didn’t just throw your panties at me next time I walk into the room.”
“We never said this would end in sex.”
“But we can both hope it does.”
She rolls her eyes and swings her focus to the computer screen in front of her. “We’ll see how I feel when we get to date five.”
“Date five? What’s so special about that?”
“Nothing.” She lifts a shoulder. “It’s just a personal rule of mine—no sex until we go on at least five dates.”
“Why five?”
“I feel it gives me sufficient time to get to know someone, decide if we’re sexually compatible.”
“Is there a timeline for these dates? Like one a week or something?”
“Hm…” She taps her chin. “I’ve never given that part much thought. So, no, probably not.”
“So you’re saying tomorrow I can take you to five different meals and they’d each count as a date and then we can just get down to the inevitable?”
“Foster…” she warns.
“What?” I say innocently. “It’s a valid question, especially when you know you want me so badly.”
“I do not.”
“My memories of you in my truck say otherwise.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, her cheeks reddening more and more by the second because she knows I’m right.
She wants me. She wants me bad.
I lean in, ghosting my lips over her ear. She shudders at the contact and her breath hitches in her throat.
God, I want to kiss her so fucking much.
“Your moans have been haunting me since I dropped you off.”
“Foster!” she whispers harshly, voice raspy. She pushes me away, her eyes ablaze with desire. “We’re at work!”
“So?”
“So stop making me all…” Her voice shakes. “All…”
“Horny?”
“Yes!”
Her cheeks darken two shades at her admission.
I give her a wolfish grin.
“Ugh.” She tries to look disgusted, but she’s so far from that it’s not even funny. She clears her throat. “Anyway, five dates is the rule.”
“The rule or your rule?”
“Mine. I mean, every girl is different. There isn’t a hard-and-fast rule, it’s just the scale I use for dating.”
“First”—I hold a finger up—“you said hard and fast.”
She groans. “How old are you?”
“Sixty-nine, obviously.” I grin. “Second, what number date are we on again? Surely we’re getting close to five.”
“Slow your roll, horndog. Date two will be tonight.”
“It will be?”
“Yep. We’re both off and don’t have to come in until after noon tomorrow. And since you suck so bad at choosing date venues, I’m taking charge and deciding where date two will take place.”
“To be fair, you technically picked the location for date one.”
“Oh, come on. It had to be at Slice. It just made sense.” She pushes away from the desk and stands, grabbing a stack of papers and stacking them together. “Tonight—you, me, date two. Pick me up at nine.”
“Nine? That is way past my bedtime.”
“You’re too young to have a bedtime.”
“I have a failed marriage under my belt, and that shit ages you. I’m practically in my mid-thirties now.”
“Ah, yes. The failed marriage you won’t tell me anything about—I almost forgot about that.” She twists her lips. “You know, you keep being all elusive about this and I’m going to have to assume you’re the one to blame.”
I wince at her accusatory tone. “It’s…complicated, Wren.”
“So you said, but that’s all you’ve said.”
I can tell she’s frustrated I haven’t given her any details. I’m not trying to keep her in the dark; I’m just not sure I want to tell her how badly I suck.
But…we said we wouldn’t pretend, and me acting as if a huge part of my life didn’t happen is pretending.
“Tonight then,” I announce, pushing off the desk. “I’ll tell you more tonight.”
“You will?”
“Yeah. In fact, I’ll tell you everything.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” I challenge. “When have you ever known me to bluff?”
“You do suck at poker… Fine, I believe you. Tonight it is. I’ll see you at nine.”
“Or, you know, around the restaurant for the rest of our shift?”
“I’m headed out early, actually. I have a meeting with Mr. Carlton to try to convince him to sell me the house again.”
Right, her whole rent fight situation.
“You know, if you need any help with that financially, I—”
She barks out a laugh. “Stop it, Foster. You’re sleeping on my brother’s couch. You can’t help me. Besides, I’m doing the strong-independent-woman thing. I can take care of this.”
I nod. “Fair enough, but if you need backup…”
“Call Winston because you can’t fight for shit?”
I laugh. “Exactly.”
I step forward and press a kiss to her cheek, loving the way her breath hitches in response to my proximity.
I drag my lips to her ear, and she stops breathing altogether.
“I have one request for tonight.”
She gulps. “W-What?”
“Wear another skirt.”
* * *
By the grace of God, she listened to me.
Wren’s leaned against a grand oak bar, her long toned legs crossed at the ankles as she flags down a bartender to place an order.
She looks like she stepped out of the ’90s with her dark green skintight velvet mini skirt, long black turtleneck, black pantyhose, and heeled booties. Though none of her body is on display like it was on our last date, she somehow looks more sedu
ctive tonight.
Her lips are lined with a deep red and begging to be kissed. Messy waves fall down her back and I can practically imagine how soft those locks are going to feel between my fingers.
She’s gorgeous.
And all fucking mine.
Well, sort of.
“How’d it go with Mr. Carlton?”
She glances at me, and in the short look I can see the turmoil in her eyes. I know how badly she wants the blue house, how much she loves her business. I hate seeing her hurt over it. Maybe I should let her know about my money? Give her a loan?
I hold back my laugh at the thought. Wren would never go for that. She’s way too independent to ask for any sort of help.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to know…
She flits her attention back to the wall of liquor.
“Let’s just say I’m real glad I picked a place with so many booze options.” She finally gets the bartender’s attention. “I’ll take two shots of Irish whiskey and a whiskey sour. Basically, give me all the whiskey, and then whatever this guy wants,” she tells him, pointing my way and sliding him her card to start a tab.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll just take an IPA.”
He nods and begins making our drinks.
“So, that good?” I say to her.
“That good.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“About as much as you want to talk about your divorce.”
“Fair enough.” I laugh and turn my back to the bar, taking my first real look at the club she’s dragged me to.
When we approached an all-black door with a simple gold sign that said The Lounge, I was apprehensive. She knocked three times and the door swung open to reveal a guy wearing suspenders and a fedora.
“Somethin’ stupid,” she whispered.
He grinned and waved us in, pushing open a door to an empty hallway.
“Okay, what the hell was that?” I asked when we were alone.
“The password.” She shrugged like it was obvious. “It can only be obtained by following their social media pages and deciphering a code.”
“Where exactly are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.”
She shoved open another dark oak door, and the music was the first thing I noticed. It’s that swing, jazz-type stuff…only with modern songs.
“I’m sorry, is that Drowning Pool’s Bodies they’re playing?”
Laughing, she led me to the bar and promptly fist-bumped the bartender.
I scan the crowd. Based on the number of people in this place, their password marketing ploy is working for them.
Much like the music, the décor is the perfect blend of vintage and modern: dark wooden walls with booths covered in a deep red and long, exposed bulbs hanging from the ceilings with minimal art on the walls.
I can see why Wren loves it.
“How’d you find this place?”
The bartender slides Wren’s drinks her way then pops the top on my beer.
She thanks him then turns my way. “I didn’t. Drew did. I swear, that woman knows all the latest everything. Her hair is full of secrets.”
I laugh. “That wouldn’t surprise me. She tried to get some gossip out of me earlier, but I wouldn’t budge.”
“Did she ask if we banged?” Wren knocks back a shot, grimacing as the liquid burns its way down her throat. She shakes her head. “She’s exhausting, but I love her.”
“How’d you two meet?”
“Her car broke down in town. She looked harmless enough—at the time—so I stopped to help her out, ended up giving her a ride. She’s been stalking me ever since.”
“I can’t tell if that’s in the literal sense or figurative.”
“Yes,” she deadpans, and we both fall into laughter.
I take a sip of my beer then decide to get right into it.
“Layla was pregnant.”
Wren freezes. She sets her whiskey sour down then picks up her other shot, downing it.
“I think I’m going to need this.”
I chuckle. “I probably need one too.”
“You know you don’t have to tell me anything, Foster.”
“I know, but I want to. I feel like it’s time.”
“Then shots it is.”
“Shot.” I hold up a finger. “Singular. One of us has to drive back.”
“Fine, spoilsport.” She motions to the bartender for a refill.
Once we have our glasses, we clink them together.
“Liquid courage,” she says, though I’m not sure if it’s for me or for her.
We tip the drinks back in unison.
“So, you knocked up the beach bunny, huh?”
I laugh. “Well, that’s what she told me. That’s why I ran off and got married as quickly as I did. I wanted to do the right thing, to take care of my screwups. So, I insisted we get hitched, and off we went.”
She shakes her head. “I never understood that logic, getting married because of a baby. There’s such a thing as custody, co-parenting. You don’t have to make this huge, legal commitment.”
“I know that now, but in the moment, it felt right—or at least that’s what I told myself.” I take another drink, liquid courage and all that. “Turns out she was lying. She just didn’t want to go back home empty-handed. I guess all her friends brought these boys back from their vacations and she wanted someone too.”
“Her way of making that happen was to fake a pregnancy? She sounds super classy.”
I clench my beer tighter, my knuckles turning white around the bottle. “Classy is the last C word I’d use to describe her. Crazy would be a good start. She was very…manipulative.”
“To you?”
“To everyone. Everything had to be her way, or she’d flip her lid in the most dramatic fashion. She was never wrong, not even when I caught her in our bed with another man. It was still my fault somehow. The whole marriage was a shitshow.”
I chug the rest of my beer.
“How long did she pretend to be pregnant?”
“She claimed she miscarried about a month after we got married. I didn’t find out she wasn’t ever pregnant at all until the night I walked out.”
“That’s the most horrendous thing I have ever heard. I obviously wasn’t around to witness my mother’s turmoil when she was trying to get pregnant, but I know it wasn’t easy on her or my parents’ marriage. I can’t even fathom someone pretending to go through that. It’s disgusting.”
I scoff. “Tell me about it. And to know I spent years of my life with someone like that…it’s a mindfuck, that’s for sure.”
“You didn’t know any better.”
“But I should have. I should have taken the time to get to know her before legally binding my life to hers like I did. I shouldn’t have jumped into it without a second thought.”
“You were trying to be a good man, Foster. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Besides, that’s what all this is about, right? These dates. We’re trying to get you back in the saddle, get you back out there so you can find someone who isn’t completely nuts.” She winks. “Because a little crazy is kind of fun.”
Right. Our dates, the ones that are just supposed to be us pretending. Even after the conversation we had, after the night in my truck…it’s still all pretend for her.
She downs the rest of her whiskey sour. “Okay, enough sappy. Let’s dance.”
“You sure? I haven’t even told you all the juicy parts, like how after I walked out, she continued to use my credit, ruin it, and then let her parents pay me off to get out of town so I didn’t ruin their socialite daughter’s good image.”
Her eyes widen at my confession and she motions for the bartender for the third time tonight.
“Two more, please.”
He obliges and slides two shots our way.
“I have to drive, Wren.”
“No, you have to relax. Take the shot. Dance with me. Let’s let go for the night.”
I look at her, at
the drink, then back at her.
“Let go,” she urges.
I see the look in her eyes. She needs this as badly as I do.
“Fuck it.” I grab the shot and down it before I can think twice. “Guess we’re getting a taxi.”
She claps and lets out a squeal then slams her own shot. She grabs my shirt, pulling me off the bar. “Let’s go forget our troubles together.”
“We’re actually going to dance to this?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask that. You can’t not dance to this song.”
I tilt my head, straining to hear the music as she drags me onto the full dance floor. It’s not until I see the people grinding against one another that I realize what’s playing: “Shake Ya Ass”.
“See!” she yells, laughing and dancing into me.
I wrap my arm around her waist and yank her close, keeping a hand on the small of her back as I swing her around the dance floor.
It’s a mix of modern songs turned swing and actual tunes from the genre. I love the surprise at every turn.
“I Melt With You” comes on and she lets out a sigh, collapsing her tired body against mine. I grin when I feel her lips brush against my chest as she sings the lyrics to one of her favorite songs.
She pushes away from me, a gleeful grin spread across her lips.
“If you could”—she pumps her brows up and down—“melt the world with anyone, who would it be? And you cannot say Emma Stone because that’s my answer.”
“You.”
I don’t think. It just flies right out of my mouth.
It hovers there between the two of us as we stand frozen, her shocked and me pissed as fuck at myself for letting it slip out like a moron.
“I—”
“Pee!” She shoves away from me. “I have to pee.”
She takes off, leaving me standing here staring after her like a lovesick idiot.
Which, to be fair, I totally am.
Did I just completely screw this up? Did I take it too far? Did I—
No. Fuck that.
I’m going after what’s mine.
Slice Fifteen
Wren
You.
I don’t know what to say.
So I run.
I rush through the crowded club, needing to get away, because what the hell is that supposed to mean?
A Pizza My Heart Page 15