Page 76 of O Goalie Night
“I will.”
“I wouldn’t want to rush your consideration.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
Foster’s deep, rich laughter fills the small space. It’s infectious, and I find myself grinning just listening to him. I love making him laugh. I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his whole face lights up.
As his laughter fades, he looks at me with a smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
There's something so pure, so unguarded about him when it’s just the two of us. I don’t think he shares this side of himself with many people and that makes me happy.
I want him all to myself.
“You made it!”Ben greets us as he opens the door, welcoming us into his condo.
He pulls me in for a quick hug and even from the brief contact, I can tell that he’s tense.
"I’m so glad you’re here." Ben takes Foster’s coat and waits while I unbutton mine. "Seriously, you have no fucking idea how glad I am." His tone is upbeat, but there’s a strain in his smile. This is not like him at all.
On that ominous note, I shrug off my coat and instantly feel Foster’s gaze on me. More specifically, on my dress.
I spotted the dress in the window of a consignment store while I was window shopping downtown over the weekend. It’s a deep red sheath dress with cap sleeves, a square neckline, and a skirt that falls just to my knees. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever worn, but it called to me. Wearing it makes me feel like Grace Kelly—timelessly elegant, effortlessly poised.
As Ben disappears with our coats, Foster approaches me from behind.
“That dress…” His mouth hovers just above my ear; not touching me, but affecting me all the same.
My pulse quickens. “What about it?” I made sure to slip my coat on before he could catch a glimpse of me in the dress, knowing full well that if he saw me in it, we probably wouldn’t have made it out of the house on time.
“It needs to be on my fucking floor,” he growls before stepping away, putting some much-needed distance between us.
Ben appears again and motions us to follow him intothe living room. I still remember the first time I visited, how awestruck I was by the space. The décor had been simple back then, but the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning panoramic view of the city that left me speechless.
Today, the interior is almost unrecognisable. The room is dimly lit, with overhead lights casting dramatic spotlights on different areas. The living space, once open and minimalist, now features three long, plush white sofas arranged around a sleek glass coffee table. Bold, vibrant abstract paintings dominate three of the four walls, adding a burst of colour to the otherwise washed-out space.
It’s about as inviting as a roped-off art exhibit.
And the occupants appear to be just as welcoming.
Four people in the living room are deeply engaged in conversation and fail to acknowledge Foster and me.
I recognize Valentina from her pictures online, but I have no idea who her friends are. My first thought is they must be models too—how could they not be, looking like that?
I’ve never struggled with body image issues, but I’ve always seen myself as more cute than striking. These three women and their male companion possess a kind of beauty that feels surreal. Perfectly symmetrical features, flawless skin, and makeup so polished it’s as if they don’t exist in this world, but instead stepped straight out of a magazine into the condo.
“Babe,” Ben says, attracting the group’s attention. “Beth is here.”
“Hi,” I beam at her. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
She stands, stepping around the coffee table as she walks towards me. She’s almost as tall as Ben.
Do I hug her? Shake her hand? I have no idea what the proper etiquette is.
When she reaches me, she places her hands on my shoulders as she leans down and gives me a quick air kiss next to my cheek.
“Hey.” She turns and with an effortlessly graceful hand motion gestures to the beautiful creatures sitting on the sofa. “This is Gwen, Dante, and Xan.” Even her voice is elegant. Soft but captivating as she introduces her friends.
I give the group an awkward little wave. The first two return my greeting with warm smiles. The third, Xan, I presume, stares straight past me and locks her gaze on Foster. Her long black hair is slicked back in a high, sleek ponytail. She’s like a cat, eyes on her target, ready to prowl.
