"Do you like planning parties?"
"I like making money for charities."
"But, if you had your choice, what would you do?"
I'm not sure why I'm telling him this, but I want to say it out loud to someone. It's been silent inside me for too long. "I'd be a sports therapist."
His eyes widen. "Really?"
"I'd like to help the athletes, you know, they get injuries sometimes that can end their hopes and dreams."
"Are you going to do it?"
"No," I say softly.
He takes a step closer to me and my heart is pitter-pattering like crazy. "If you know what you want, you should go for it."
It hurts to hear him talk about my life like I have any say in the matter. "My dad needs me to do the charity work."
"Someone else could do that."
"He doesn't think so."
He nods and looks at the tiny hooks holding the lights up. There's a ton of them.
"Come dance with me."
"What?"
"You can't tell me when you hung this up, you didn't think of dancing in it?" He stands in the middle of my sunflower forest, the lights swaying where he brushed them.
"I actually, um, didn't." I cried the entire time I was hanging the lights. Each package I opened spawned a new wave of tears. When I was done, I wept because I didn't have any more lights to hang.
He holds out a hand, palm up. "Just for a minute."
I can't believe this is real.
I'm not even sure what song is playing, and my heart is in my throat so I can't speak. My eyes are red from crying and I have zero makeup on. My hair is a straggly mess on top of my head, and the Unstoppable Foster Dunham is standing in my sunflower garden with dainty bumble bee lights bumping his handsome forehead.
I'm scared to go to him, but I want it too. I don't know how my heart will survive dancing with Foster, but that doesn't matter. My heart is crushed anyway.
And the way he's looking at me, relaxed, confident, compassionate, in control. He's all the things I want to be but can't.
The whitewashed wood floor creaks as I step over to him in bare feet. I feel naked wearing only pajamas, pink silk shorts and a cami top with pretty flowers and lace straps.
But Foster has a way of looking at me without noticing what I'm wearing. It's like the intensity of his crystal eyes always focuses on what's inside me. It's unsettling, but I also love it.
When my fingertips land on his hand, he closes his eyes and pulls me closer with our hands clenched between our chests. His other hand moves tentatively, slowly touching first the fabric of my pajama top, then moving in closer till he makes contact with the curve of my hip. His flat palm pushes on my back until my breasts rub up against his jacket. The contact sends a tremor from my tummy out to all my sensitive places. He smells like leather and spice. For a fighter with tattoos, he's incredibly clean and always smells divine.
His hands fall away suddenly. "Hold up." He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to my bed. He's wearing a plain black T-shirt underneath and I don't think I've ever seen a black tee look more attractive. His eyes are purposeful as he takes my hand again and moves me back into position. I'm pretty sure he can feel my hard nipples through the fabric between us.
Our first step together is awkward. I can't even hear the music over my bounding heart. He grins and persists. Does anything shake Foster?
As he sways us slowly, I finally catch the tune in my ear and start to match the lyrics, singing along in my head to keep me from bolting. It's about a man who has found a perfect love. In the lyrics, he's reassuring the girl he loves her, has since they were kids, and they'll get married and build a family together. What a nice dream. Does perfect love even happen for anyone anymore? Life is too complicated to just fall in love and marry someone with no entanglements.
I'm not perfect. Foster is much closer to perfect than I am. I doubt there's much he could do to reassure me everything could work out because I know it can't.
His finger on my chin tilts my head up and I look into his eyes.
Oh boy. He's grinning and looking at me like…
Oh my goodness. Yep. He's looking like he wants to kiss me.
He lowers his head and tilts his chin and we connect. His lips are a soft pillow pressing to mine. I close my eyes and let it happen. The tremor inside me rattles to life, sending shock waves to all my extremities. It's so strong, I start to shake.
He must feel the potent force between us too because he grunts and bites my lower lip. He tugs on it and growls.
Oh my goodness. The animalistic side of him turns me on so much. It's wrong—I know it's wrong—to want it, but he's too darn sexy. We've barely kissed but I'm on fire for him.
I open my mouth and he takes advantage by slipping his tongue inside. My fingers grip the short hairs at the base of his neck and squeeze as our tongues meet and wrestle. His breath is warm and he tastes like a sinful chocolate dessert. This just went from zero to one-hundred-twenty in thirty seconds flat. All he has to do is move his hand under my clothes. If I feel his skin on my skin, I'll implode. Bye, bye, Mila.
With my whimper, his hot fingertips slip under my shirt and burn an imprint on my back. He pulls me closer and I arch my back, forcing his hard dick into my stomach.
A coarse hum vibrates in his throat as his other hand slides into my hair to support my head.
We're almost horizontal, he's bending over me so deeply. He yanks my hair and I can't help but flinch. It's still so tender from when my dad pulled it.
Foster freezes and looks down into my eyes. He's trying to read me but I keep it hidden. He can never find out what happened. He'll go nuts.
His breath is ragged and his eyes glow. "You all right?" The rasp in his voice betrays how hard it is for him to stop and ask me that.
"Yes. Keep going."
His fingers massage my scalp gently, like he's trying to make up for hurting me. I feel bad he thinks it was his fault. If I wasn't sore, I would love having him pull my hair with the intensity of his passion.
He walks me backward and guides me to my bed. We fall onto it together, but he supports his weight with his arm. His hand slides up my leg and circles my thigh. His fingers run over my bruises. He hasn't seen them yet and I don't want him to.
When he draws his lips from mine and kisses down my neck, I stop him with my hands on his cheeks. Don't look there, please, Foster.
He pauses and makes eye contact with me. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
But it's too late. He's already picked up on my hesitation.
He pulls up to his knees and his eyes scan my body. I don't know how well he can see it in the lights of the sunflower forest, but significant blue patches mark both my thighs and shins.
His brow furrows and he lifts my shirt to look for more. I push it down.
"How'd you get the bruises on your legs?"
"Coffee table. I'm extremely clumsy."
He tilts his head and stares at me with doubt painted on his face. "You don't seem to be the clumsy type."
"Little known fact. I can barely walk straight."
His eyes plead with me to tell the truth, which I don't. I can't. God, this is torture.