We say our goodbyes, and I hang up, then look around the condo.
Open myself up to being hurt again? Might as well hold a loaded gun right to my heart.
Chapter
Nineteen
Foster
* * *
I’m beat. All I want to do is drop my bags at the door, walk to my bedroom, and collapse on my bed. I never sleep well at hotels, and a ten-day stint in them has made me feel like an insomniac.
I type in the code for the main gate, and we all make our way into the building. Decker and Easton peel off on their floors, none of us bothering with a goodbye because we’re exhausted and we lost earlier today, so we’re in shit moods.
I push open the door, and the first thing I notice is a soft glow and the scent of… vanilla?
Stepping into my condo, I look around and notice a lot of changes since I left ten days ago. I lean back to make sure I’m on my floor. It would be just like Decker to have this girly feel to his condo.
Yep, definitely my place.
Callie steps out of the spare room, which I need to think of as her room now. “Oh, you’re back.”
Is she even wearing shorts under that giant sweatshirt? Two seconds in the door and I’m already faced with temptation.
But it’s a Chicago Grizzlies sweatshirt, and the caveman who only comes out when I’m around her wants to tear it off of her and throw my Colts sweatshirt over her head. Fuck, I need to get this beast under control.
She must notice me staring at her shirt because she looks down. “Oh, I found this in the back of the closet. I wonder how long it was there for.”
“I heard the condo was Miles Cavanagh’s place before Tweetie’s. Back when they called this place The Den.”
She nods, appearing to have no intention of taking off the damn thing.
Fuck Miles Cavanagh.
“Sorry about the game, but you won the Texas series. That’s good, huh?” She flits over to the fridge and pulls out a water. “Want one?”
I drop my bag by my bedroom door and walk to the kitchen, seeing that sadly, she is wearing shorts. They’re just short as fuck, showing off her long, lean legs.
“Sure, thanks.”
She smiles, straightens, and hands me a water. I peer into the fridge before the door shuts and see that it’s filled with food.
She must notice me looking because she grabs the door and holds it open as though she’s a The Price is Right model. “Look. Real food.”
There’s fruit and milk and eggs, and it looks like no fridge I’ve ever had in my life. At least not one I remember, but those years before I lived with only my dad are fuzzy at best.
“Good,” I mumble, twisting off the bottle cap and downing half the bottle.
She pulls out a pouch of microwavable popcorn, puts it in the microwave, and leans against the counter. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to engage with you, right?” She cringes.
“I decompressed on the plane and bus. It’s fine.”
“Do you want to talk about it then?”
I shake my head. “I sucked and lost the game for us. Not much else to say.”
She opens a cabinet and pulls down a bowl. Does she already know where everything is in my place?
