Out of Love

by RC Boldt

  “Arms up,” I repeat, doing my best to maintain eye contact, willing my eyes to stay above her neck.

  She raises her arms, gaze still questioning, and I slide the shirt over her arms and head, tugging it down and moving back to my chair before my hands stray and I personally take it upon myself to smooth the shirt down over her body, to slide over her curves. To graze those damn hardened nipples.

  “I’ll be right back.” I escape back inside the house to grab a glass of wine for her. I had Laney pick some up for her at the store, knowing she’d likely need a drink to help mellow her out a bit. And I’m observant enough to know that she enjoys malbecs.

  Observant. It sounds far less creepy than if I were to add that I know she doesn’t care for malbecs that have a stronger peppery quality to them. And then my stupid brain goes off on a tangent of What if she spills a little wine on her wrist and you have to lick it off her? Taste her and the wine? How fucking hot would that be?

  Damn Zachariah Mayson and his chick flick watching. I swear, my sister’s husband likes to torture me. The other day when I went over there, he was watching some movie where that wine scenario happened. It was a hot scene, I’ll give him that. But he watches all kinds of chick flicks with my sister and never complains. Talk about being pussy-whipped.

  As I pour the wine, willing away the temptation to taste it, because then I’ll want to see how it tastes on her skin, I remind myself why Noelle’s here. That she’s in trouble and needs a safe place to stay. Not because she wants me to stick my cock in her.

  Jesus, Kavanaugh. Get. It. Together.

  Returning back outside, I slide the glass of wine onto the table at her side. She glances up, and I take in the sight of Noelle without any makeup. God, she looks so young, so vulnerable.

  So fucking beautiful.

  Dragging my eyes away, I slide my chair over, placing it directly in front of her. Sitting, leaning forward, resting my forearms on my knees, I regard her intently, ready to get this talk started and get it out of the—

  Fuck. Her eyes begin a path downward, traveling from my neck, over my bare chest and down to my abs. Instinctively, I suck in my gut because although I stay in shape, take pride in my body and work out consistently, I’ve never been able to have those damn V-lines some guys have. Like my damn brother-in-law, Zach. No matter how many sit-ups, crunches or otherwise, it doesn’t do me any good.

  I have this damn, tiny wrinkle of skin when I sit this way and I hate that fucking thing. So, yeah, I suck it in when I find Noelle taking in my bare torso. That’s not the worst part, though. The worst part is the amount of heat in those blue eyes of hers as she takes in the sight of me. Like she wants to eat me alive.

  And I want her to. Badly.

  Inhaling a fortifying breath, I remind myself of what I need to do. “You going to fill me in on what’s going on?”

  Her gaze drops to focus on the wine glass now in her right hand, avoiding my eyes. Her left index finger rises to slowly drag around the rim of the glass.

  “CliffsNotes version? I met a guy when I lived in Destin. We dated for a while, and I thought we were in love. We moved in together, and shortly after I moved in with him, he began to change. He would get jealous and insecure about anything pertaining to me. I wasn’t spending enough time with him, he didn’t want me out having drinks with the girls, didn’t want me to highlight my hair anymore, didn’t want me to wear makeup. Stuff like that.

  “He started screening my calls, going through my text messages, would accuse me of cheating on him because I had some guy friends from college who I still kept in touch with. He complained I was getting fat when I wasn’t and didn’t like the way I looked, or talked to whoever—the waiter, the guy who was sitting next to us at the restaurant, or the guy bagging our groceries.”

  Shit. I already don’t like where this is going. Clenching and unclenching my fists, I try to remain calm.

  “Soon, he was spreading lies around of how I had been cheating on him, but that he was the one who wanted to work through things and was so graciously allowing me to continue to live with him.” The disgust in her voice, the way she still won’t meet my eyes, continuing to do the ’round and ’round thing with her finger on the rim of the wine glass speaks for how uncomfortable she is with talking about this episode in her life.

  She pauses briefly, blowing out a long breath. “The moment he flung the television remote control at me, hitting my shin hard enough—and at just the right angle—to split the skin open was finally a wake-up call for me.”

  Setting the wine glass on the table, she shifts, sliding the left pant leg up to her knee, pulling her leg up to rest her foot on the chair. “See that? That’s the lesson he gave me for making him upset because I hadn’t answered his call quickly enough one day.” Her finger traces down over what is now a faint scar along her smooth shin.

  Rage. That’s all I’m feeling. Overwhelming rage. To beat the shit out of this fucker who hurt my—er, I mean, who hurt Noelle.

  “So,” she continues, “by then, everyone was brainwashed by him and I only had one close friend left.” Her lips curve into a sad smile. “Nancy.”

  Noelle shakes her head with a laugh that sounds forced. “Nancy was pretty much my savior. She helped me look for jobs and find my rental here. She and her husband, Ted, took off work to load up all of my stuff in a U-Haul on the sly while Brad was at work. I made a stop at the bank where we had a joint checking account, withdrew exactly half and took my name off the account. Then Nancy and Ted drove the U-Haul five and a half hours, following me here with my packed car. They helped me move in and get somewhat settled.” Her voice trails off, becoming fainter as she appears to get lost in her thoughts.

  Finally, after a moment, her troubled gaze meets mine. “I thought I had covered my tracks well enough. I guess I really underestimated how far he would go to find me.” Her eyes drop down to her lap, shaking her head, muttering, “I’m so sorry to drag you into this.”

  “Hey.” I say this with just enough force to get her to look at me. Once she does, I reach out to cup her cheek in my hand. “Don’t apologize for anything. I’m glad I could—can—help.” Lips curving upward slightly, I add, “It’s what I’m good at, remember?”

  She gives me a weak excuse for a smile in return, but I’m lost in the moment. The moment where I’m touching her, and she’s allowing it. The moment where we aren’t boss and employee, or two people who constantly bicker.

  We’re just Foster and Noelle. And damn if it isn’t pretty nice.

  Something makes her withdraw from my touch, carefully and casually moving out of my reach. Instantly, my fingers itch to touch her again. I feel like a junkie, the urge to reach back toward her and cup her face is compelling. To run my thumb across her cheekbone, along the skin I now know is the softest I’ve ever felt.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, leaning back in my seat, I begin to tell her what I’ve already set in motion. She appears worried after I mention the cleaning crew and the new locks, but when I mention the alarm system, she’s downright distressed.

  “Foster, I can’t … afford all of that,” she protests.

  “I’ve got it taken care of.”

  “No.” Her tone is firm, and it’s the first time since the “situation” I hear any sign of the old, normal Noelle I’m used to dealing with. “I can’t let you do that unless you let me pay you back.”

  I already know how this is going to go, so I quickly respond with an obligatory, “Of course.” Which appears to put her at ease. It’s a lie, though, because there’s not a chance in hell I’ll let her pay me for this shit.

  “Help yourself to anything in the house in the meantime, okay?” I add, trying to change the subject.

  “Th-thank you, Foster.” She stumbles over her words, and I know she’s feeling awkward and off-kilter just like me.

  “Any time.” And I mean it. I would do it again, rush to her aid in a heartbeat if she needed me.

  I don�
��t, however, want to analyze my inherent desire to be the one man—the only man—she calls for help.

  Chapter Ten

  Noelle

  Foster rises from his chair, still shirtless, and pads over to the sliding glass door. “Be right back,” he tells me, and I merely nod.

  “Harley? You coming?” His dog looks at me as if he’s wondering if I’ll be okay without him for a few moments.

  “You can go with him.” I lower my head to whisper to Harley, so as to not be overheard by Foster, adding, “Maybe make him put on a shirt over that chest of his, okay?”

  Harley follows Foster to the door behind me. It isn’t until the sound of the door sliding along the track, about to be closed, that I hear his husky voice say, “Oh? Someone likes my naked chest…”

  That ass. I should have known better. Damn SEALs and their superhuman sense of hearing.

  Still, I can’t restrain the smile my lips form at his words, at the underlying hint of teasing in them. The truth is, I do like his naked chest. A little too much. When he, without any hesitation, removed his own shirt to pull it down over me, recognizing the breeze might be slightly chilly for me, I nearly melted right then and there. Because the last time I had a man do that for me was back in Never Happened B.C.

  But I have to stop this—this route my mind’s taking—because it’s far too dangerous. To recognize Foster Kavanaugh is a good guy is one thing. To start getting all kinds of romantic thoughts about him is a completely different—and not smart—thing. So that means I need a recap.

  Facts I need to remember about Foster:

  He is a manwhore.

  I work for him.

  I need my job.

  He’s super hot.

  His chest is beautiful.

  Wait. Where was I going with this? Shit.

  No. Foster is a big NO. No, no, no, noooooo.

  I take another sip of my wine. Then a gulp because not only are my nerves shot, but I need to get my shit together. I need to stay on track. My whole plan for moving here was to start over, to start fresh and not get tied up with a guy for a while. At least until I found one who would treat me right; one who wouldn’t end up going all psycho on me. And the truth is, I haven’t really been tempted by any of the guys I’ve met since moving here.

  Okay, okay. That’s a lie. Clearly. If I didn’t have all this damn “baggage” that, more now than ever before, would let me unpack and discard it once and for all, I would likely have been interested in Foster. Because, geez Louise… He’s delicious. But he’s a manwhore. I don’t want to simply be another notch on the man’s bedpost. I deserve better. My vajayjay, however, is a slut, and she wants Foster. Baaaaad.

  Truth is, I love my job and my new life here. I was welcomed with open arms by Foster’s mother—whom everyone calls Momma K.—and Foster’s sister, Laney, who’s a freaking riot, as well as the rest of the gang. I don’t want anything forcing me to leave this place I’ve come to think of as home.

  Setting my wine glass back on the table, I pull my legs up to rest my heels on the edge of the chair, wrapping my arms around them. Resting my chin atop my knees, I close my eyes, listening to the sound of the crashing waves upon the shoreline less than a hundred yards away. I’m not sure how long I sit, letting the ocean breeze mixed with the scent of the citronella candles wash over me, before I realize there’s another familiar fragrance I’m picking up.

  Lowering my head slightly, I sniff Foster’s shirt that’s engulfing me and the smell of cologne, or deodorant, or whatever the hell he wears, which is nearly intoxicating. Who knows how long I would have continued sniffing his shirt like one of those creepers who collects random women’s underwear, lives with his mother at age fifty, and skins cats alive for fun, when I suddenly hear a strange sliding noise from behind me.

  Turning, Harley comes through some sort of doggy door that automatically goes up and down to let him come and go. Foster pulls open the sliding glass door next, holding some sort of wooden tray in one hand, a beer dangling from the other.

  And, no, he didn’t put on a shirt. Commence Operation Vajayjay Lockdown, pronto.

  “You like that doggy door, huh?” Foster asks, walking over to set the tray on the table beside me. It includes a bunch of sliced cheeses and some prosciutto, salami, some olives and an array of crackers. Yum.

  “That sucker’s pretty cool.” I reach out for the tray of food but freeze, realizing my bad manners. Darting a glance at Foster, I see him watching me, corners of his eyes crinkling slightly with amusement.

  “Go on,” he tells me, tipping his head in the direction of the food. “Help yourself.”

  Nabbing a piece of prosciutto and some cheese, I forgo the cracker because let’s be real. That’s filler. What I have in my hand is the good stuff. Manna from the Gods, if you will.

  “Tell me how this doggy door thing works,” I say to Foster, settling back into my chair, ready to partake in my treat.

  “He’s got a sensor in his collar which communicates with the receiver in the door, telling the door to slide up or down.”

  I take a bite of the meat and cheese and—it’s official—I am in food heaven. My eyes close and I start formulating a plan on how I might hoard the entire tray of goodness. Foster can have the crackers. That’s totally fair, right?

  As I chew, I remember how much I love this stuff and how bad this stuff is for my ass. But right now, after the shitty day I’ve had, I don’t care.

  Silence. It’s the silence setting in, reminding me that, Um, Davis? You’re not alone. Oops. Opening my eyes, I find Foster still sitting across from me, but the look in his eyes is… Hell, I don’t even know how to describe it.

  Actually, that’s a lie. He’s looking at me like he wants to shove me up on this table and eat all of the delicious prosciutto and cheese off of me. And, well, I’m pretty sure my eyes are giving him the green light and telling him to do it. Bad eyes, bad eyes. Look away. Look. Away.

  I clear my throat loudly. “Sorry about practically inhaling that. It’s really good.” My words come out sounding hurried, rushed. “I shouldn’t eat too much anyway because my ass definitely doesn’t need any extra padding, that’s for sure.”

  Why did I just say that? I’m an idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Id-i-ot.

  “Excuse me?” The low, growly voice of his draws my attention. Whoa. Foster appears fierce and a little angry.

  “I was just saying.” I pause, still trying to figure out why he appears upset. “I can’t eat too much of this or my ass will get out of control.”

  He stares at me. For longer than I feel comfortable with, making me begin to fidget. That’s the moment he raises an eyebrow. “Does it look like I think you shouldn’t eat more of that? Like I have a problem with it?” His tone is low, husky, and it takes a moment for me to realize what he’s saying.

  The moment my eyes lower, there’s no way I can mask my sharp inhalation. Because Foster Kavanaugh is hard, pressing against the fabric of his khakis. For me. For me eating. And while this is hot, and I mentally do the whole click, click, click thing to save this in my memory bank for one of those moments when it’s just me and my battery operated boyfriend, I have to push things back behind those lines he and I have drawn long ago.

  To keep us both safe. Which is why I say what I do next.

  “Now, don’t you be trying to sweet talk me, Kavanaugh. Let’s be real. You have a problem.” I draw out the last word slowly, with a sly grin. “In fact, it’s probably something the wonderful people on the The Jerry Springer Show could help you with: Getting aroused by food.” I smirk at him and pop another piece of cheese into my mouth, chewing as I watch his expression change, as the heat in his gaze subsides.

  Secretly, a tiny part of me is sad about the heat leaving his eyes.

  The corners of his mouth tip up, giving me a subtle nod as if to say, I see where you’re going with this, before shifting in his seat, reaching back and pulling something from his pocket. I realize it’s my cell phone.


  “Thought you might like this back. But,” he pulls it out of my reach for a moment, “if you get anything—calls, texts, whatever—that are harassing, we need to let Ty know.”

  “Okay,” I agree, and he lowers the phone into my outreached hand. I see I have numerous notifications of text messages and missed calls. Swiping across the screen, I scan them. A few of the most recent ones are from Foster’s sister, Laney.

  Laney: Hey, let me know if you need anything else, okay?

  Laney: Don’t get pissed at what I brought you to wear. It’ll all look hot on you. Foster will looooooove it!

  Laney: Let me know if you need anything. Tell Fos to be nice!

  I smile because that’s Laney. She’s a horndog, but she’s got a heart of gold. My smile drops as soon as I see a dozen or more messages from an unknown number.

  Unknown Number: You think you’re so smart? You’re not.

  Unknown Number: Did you like what I did?

  Unknown Number: You’re a fucking whore!!!!

  My eyes close and I try to calm myself down. I hate that his words still manage to get to me. Casting a quick glance over at Foster, noting his regard of the messages, his jaw is clenched tight. Turning my attention back to my phone, I skip over the other harassing messages and find I have one from Nancy. Shortly after they’d helped me relocate here, she and Ted had decided to move out west to be closer to her mother whose health was failing.

  Nancy: Hey, sweetie. Just wanted to check on you. Hope everything’s still going well. When you get a chance, please let me know you’re okay. Love you, mean it!

  “Something wrong?” Foster leans toward me, toward my phone.

  With a dejected sigh, I turn the phone to allow him to more easily read Nancy’s text message. He then raises his eyes, meeting mine. “He’s not going to get to you, Noelle. Not on my watch.” The fierceness in his words compel me to believe him.

  “I hope so,” I reply softly, looking down at my phone. I quickly type a message back to Nancy to let her know that I’m okay now, that Brad’s made an appearance, but I am safe and staying with a friend. I pause for a moment, my thumb hovering over the keypad, before also adding that I’ll fill her in later. Terrible, I know, but I don’t have it in me to get into the details, right now. As long as she knows I’m safe, that’s the most important thing to Nancy.