Page 13 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
She goes still, then whispers, “Okay.”
I dial the number.“Ready to fuck?”he answers immediately.
“Ready for me to report your ass to the app and cops?”My tone is lethal.“Illegal, asshole.”I text myself the proof and hang up.
I hand her phone back.Her fingers brush mine and the sensation hits harder than any kick from a startled horse.
“Thanks...AdamWoof,”she exhales.
“Harrison.”I’m no longerAdamWoof.
“Foster,” she murmurs.“I’m Eve Foster.”
EvefuckingFoster.Finally.
I should turn around.But I don’t.“Having car issues, Eve Foster?”Her dogs quiet at my voice, and she looks at me like I’ve personally offended her by calming them down.
“Can I get in and check something?”
She hesitates.“Fine.”
Right as she opens and steps out of the car, one of the harnesses snaps.One hundred and twenty pounds of excited Great Dane hits my chest as Eve stumbles into me, and her dachshund follows through, shooting through, their leashes winding around our legs.My arm catches her waist on instinct, and everything freezes.
I should step back.Should treat this like any other rescue situation: stabilize, assess, retreat.
But instead, I hold.Every muscle locked down tight while some primal part of me calculates exactly how many seconds it would take to back her against that car door.To make her understand with hands and teeth what her disappearing act did to me.
From the carrier, LoverBoy lets out what sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Eve tilts her head up, and I get a full, unfiltered hit of her.
Vanilla cupcake.She once joked romance novels taught her vanilla drove romance heroes (and maybe men) wild.Mission accomplished, Foster.Because I may not be a romance hero but I want to bury my head in her neck and inhale again and again and again.
“You’re tall,” she says, searching for neutral ground.
“Yep, ma’am.Six foot one.You’d have known that if…” So manyifs.
Her fingers drum against her thigh.Not the steady rhythm she used when thinking through a diagnosis.This beat is off.Uneven.The kind that always meant she was about to say something she couldn’t take back.
“I should have met you that weekend.I should have told you everything earlier or in person.Like I said in my message after, I’m sorry.”
The air disappears from my lungs for a fraction of a second.Because this isn’t only about Pittsburgh, where I stood for hours in the lobby checking that stupid app, sending messages hoping she was okay, until the batteries died—until she sent me that message telling me she had hidden things from me.Big things.Health things.
Cancer.
Like it was something she was either supposed to be ashamed her or completely defined her.
“I agree.”
“I did reach out again.You’re the one who stopped responding.”
The words punch through my ribs.“What?”
“I messaged you.Told you I was finally done with school.That I was ready to...”She trails off.“You never answered.”
“You ghosted me first and more than once,” I say tightly.“I texted congratulations on your BSN.Even sent a dancing zombie nurse gif.”
Her brows knit.“No, I messaged you.But the app vanished after that breach.”
