Page 22

“Griffin Hall.”

I make one more grab for it, and he lets me get closer than he should. I’m almost on top of him now, my hand closing around the spine of the book, when he twists and drops the book onto the floor and rolls us in one smooth motion.

My back hits the mattress. His weight settles over me. Foster’s hands find my wrists and pin them lightly above either side of my head.

“Hi,” I breathe.

“Good morning.”

He leans down and kisses me.

It’s slow. Unhurried. His mouth is sinful, his weight is warm and settling, and his heartbeat meets mine through the moose sweater.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“I’m going to keep the book.”

“Take it. I have three.”

He laughs against my mouth and kisses me again.

At some point, I close my eyes and lean my head against the crook of his neck, and he goes still, just for a second, then his hand comes up and settles in my hair.

I have never done a Saturday morning like this with him.

I have never done a Saturday morning with anyone. This is one of many things happening in my new Fox bubble that I’m choosing not to give too much thought to.

“So,” Fox says. “What’s on the agenda today, other than back-to-back rounds of sex?”

“You’re very confident.”

“I’m just estimating based on last night’s data.”

“I have to go grocery shopping. I wasn’t expecting a houseguest.”

“Okay.”

“You can’t come with me.”

“I know. Small town. Celebrity and all that.”

He’s still stroking my hair absently.

I take a breath.

“Fox.”

“Mm?”

“Why are you here?”

His hand pauses. Then continues.

For a second, I think he’s not going to answer, which is exactly what I would expect from ten years of never asking him direct questions. But he brings his other hand to my chin and tilts my head so I can meet his eyes.

“I was getting restless at home,” he says.

“Restless?”