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)
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?