Chapter 8 Fairy Lights

Mila

Sunflower fairy lights hang from my bedroom ceiling in row after row of long, dangling strands. Bumblebee lights mingle between them. It took me forever to put them up today. I used removable hooks so my dad wouldn't accuse me of ruining his ceiling.

Cello music plays softly in the background, not too loud so I don't anger my father. The music mashes up modern love songs with classical style. It should be a relaxing evening, but it's not. I can't stop crying. I'm stuck in this room and no amount of lights can take away the dark.

Tap-tap-tap .

I sit up in my bed and stiffen at the noise. What was that?

Tap-tap-tap .

It's my balcony door. Someone's here.

They're here to get me.

They found me.

This house doesn't have an alarm.

My heart gallops like a panicked mare .

What do I do?

I need a weapon.

Looking around, all I have is a few figurines, but in the bathroom I have sharp stuff.

I grab a razor and my spiral curling iron and run back to the door.

Tap-tap-tap .

Gripping my weapons like blades, I slide the sheer curtain to the side, and peek outside to see who is there to kill me.

"Mila," a tall shadowy figure says in a hushed voice.

Mila? That's what my mom used to call me.

"It's me." Pretty white teeth and a dimpled chin smile down at me.

Oh my goodness. It's Foster.

The Unstoppable Foster Dunham.

Holy cow.

My heart breaks into a full-force run.

I have to hold the razor in the same palm with the curling iron to work the door unlocked. It creaks open and the salty ocean air wafts into my room. "What're you doing here?" I'm loud whispering at him. He can't be here. This is crazy.

"Just thought I'd say hello." He turns his torso sideways to slip through the door and stares at my light display.

He leans back and puts his hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket. "Cool."

My first instinct is to check him for new bruises. The old ones are fading, and I don't see anything new. Maybe Donnie didn't follow through on Dad's order to visit Foster. Donnie's probably too chicken to stand up to Foster anyway.

"People don't usually come over the balcony just to say hello."

"I did. You let me in." Gah! He's so cocksure and unfazed by everything.

He walks through the sunflower curtain over to the built-in shelf along the wall. His fingers caress a figurine my mom bought for me. "What's this?"

"It's a pink poodle." The pink ribbon around his neck is more of a gray string, but he's still my favorite.

"Is it yours?"

"Yes."

"Kinda ugly."

"It's not ugly. It's cute. My mom gave it to me before she died. "

He nods and saunters over to the next item on the shelf. A framed picture of a woman at the finish line of the marathon portion of a triathlon.

"Is this you?" he asks.

"No."

"Who is it?"

"The winner of the Montauk Triathlon."

His head whips around to make eye contact with me. "Did you enter?"

"No."

"Hmm." He makes a noise that sounds like sarcastic surprise.

When he's done inspecting the small amount of personal items I have here at the summer house, he turns back to me. He's relaxed, like he doesn't care that my dad or brother could discover him at any moment.

"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 this when I'm so stuck here in this situation. "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 Foster 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 need right now.

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 someone 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.

It's wrong—I know it's wrong—to want him, but he's too darn sexy. We've barely kissed but I'm on fire for him.

I open my mouth and he takes me up on my offer by slipping his tongue inside. My fingers trace through 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 tugs 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 .

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 like that.

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.

He takes a deep breath and wipes below his bottom lip with his thumb. I can see him struggling with being logical and being turned on at the same time.

The breath he takes comes out in a slow hiss as he trails his fingers from the front of his hair to the back. "Let's uh, just…"

I've confused him and I feel bad for not being honest with him, but I can't tell him my dad caused them.

He climbs off the bed and roughly pushes through the lights. First, he returns to the picture of the triathlon winner. Then he gazes out the glass of the balcony door. I know he's debating pressing me about lying.

I scoot back on the bed and lean back against the headboard. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them .

"If someone hurt you…" His voice is quiet and restrained, but the swaying fairy lights betray the tension in the air.

I want to tell him the truth. I want him to comfort me, but I can't. "I swear it was the coffee table."

"And pulling your hair?"

"I have a sensitive scalp. Always have."

He nods but his back is stiff and he's not looking at me. He's processing this and deciding how to handle it. I need to change the subject so I start rambling.

"It's pretty lame to have a picture of someone else winning a triathlon. Isn't it?"

"What?" He pushes the lights out of the way and starts walking back toward the bed.

"I mean who does that?"

"You've never entered a triathlon? Even a short one?" He looks so good in his torn jeans and black tee, it's hard to concentrate.

"Nope."

"Where do you bike?"

"Um, at the gym."

"You don't ride a real bike?"

"No. "

"Let me guess. Run on the treadmill? Swim in an indoor pool?"

Uh oh. He's figuring out all my secrets. "Weather and stuff."

He laughs and sits next to my hip on the edge of my bed. The strain has left his voice and body. He's found something to tease me about and he's narrowing in on it.

"Triathlon is a road bike and run with an ocean swim," he says.

"I know."

He reaches out and takes my hand from around my knee. He holds it gently in both of his and it warms my cold fingers. "You show up tomorrow at Callihan's Beach. I'll have a bike for you and we'll run on the sand."

I have to gulp down the massive lump in my throat. Is he asking me on a date? "You want to run and bike tomorrow?"

He tilts his head and shrugs. "Sure. If you're any good."

"I think I'm decent."

"We'll see if you can keep up with me." He laughs. I'm glad I got his mind off the bruises.

"What about swimming in the ocean?" I ask him. The first part of a triathlon is an ocean swim.

He lets my hand fall away and looks back at the balcony door. "You're on your own there. "

Oh, this is interesting. I cross my legs indian style and lean closer to him. "Can you swim?" I whisper.

"Not with confidence." He quirks one side of his lip up and it's adorable. The Unstoppable Foster can't swim?

"I'm actually a pretty good swimmer. I can teach you."

"No."

"C'mon it's easy. It's natural. I'll show you."

"No."

"If you're taking me biking on a road and running on the beach, I'll take you swimming in the ocean."

"Not comparable at all," he says while shaking his head. He's not going to budge on this one. Maybe if we run and bike for a long time, I'll be able to get him in the water. What a fun challenge.

"Milana?" My father calls me from the bottom of the stairs.

Foster's head turns to look at my closed bedroom door.

"He's coming. Go!" I push on his back but he doesn't budge.

He leans in to give me a brief kiss. "Meet me at the playground at Callihan's Beach at one tomorrow. Say yes."

"Okay. Just go! Go!" I push on his shoulders and scream-whisper at him. He finally stands and he's smiling as he slides out to the balcony .

My dad pounds on my bedroom door. "Milana?"

I run and open it.

"Did I hear someone in here?" He pokes his head in and examines my room.

My chest is heaving and it's hard to hide my excitement over all that just happened. "I was talking to a friend on the phone. You must have heard me."

He stares up at the hooks on the ceiling. "Take those down before we leave for Manhattan. The renters will hate that."

"Yes, Dad."

He kisses my forehead. "Goodnight."

"Night."

I close the door and check the balcony again. It looks like he made it out undetected. I'd hate to think what would happen if my dad or Donnie saw him. They'd never let me, or him, stop paying.

It takes me thirty minutes and some time alone in the shower to calm down after kissing Foster in my bed. I definitely should not go to the beach and work out with Foster tomorrow. But I won't even consider not going.

I'm not sure what will happen with Foster, but one thing I know for sure; I'm not crying anymore.