Ilie in bed and stare at the bunk above me, thinking about the mysterious gifts I’ve been getting. There’s been one every day for the past four days. Butterscotch candy. A book by an author I used to love in high school. The softest gloves in my favorite color. And today, a purple stuffed teddy bear.
None of it makes sense. I’ve never had a secret admirer before, and I can’t decide if I like it or not. It’s flattering, but also concerning. I can tell Foster doesn’t like it. He’s gotten more and more anal about checking the gifts before I open them. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but I guess he’s just doing his job.
What alarms me the most is how intentional each gift has been. It’s clearly someone who knows me. Orknewme. I haven’t eaten those butterscotch hard candies in years, and these days I’m more into monster smut than suspense thrillers. If I had to guess, I’d say these are gifts from someone who knew me in high school. But I wasn’t exactly popular back then. None of them would want to congratulateme or wish me luck. Is someone just trying to get in my head and throw me off? Maybe the gifts aren’t from an admirer at all.
I don’t know what to think.
I should probably do some investigating. All the Olympic athletes are listed online, so I might be able to figure out who it is if I looked. Unless they’re from an athlete’s support team or something. Still, there’s a chance I could find them.
But I don’t reach for my phone.
Some part of me doesn’t want to know. Right now, I can pretend it’s a sweet gesture from an admirer, but if I find out there really is someone from high school here competing, it'll ruin it. I didn’t have friends in high school. I had bullies.
“Go to sleep,principessa.” Foster’s gruff voice floats down from the top bunk.
“How did you know I’m still awake?”
“You rub your feet together when you’re trying to get to sleep.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised he picked up on that. The motion makes a slight rubbing sound against the sheets, but it’s not loud. I’ve self-soothed that way since I was a kid. It’s so second nature to me, I barely notice anymore.
“Good hearing,” I mumble, stopping my movement and turning onto my side.
It’s quiet for a few minutes, but I still can’t shut off my brain enough to sleep. I roll onto my belly.
“Princess.” There’s a warning edge to his voice. “Do you need me to come down there and make you sleep?”
“You can’t make someone else fall asleep.” I flop onto my back. “Unless you planto drug me.”
“Oh, I could make you sleep without help from narcotics,cucciola.”
I preferprincipessa. His use ofcucciolairritates me even more than my inability to get to sleep. “And how would you accomplish that?” I huff.
“I’d wear you out.”
“I don’t see how you could exhaust me anymore than I am already.” My body chooses that moment to yawn, as if proving my point. It’s not a lack of fatigue that’s keeping me awake. It’s an inability to shut off my brain.
Foster chuckles, and there’s something dark and foreboding in the sound. He shifts positions, and the bunk bed sways.
“Believe me when I say I could.” His low voice sounds closer somehow. The vibrations slide over me like a caress. The air feels charged and electric in a way it didn’t a few minutes ago.
If I were a different sort of woman, I might challenge him to come down here and prove it. Would he? Probably not. He’s my bodyguard. Our relationship is strictly professional.
But I can picture it. He’d slip down from above in one smooth motion, ignoring the ladder, the way he does every morning. He wouldn’t get on the bed with me. Instead, he’d grab my feet and yank me to the foot of the mattress. Kneeling there, he’d slide off my shorts and panties, spread my legs, and tell me to be a good girl while he enjoyed himself. The scruff along his jaw would tickle my legs as he kissed up the inside of my thigh until he reached the apex. He’d tease his tongue along one side and then the other, keeping me on edge before giving me what I want. The image is so vivid, I can almost feel it. Mybreath picks up, hand skimming along the hem of my sleep shorts.
“Whatever you're thinking, stop,” Foster says, gruff and gravelly.
A wave of embarrassment heats my skin. How did he know? Can he scent me? No, I’m certain he can’t. I’m taking the strongest scent blockers in existence, and there’s no hint of cinnamon and sugar in the air. The only time my scent’s broken through is after really strenuous workouts.
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” I lie.
There’s that deep rumbly chuckle again. I swear I feel it everywhere.
“Don’t lie to me,cucciola.”
“H-how do you know I’m lying?”
His head drops over the side of the bed upside down. It’s dark, but the curtains are thin and there’s a streetlight right outside the window, letting in just enough light for me to see his smile. “You were panting, sweetheart.”
