Chapter 14

Mazzy

I’m not sure what it is about the monotony of cutting up vegetables and fruit, but I rather enjoy the repetitive motion which allows my thoughts to drift. I love to see where they’ll go and what they’ll focus on when they have no greater burden than just making sure I don’t lop off my finger. Often when I get into this headspace, I’ll make up song lyrics or envision the musical notes on a scale imagining how my fingers would dance across piano keys or pluck at my guitar strings to play them.

With a quick glance at the kitchen clock, I see that I have at least an hour until I have to leave to get Bowie Jane from school. Foster is currently at practice and will be home around six p.m. That gives me plenty of time to finish food prep, have dinner ready for him and Bowie Jane, and then I’ll jet out of here.

During this practice week, I’ve been sleeping most nights at my parents’ house. Foster’s schedule has allowed him to handle Bowie Jane in the evenings and following mornings, which includes getting her ready and driving her to school. It’s the afternoons where he’s needed me to pick her up because he’s either got practice, team meetings, publicity events or workouts.

I stayed here Monday night because Foster had a black-tie charity event the players had to attend. He was going to be out very late so I stayed at the house with Bowie Jane and was prepared to handle her in the morning so he could sleep in.

I was awake when he came home near midnight because I’m a bit of a night owl and I write some of my best music at those late hours. God did he look good in his tuxedo when he walked in the door. So different from the casual laid-back guy I’ve come to know.

I let my thoughts drift to that night. I was on the couch practicing, plucking so lightly at the guitar strings you could barely hear them. I wasn’t afraid of waking up Bowie Jane as she sleeps like the dead, but I still kept the volume down since only I needed to hear the product.

I was practicing “Cosmic Love” by Florence and the Machine, playing softly and adding nuance to the notes with my voice.

When Foster walked in, I was hyperaware of his presence and momentarily felt the urge to stop playing. But I didn’t and he moved across the living room to sink into one of the chairs opposite me. With deft fingers, he released his bow tie and undid the very top button of his dress shirt, stretching out his neck as if he could finally breathe.

And then he settled back and watched me play. I sang softly, but now I had an audience so it meant more.

I can laugh it off now, the way he watched me, but it gave me goose bumps. He stared at me so intently that my skin turned fire hot and then prickled cold, causing my arm hair to stand on end.

Yeah, he gave me goose bumps that night.

Just like the way I get goose bumps when he talks to me on pretty much any occasion with that deep, gruff voice.

Or when he laughs at my jokes.

Always when he’s with Bowie Jane… so sweet and playful and comforting and fun. He is an amazing dad and while I know there are deep, concerning issues because of Sandra and her behavior, I can’t help but think that Bowie Jane is right where she needs to be.

The child flourished this week after that horrible call with her mother on Saturday. She buckled down in school, came home raving about new friends she’d made and even got an invitation to a sleepover that had her giddy with excitement.

Best of all, she has dedicated herself to learning the guitar and we sit down and play together for about half an hour each evening after her homework is done and before dinner.

I set aside the sliced cucumber and pick up the next whole one. I do this every few days to keep a supply of fresh vegetables for Foster and Bowie Jane. It’s their healthy go-to snack with their current preference to dip in either hummus or ranch dressing.

The sound of the garage door rolling up breaks me out of the rhythmic slicing. Frowning, I glance at the kitchen clock and note that it’s way too early for Foster to be home, but that’s him coming into the garage. Maybe I misheard what he said about when practice ended.

When he walks through the door, I can immediately tell something is wrong by the way he’s holding himself. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that look way too good on him, but it’s the stiffness of his posture that has me giving him a critical once-over.

“What’s wrong?” I demand, going right into fix-it mode.

He smiles at me but within it I see a grimace, maybe a bit of abashment. “It’s nothing. Just a minor injury to my shoulder that knocked me out of practice the rest of the day. X-rays are fine and the doctor ordered me to ice it. I should be good to go for tomorrow.”

I put the knife down and move forward to take his gear bag, assuming it’s his opposite shoulder that’s injured. At first, he doesn’t give it up, but I tug it free. When he lets go, I simply throw it on the kitchen island. “How did it happen?”

Foster rolls his right shoulder, another grimace playing across his face. “I collided with another player. His helmet hit me right here.” He points to the spot. “It’s really only a bruise. No big deal.”

I’m already turning to the freezer as I order him to take a chair at the kitchen table. By the time I’m pulling out one of the many gel ice packs he keeps in there, he’s seated.

I move his way, intent on handing him the ice pack but my mouth goes desert dry as he takes off his shirt. Honed planes, a light smattering of hair across a golden chest and bulging muscles in his arms have me unable to move. I realize I’m frozen in place, staring at his half-naked form until his head twists to look down at his injured shoulder. It makes me move my eyes to that spot.

“Oh wow,” I exclaim when I see the ugly bruise on the front of his shoulder, extending slightly into his upper chest. “That looks terrible.”

“It’s not that bad,” he says blandly.

I take in the deep purple circle surrounded by a tinge of red and I know it’s going to get bigger. “That looks horrific and that only means it’s going to look worse over the coming days. Are you sure nothing is broken?”

Foster huffs in exasperation. “They made me get X-rays. I assure you I’m fine. I could’ve even stayed at practice, but they were being ridiculously overcautious. Doesn’t even hurt.”

Something about his bravado doesn’t sound right and I take my index finger, gently poking the bruise.

He flinches backward. “Ouch!”

I roll my eyes. “Big baby. Here, put this on it.”

Foster grins as he takes the ice pack, pressing it against the bruise, and I move back to the vegetables that I need to finish up. “I’ve got about fifteen more minutes of work here. I’ll get dinner in the oven and then I can go pick up Bowie Jane.”

“I can get her,” Foster says.

“You shouldn’t drive. You should rest and ice.”

“I’ll point out that I drove home from the arena just fine.”

I twist my neck to look back at him, dip my chin, and give him that don’t mess with me look. “Fine, you’re fully able to drive. But you should rest and ice. I can go get her.”

One dark eyebrow arches with challenge. “Stop mothering me.”

I glare at him. “Don’t make me poke you again.”

Foster laughs and throws up a hand in submission as he continues to hold the ice on his shoulder. “Fine, you can go get Bowie Jane. Only if you agree to stay and have dinner with us. You know, because of my injury and all. I’m not sure I can actually serve the food or clean up afterward.”

“Big baby,” I repeat, but inside I am flushed with joy over the invitation. Tonight is a night that Foster definitely does not need me to stay, despite his injury, as Bowie Jane is pretty self-sufficient, but I try not to read too much into the invite.

As I cut veggies, Foster talks about hockey. I’ve been learning more and more about the team through our conversations. He’s filled me in on all the players including personal stories. For example, Stone Dumelin’s brother died in the plane crash and Stone was called up from the minors to take his place. And Drake McGinn, our goalie, was the black sheep of the league. He had a torrid affair—my words, not Foster’s—with Brienne Norcross that went on completely in secret, but they fell in love and finally came out to the world that they were together. Then there’s the recent sad tragedy of Boone falling in love with Lilly, all while her younger brother was dying from cancer. My heart broke in two when Foster told me about young Aiden and how he wormed his way into all the Titans’ hearts.

My favorite though is the scandalous relationship between Kiera and Bain because Kiera is Drake’s little sister and he threatened to kill any player who touched her. I love a good forbidden romance because even though things might appear wrong on all levels, if you have that chemistry with someone and the potential for more, why shouldn’t you go for it?

All great stories.

“How was it with Penn today?” I ask as I glance back at him.

Foster snorts, adjusts the ice a little higher on his shoulder. “Same old, same old. As taciturn and withdrawn as ever.”

I’d learned that Penn Navarro is the absolute best player in the league and the Titans shelled out a lot of money for him. He replaced a beloved player, Coen Highsmith, and it’s taking the team some time adjusting not only to Coen’s loss but to the addition of such a megastar who is not making it easy to form personal relationships.

I bring the knife down on the carrot I’d been slicing into sticks just as I’m turning back around. Except rather than the carrot, it catches the edge of my index finger and slices into it.

“Fuck,” I exclaim as the knife clatters out of my grip. I grab hold of my finger with my other hand, squeezing it tightly, terrified to see the damage I’ve just done. It hurts, but I don’t want to see the blood welling out or how deep the cut went.

Foster flies out of the chair, his ice pack falling to the floor. In a flash, he’s standing before me. “Let me see it.”

I shake my head vehemently. If I don’t look at it, it will be fine.

Foster’s large hands encircle my wrists. His voice gentles. “Mazzy… you need to let me see the cut.”

My eyes lift and lock with his. “Confession time. My big weakness is blood. Anyone’s blood, really, but mine grosses me out. There’s a good chance I’ll faint.”

There’s enough teasing in my tone that Foster smiles softly, but his eyes remain serious as he can see I’m wigged out.

“How about we move toward the sink so I can run some water on it and you avert your eyes. Let me judge what it looks like.”

Nope. Just going to stand here forever, holding on to it with my hand, and hope it heals fine on its own.

But I nod, biting hard on my lower lip so I have something else to focus on. He leads me to the island sink and turns on the cold water. I twist my neck to look away but he still has to gently force my hand under the stream.

I get a little dizzy as I imagine blood pouring out of it, and brace my free hand on the counter. When the water touches the wound it stings, but I find some comfort when Foster says, “I don’t think it’s that bad.” He probes a bit around the edge, I imagine forcing the blood to well so he can see the exact line of the cut. “You’ll only need a Band-Aid.”

My head swivels back around, not to look at my injury but to look at Foster for assurance. “Really?”

He smiles at me. “Really.” And then I feel it… not the pain of the cut but his thumb gently stroking over the back of my hand, and nothing seems to hurt anymore. “Although I think your guitar playing days are going to be on hold for a bit. Come on… first aid kit is in my bathroom.”

I let Foster lead me out of the kitchen and down the short hall to the master bedroom. I’ve only been in here one time when he gave me the original tour of the house. Since then, I’ve avoided it so I don’t intrude on his sacred space, although I have offered on more than one occasion to do his laundry if he will just leave the hamper out. He never does.

When we walk into his bedroom, I do a quick survey of the heavy dark furniture that is surprisingly traditional and the mint-green duvet cover with taupe and cream stripes running through it. The walls are also taupe and adorned with black-and-white photographs of, weirdly enough, birds.

“Do you have a thing for birds?”

Foster chuckles as we head into the bathroom. “No. They kind of freak me out actually. But Bowie Jane picked those out. I let her decorate my room this summer.”

“She did a good job.”

“She’s got a good eye,” he agrees. “Except for the birds.”

In the bathroom, Foster leads me to the large garden tub and says, “Sit.”

I lower onto the tile ledge, clutching the paper towel he’d wrapped around the end of my index finger.

I watch as he rummages through a small pantry to the left of the vanity and my cut is again forgotten as I take in the honed muscles of his back and his low-slung jeans. I did not fail to notice when he stood up from the kitchen table the sharp V of muscles at the lower part of his abdomen. The guy is ripped but I guess I should expect nothing different from a professional athlete. I’ve never dated anyone so perfectly formed before nor have I ever thought that such a perfectly formed body would be attractive. But just… damn.

When Foster turns back, he has antibacterial spray and a Band-Aid. He squats in front of me and gently removes the paper towel, setting it on the ledge beside me. A tiny bit of blood oozes from the cut and I quickly look away. I feel the coolness of the antibiotic spray and then he’s wrapping the tip of my finger in a stretchy Band-Aid. The tight support feels good on the cut.

“There you go… all patched up,” Foster says as he wraps his hands around my wrists. He rises, pulling me up with him until we are standing face-to-face, barely a few inches separating us. He’s so much taller than me, my head coming to his shoulder, and I have to tip my head back to look him in the eye.

He stares down at me intently. His hands don’t release their hold but rather squeeze a little tighter.

“Thank you for fixing me up.” Why is my voice so breathy?

Foster doesn’t smile, his entire bearing far too serious and intent. “My pleasure.” And why is his voice so husky?

It’s so awkward standing here like this, so very close that I can feel his body heat, with our eyes locked in a standstill, and yet, it’s also exhilarating. I can’t deny my attraction to this man and if I’m reading the vibes right, he’s feeling the same way.

Disappointment slams into me when he releases one of my wrists, only to have my pulse jackhammer when he raises that hand to tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear.

Such a tender, intimate gesture.

Maybe it’s just a friendly move—Leo does that to me all the time, especially when we’re talking about serious stuff or I’m feeling emotional.

I’m just about to accept that everything about these last few minutes with Foster is nothing but the actions of a concerned employer, also noting that I again feel slightly defeated because I swear I felt something magical between us.

Then his head dips, his face coming closer to mine and his eyes drop to my mouth.

I let out a quavering sigh of relief that he’s actually going to kiss me which is… wrong.

Oh my God. So very wrong.

I scramble back, duck around him and then whirl to face the man who seems to have a magical pull that makes me lose my ever-loving mind.

Foster slowly turns to face me, his expression inscrutable.

“We can’t do that,” I stammer.

“Do what?” His tone is lazy, slightly amused.

“Kiss,” I snap. “You were getting ready to kiss me.”

“And you were ready to let me kiss you,” he points out.

“But I came to my senses and stopped it,” I retort. “Because this is wrong.”

“Why?”

Why? Is he kidding? How can he even ask why this is wrong?

I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin. “You’re my employer.”

Foster shrugs and grunts from the pain of lifting his shoulder. “Didn’t stop Brienne and Drake. If ever there was a more forbidden employer/employee relationship, that worked out just fine.”

“And that’s what you want… a relationship?” I ask, astounded how cavalier he’s being.

“I just wanted a kiss and figured I’d see where it went from there,” he replies with a mischievous grin.

My arms drop and I hold them out, shaking my head in confusion. “But… why? I mean, what is prompting all this?”

Foster chuckles and shakes his head in amusement whereas I’m befuddled as fuck. “Seriously, Mazzy. Have you even looked at yourself?”

For some odd reason, my head turns toward the bathroom mirror as if I’ll see the answer. It’s just… me.

“I’m not just talking about your physical beauty,” Foster says, and my gaze moves back to him in the mirror’s reflection. He stands there half-naked and sexy as hell, and it’s so disconcerting, I barely hear his next words. “I’m talking about the package. You’re smart, funny, trustworthy, genuine, and you have had such a positive impact on my daughter—”

“That’s why it’s wrong,” I blurt out, and Foster blinks in surprise. “We can’t do anything or… whatever because of Bowie Jane. It would be too confusing.”

And that penetrates. Foster’s lips flatten as he processes what I’ve said, and just like that, the magical spell is broken. “Bowie Jane,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the vanity for a moment before coming back up to meet mine through the mirror. “Yeah… you’re right. We have Bowie Jane to consider.”