Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I’ve been in frequent contact with Foster since he landed in San Francisco yesterday morning. We didn’t talk by phone, I presume so Bowie Jane wouldn’t hear, but via text he gave me a pretty thorough update of how things went. He wanted me to know that it was a rough transfer in that his ex-wife made things very difficult on their daughter, but more importantly… Bowie Jane was immensely sad to be leaving her mom despite the circumstances.
I can’t even begin to imagine the emotions circulating through that little girl but I’m here for it and ready to help however I can.
Foster has explained to her who I am but he doesn’t have a whole lot to share. I’m going to be a stranger and I imagine coming from a fairly secure environment—until this most recent custody blowup—to being cared for by someone she doesn’t know will be a bit rocky. Add to that, Foster is leaving in two days for an away game so Bowie Jane will only have me. I’ve got a lot to accomplish to build trust in that short time.
During our last text exchange while he was on the plane, I made a suggestion. I know you’re excited to have Bowie Jane here, but I think for the next two days, it would be good if I can spend as much time with her as possible so she can get to know me before you leave for the away game on Friday.
Foster is continually proving to be such an easy-going—and smart—guy because his response was immediate. Absolutely. I can stay out of your hair.
I paused to consider that offer, unsure if it’s the exact right approach. I don’t think you have to be scarce. Just let me be around her as much as possible.
Understood, he texted back. We’ll figure out some fun things to do.
I sent a thumbs-up emoji and didn’t hear from him again until he texted me that they’d landed, along with their ETA.
I sit in the living room, perched on the sofa, waiting for the garage door to roll up, which will indicate their arrival. I shopped earlier today, stocking the house with a list of Bowie Jane’s favorites that Foster provided me. And I made chocolate chip cookies because those always make every situation better.
I glance around at the house I’ve only been living in for a day. Moving in took no time at all. I packed a single suitcase along with my toiletries to get me going but figure I can bring more stuff over from my parents’ house as needed. I’ll most likely be going there on any evenings off I have, although Foster was clear to me that this should be considered my permanent home seven days a week.
I like this house. It’s not overly ostentatious, even though I had prejudged it to be when I knew I’d be interviewing with a professional athlete. I mean… don’t get me wrong. It’s really nice and I love the white clapboard siding and gentle slopes to the roof that give it a cozy quality. The living room is so comfy, I expect Bowie Jane and I will spend a lot of time in here, especially since it flows right from the kitchen area where I can see her doing homework while I cook dinner.
As I wait on the plush, cream chenille couch, I marvel at how un-bachelor-like Foster’s house is. The living area alone screams of a female touch, done in a soothing blend of grays and soft whites, large pillows, and a casual throw rug that contrasts the glossy hardwood floors. He chose a gray ottoman that actually acts as a serving table with a beautiful tray on it with decorative but expensive fake flowers. There are two sets of built-in shelves on either side of the TV, and they’re overflowing with books, plants and knickknacks.
It’s the plants that surprise me most of all because they’re all healthy and thriving and I wonder if Foster has the green thumb or maybe he has a weekly cleaner handle it. I’ll have to ask him as we didn’t get into other service vendors that might have access to the house while I’m here.
The motion sensor for the garage chimes and then I hear the distinct rattle of it opening. I imagine Foster pulling his big white truck in, another thing that surprised me—no fancy sports car, which is me unfairly stereotyping all rich athletes. In fact, I’m doubly shocked because his truck isn’t a newer model. I have no clue how old it is, but it’s definitely been around a handful of years. I’m guessing he prefers utility over show.
It’s going to be a tight fit in the garage… his truck and my Audi, but one of the last things Foster did before he left for the airport yesterday was give me the remote control for the far left garage and told me to park there rather than in the driveway or on the street.