Maren and Callie say their goodbyes, then Maren comes over to me, giving me a one-armed hug.
“I promise she’s not contagious.” Maren laughs, and Callie is late to join in. “But no blaming me when you get some woman pregnant.”
She laughs again, and Callie looks as if she wants to choke but manages a polite laugh.
“Tell your husband to fix the hole in his glove.”
Maren scowls at me. “He told me to tell you to lift some weights, your velocity sucks.”
I shake my head, and we smile at one another.
“Let’s do dinner when we play each other.” She walks backward, and Callie waves, turning to face me so her back is to Maren. Maren points at Callie and mouths, “Bring her.”
I shake my head, and once she, the baby, and the nanny have crossed the street, I join Callie at the security gate. “So it went well?”
She throws herself into my arms, leaving me no choice but to catch her. “Thank you so much, Foster. That was an amazing interview and exactly what I needed.” Her voice is slightly muffled since she’s speaking into my neck, but my arms instantly wrap around her.
I’ve become addicted to the scent of her perfume. When a woman wearing it walked by the other day, I whipped around, hoping like hell it was Callie. Sadly, it wasn’t.
No one has ever shown so much gratitude for anything I’ve done for them. It’s usually their hand out and a quick “thanks, man, I owe you.” But Callie… it’s in her tone, in her tight hug. And it makes me want to open my fucking checkbook and give her whatever she wants.
None of this is a good sign.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Callie
* * *
I turn on the lamp in the living room after rolling around in bed half the night.
Holding Breelyn was a massive mistake.
When Maren offered, I wanted to say no, but what kind of person am I if I tell the woman who might just change the projection of my career, I don’t want to hold your baby? She’d be offended.
So I took Breelyn, and it felt uncomfortable and awkward. And after I gave her back when she got fussy, it left me with mixed feelings I’m having a hard time processing.
Finally, deciding that sleep isn’t coming anytime soon, I got out of bed in search of a snack. I quietly make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge, looking for anything that might hit the spot, but I didn’t make it to the grocery store in Foster’s absence since I was preparing for Maren’s podcast.
I tap my lips. I could order out, tiptoe out of here, and head downstairs to get it from the outside gate. But all that’s open are the twenty-four-hour fast-food places, and I’m trying to eat better than that. Making popcorn would wake Foster.
I take a water and head to the couch because it’s the comfiest couch in existence. Seriously, I’m going to have to try to swindle a deal with Foster when I move out and maybe use our kid as bribery to be able to take it with me. Or sneak it onto the moving truck.
Foster’s door creaks open, and I freeze midway to Comfyville.
“You’re up?” His voice is all rough and sexy, and for a moment, I get lost in a visual of him waking me with that voice telling me things he wants to do to me.
I swivel around to face him, and I’m pretty sure I need to pick my jaw up off the floor. If I thought his voice was making my traitorous body think unthinkable things, his body adds another heap of sexual desire on the pile. He’s wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. Very tight black boxer briefs that don’t hide his tattoos or his muscles or the inches of beautiful skin. God help me.
This is how you end up on the heartbreak train, girl.
My gaze finally reaches his again after trailing over the perfection of his body. His eyebrows are raised, snapping my thoughts back to reality and the fact that we are supposed to be friends, co-parents in the making, and nothing more.
“Go get on some pants and a shirt. You’re breaking rules.” I think my voice came out pretty even.
But maybe not, because he chuckles and surprisingly does go back into his room, emerging a few seconds later with a pair of sweatpants on but no shirt or socks. “Better?”
