Page 44 of O Goalie Night
Ihave a proposition for you.
There have been several times over the past couple of weeks where I have thought about my new roommate/friend in less than co-habitable, friendly ways. I don’t feel badly for thinking these thoughts. After all, he’s an attractive man who’s been exceedingly good to me and as long as I keep these secret sexy thoughts locked up in the brain vault, no one will get embarrassed or hurt.
But hearing him say those words to me in that gravelly baritone sent a jolt of want between my thighs that made me forget all about timeless films with heartfelt messages.
Those words, spoken in that exact order, had my heart trying to flee my body by breaking itself out of my chest cavity. Suddenly I was wide awake and the farthest thing from weepy.
Foster James was propositioning me.
Okay, it was to go to a nightclub with him and twenty-two other men, one of whom is my brother, but still.
Leaping from the couch with a newfound eagerness, I jog to my bedroom.
My leggings and t-shirt are discarded in record speed, replaced by a simple cream-coloured, fitted sweater and a tight pair of jeans. My hair, freshly washed after my skating lesson, hardly needs any effort. I give it a quick comb through before pulling it back into a high ponytail.
It’s my face that needs the most time and help. After several minutes of crying, I look like I’m having a severe allergic reaction. I run a facecloth under the freezing tap before ringing it out and draping it over my face. After a minute, I remove it and repeat the process again. In the end, I’m still a bit puffy, but it’s a definite improvement.
Digging through my sparse makeup bag, I pull out my would-be saviours, the concealer and foundation.
“Don’t fail me now, ladies,” I say, applying liberal amounts of each to my face and blending them as best I can. I add a few swipes of mascara and give myself a final once over in the mirror.
Not bad, really. Hopefully, in a dimly lit bar, people won’t be able to tell I was crying over a beloved holiday classic.
I grab my purse and rummage in it until I find the lipstick I bought on a whim this week. I don’t usually wear bold colours on my lips, but the deep red hue made me feel festive. I wasn’t brave enough to wear it to my staff party, but I’m feeling more courageous tonight. Maybe conquering my fear of skating has bolstered my confidence.
I’m fetching my coat from the hall closet when Foster comes through the door. His eyes light up when they meet mine. They lower then, taking in the rest of me, and when they return to my face again, I could swear they’re three shades darker.
“I’m ready.” I’m not sure how I manage to get the words past the lump that formed in my throat when he came in looking like an Adonis in his dark coat and jeans. I wonder briefly if he needs to get his clothes from retailers who specialise in outfitting men of his stature and girth.
Stop thinking about his girth.
“Yes,” his words break me out of my internal monologue. “Yes, you are.” With a final appreciative nod, he takes a step forward, relieving me of my coat. He holds it open for me and I turn and slip my arms in as he raises it up to my shoulders.
“Wow,” I laugh as I nervously button it closed. “A chauffeur who helps you get dressed?”
I turn and find his heated gaze seemingly locked on my mouth. I don’t know if I could breathe if I tried.
“It’s a full-service operation,” he states matter of factly. “Satisfaction guaranteed.”
You don’t belong here.
That’s what goes through my head as the valet opens my door for me. I think it as the bouncer takes one look at Foster and motions us towards a private entrance and as the gorgeous hostess leads us up a set of winding stairs to the VIP section of the club.
You don’t belong here.
When we reach the top of the stairs, Foster reaches his hand back to me and I take it gratefully. Giving it a squeeze, he pulls me in front of him, forcing me to enter the roped off room first. His hand lightly touches thesmall of my back as I step through the entrance and I feel branded.
“Bug!” The room is noisy, but anyone within a kilometre of this bar can probably hear Ben calling out my childhood nickname. Every set of eyes in the room land on me, some more welcoming than others.
He weaves through the sea of bodies with a dumb grin on his face and scoops me up in a rib-fracturing hug.
“I’m so glad you came,” he says over the bass-filled music as he sets me down. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you much since you got here. Do you want to hang out tomorrow? Catch up?”
Oh God, I think I’m going to start crying again.
I can count on one hand the number of times my brother has asked me to hang out with him. I’ve never resented him for this. He’s been an elite athlete my entire life. But the combination of him wanting to spend time with me and me missing our parents and sisters has me choking up.
“I’d love that,” I say with a watery smile, not even minding that he ruffles my hair with his hand.
