A Pizza My Heart Page 12

  But now? It feels…different.

  Like it did earlier today with him standing so close.

  I can feel my heart rate pick up, can hear my breaths quicken. My brain begins to short-circuit.

  “Say it,” he tells me. “Or I’ll do that thing you love.”

  “That sounds dirty, Foster.”

  His laughter vibrates through my body, and I’m grown enough to acknowledge how good it feels.

  I’m also a little scared.

  “I can make it dirty, Birdie.” He laughs again. “Ha, I rhymed!” He’s mocking my words from this morning.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Will you quit with the double entendres, woman?”

  “They’re hard to avoid.”

  “I’m going to do it.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  To my surprise, he does it.

  He digs his fingers into my sides, just like he used to do when we were teens, only this time it feels like so much more than an innocent tickle with his fingers sliding so close to my breasts.

  He’s one tiny movement away from brushing my pebbled nipples.

  My thighs tingle with every touch. They quake and shiver.

  He’s so close to areas he shouldn’t be touching, but suddenly I wouldn’t mind him touching them.

  My breath quickens even more, loud and harsh, and I think he finally realizes I’m not laughing.

  I’m writhing.

  I’m burning.

  I’m needing something more than this.

  His movements cease. Mine do too.

  I push away from him, though I don’t actually want to.

  I don’t want to, I need to…before I do something stupid.

  He musters up a cocky grin, lips pulling up at the sides in a way that makes me want to push myself against him again. “You never said it.”

  “You’re cute, Foster,” I confess, meaning it wholeheartedly…surprisingly. “But you already knew that,” I add in for good sarcastic measure, trying to right the weirdness between us.

  “I am, huh?” he teases smugly.

  “I’m going to head home, probably crash.”

  “Or order food, maybe make some of your famous cupcakes then take a bath.”

  I snort as he repeats the same things that went through my mind minutes ago. Sometimes I forget how well he knows me. “Or that.”

  “Good. You need a break, some you time.”

  “So badly.” My body sags with defeat, all the weeks of hard work catching up to me in an instant. My eyes brim with tears that are begging to escape, but I sniffle them back. “My feet are on fire nearly constantly, my back aches on the regular, and my shoulders are so knotted I don’t think even a sailor could undo the damage. I needed this more than you know. I could kiss you for making it happen.”

  His warm green eyes hold mine for a moment before falling shut.

  A deep breath.

  A step.

  Then, his lips are on mine.

  Warm. Inviting. Right.

  And gone before I can react.

  He rests his forehead against mine, letting the crickets fill the silence between us.

  “There,” he finally says with a rasp. “Now we can call it even.” He pushes away, putting about a foot between us, back ramrod straight, eyes hard. “Go home. Rest. I’ll pick you up for our date tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

  Without another word, he’s gone, rushing back inside like he didn’t just flip my world on its axis.

  Slice Ten

  Foster

  Yeah. I just did that shit.

  Slice Eleven

  Wren

  A yawn rolls through me for what feels like the hundredth time today.

  I have Foster to thank for it.

  He might have been the one to score me the night off, but he’s also the one who kept me wide awake all through the night.

  I tossed and turned and mentally ran through so many stupid theories as to why on earth he would think it was a good idea to kiss me and still came up with nothing.

  Finally, at around 3 AM, I knocked out…only to wake up at four sweating and panting because Dream Foster was definitely doing things that could only possibly happen in my dreams.

  No, wait—a dream, not my dreams.

  I asked my client this morning what it means to have sex dreams about a dude you’ve known your entire life, and she swore up and down it meant I’ve been on his mind for years and it’s my head’s way of finally plucking itself out of my ass.

  Clearly she’s exactly who I should have asked for advice from.

  I had to laugh, though, at her implying I was stuck in some sort of Ross-and-Rachel situation where Foster’s been secretly pining over me for years.

  Yeah right. Not freakin’ likely.

  I finish sweeping up the last pile of hair for the day and snap the broom back into its rack on the wall just as my cell chimes under the front counter.

  I snatch it up and my heart begins to pound double time at the name on the screen.

  Foster.

  Could he sense I was thinking of him…again?

  Foster: One hour.

  Me: One hour until…?

  Me: Oh crap, Kiddin’ Around: My Real-Life Goat Obsession DOES premiere at 8! I almost forgot to set my DVR. Good reminder.

  Foster: I sincerely hope that’s not a real show.

  Me: It is. AND the dude this season is based on is SUPER hot. Nerdy, but hot.

  Foster: THERE ARE MULTIPLE SEASONS?!

  Me: OMG QUIT YOUR JUDGING AND LET THEM ENJOY THEIR GOATS

  Foster: I don’t think it’s possible to NOT judge them.

  Foster: But I digress. I’m talking about our first date. Or did you forget already?

  Foster: Oh god. You forgot.

  I laugh.

  Forget? After he kissed me?

  Impossible.

  Me: No, I didn’t forget. I’m just about to close up shop.

  Foster: You’re open this late on a Saturday?

  Me: Always. I shut down at 7 then usually head to Slice from 7:30 until close.

  Foster: I don’t know if I should be in awe or check you into a facility.

  Me: Probably both.

  Foster: Are you still okay with going out tonight? We can move it to another night if you’re too tired…

  My fingers beg me to say yes.

  Not because I don’t want to help Foster, but because I’m suddenly scared of what this little experiment of ours could lead to.

  I mean, he did just kiss me less than fourteen hours ago—not that I’m counting or anything.

  Lines are already getting blurred between us. How is that line going to survive several practice dates? Hours upon hours of pretending to be into one another?

  I kind of want to find out.

  My fingers fly over my keypad…

  Me: You tryin’ to back out on me already?

  Foster: Me back out? When have you EVER known me to back down from anything?

  Foster: My marriage excluded.

  Me: Right. For undisclosed reasons, though, so not sure if I can actually exclude it.

  Foster: Wren…

  Me: Yeah, yeah. I know.

  Me: Tonight is fine, and yes, I’m sure. (You know, before you ask.)

  Foster: Pfft, I wasn’t gonna ask.

  Foster: Fine. I was. SUE ME.

  Me: For what? My brother’s couch you’re sleeping on? Pass.

  Me: That’s probably his sex couch, you know. I refuse to plant my butt on it.

  Foster: Unfortunately, I am well aware of this fact.

  Me: *throws up in my mouth*

  Me: Remind me to never touch you again.

  Foster: What if I promise to scrub with steel wool before our date?

  Me: Only if you can prove it.

  Foster: Did you just ask for pics of me naked in the shower?

  Me: Good job horribly reading between the lines.

  Me: *adds “skill” to Things To Teach Foster
During Our Dates list*

  Foster: You have a list?!

  Me: *shrugs* Guess we’ll see, huh?

  Foster: At least tell me how many things are on this list of yours.

  Me: Gotta run. Need to get fancy. I have a hot date tonight.

  Foster: Ha! So you DO think I’m hot.

  Foster: Knew it. *smug grin emoji*

  * * *

  Turns out, going on a date with one of your best friends can make your stomach ache until vomit threatens. As such, when Foster’s knuckles rap against my door at approximately 7:45 PM, I almost barf up the strawberry chicken salad I had for lunch.

  He’s early.

  I tip the shot glass in my hand, tossing the burning liquid to the back of my throat like the pro I most definitely am not.

  Swallow. Headshake. Deep breath.

  I talk my feet into moving and shuffle my way to the front of the house.

  “Look, before you say anything, yes, I know I’m early,” Foster starts as soon as I pull the door open. “But I—holy shit, Birdie. You look… Wow.”

  I glance down at my outfit—an oversized off-the-shoulder light pink crop top, a simple black skirt that comes to mid-thigh, and a pair of black bow-tie wedges. I pulled my hair into a messy top knot, slid my gold hoops through my ears, and added a long necklace to complete the look.

  It’s minimal but cute, especially with my toned legs and a sliver of my tanned stomach on display.

  “Is it too much?”

  “Hell no. In fact, it’s not enough. Go put more clothes on.”

  I arch a brow, surprised. “Excuse me?”

  “No, you’re right. Bad idea. Forget I said that. Let’s just go.”

  I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “No, no. I want to hear more about how I need to put more clothes on. Is this for my sake or yours? Because I can’t tell if that was a big brother statement or if it means you want to fuck me.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and sputtering curse word after curse word. “Jesus, Wren. Just put it all out there why don’t ya.”

  He knows I mean business if I’m cussing.

  I can’t help it, though. We’ve had too many sexually charged moments these last few days for me to ignore this any longer. We don’t beat around the bush. That’s never been our thing, so why would we start doing it now?

  “It’s just…” He starts before blowing out a hard breath and running his hand over the stubble lining his chin. “Fake dating,” he blurts. “It’s the fake dating thing. It’s messing with my head. Am I supposed to treat you like the Wren I’ve known my entire life or like a potential girlfriend? Where’s the line?”

  “Wouldn’t that have been a good question to ask last night when you, oh, I don’t know, kissed me?”

  He smirks. “I didn’t hear you complaining. In fact, I think you even leaned into it.”

  “There was no time for me to react.”

  “Right, but you would have leaned in. I just know it.”

  I don’t say anything. He’s right. We both know it.

  Instead, I voice the question I’ve been dying to ask him for the past several hours.

  “Why’d you kiss me, Foster?”

  When I say the word kiss, his tongue darts out to wet the lips that were placed so perfectly on mine just last night.

  “Real talk?”

  I nod.

  “Because I wanted to.”

  “W-Wanted to?”

  His turn to nod.

  I chew on my lip, another question on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too afraid to ask it.

  He takes a step toward me.

  “Ask me.”

  I swing my eyes toward him but don’t meet his penetrating stare. I’m too scared to do that too.

  Instead, I stare at his mouth, watching the words form on his lips.

  “What?”

  “Ask me, Wren. I know you want to, so ask me.”

  I finally meet his eyes. “Did you just want to kiss me in that moment?”

  “No.”

  His answer is quick. Sure. Steady.

  He takes another step closer, the tips of our shoes touching. His eyes are clear and bright. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to, which I don’t.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you, Wren.”

  “Oh.”

  The word falls softly from my lips and silence engulfs us.

  He kissed me because he wanted to. He’s wanted to.

  As in there was nothing about it that was spur of the moment. He’s been thinking about it.

  I don’t know how to handle that information.

  I flinch when his fingers brush against my cheek, and I realize just how close he’s standing now, our bodies nearly flush.

  “You smell like whiskey.”

  “Nerves,” I tell him.

  He laughs, and I feel it vibrate against me. “Glad I’m not alone.”

  His fingers continue to stroke across my cheek, and I get lost in the simple touch, enjoying it way more than I should.

  He’s looking at me with something I don’t recognize.

  No, that’s not true.

  I recognize it all right; I just never expected it from him.

  Lust.

  Foster is lusting after me, and the crazy part is that he’s not the only one feeling that way.

  I close my eyes against the revelation, scared and unsure what to do about it.

  “You never answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “The line, Wren. Where’s the line?”

  The rasp. The huskiness. The want.

  It’s all there in his voice.

  I peel my eyes open. “I’m not sure,” I say honestly.

  “I guess we’ll find out when we get to it.”

  Slowly, he lowers his face to mine, and my heart begins to beat faster. Harder. Working overtime. My brain explodes with questions and worries and desires.

  So much desire.

  I slam my eyes shut again, anticipating the touch. Wanting it.

  Only his lips fall to my cheek instead.

  Disappointment filters through me, along with a little relief.

  “Let’s get going.” He puts a bit of distance between us. “We have reservations at eight fifteen.”

  “Reservations? Are you taking me somewhere fancy?”

  “Of course. It is a first date after all.” He winks and holds his hand out for me. I place mine in his. “A date would love that I thought ahead to make reservations, implying it wasn’t a last-minute pickup but something genuine.”

  Right.

  His date.

  Not me.

  Because this is all pretend.

  But if that’s the case…why did he kiss me? Why has he wanted to kiss me?

  And why do I want him to do it again?

  Slice Twelve

  Foster

  “You figured it out.”

  I grin over at Wren, my date.

  God, it still feels so fucking weird to know I’m out on a real date with her.

  Well, it’s a real fake date, but it’s a date nonetheless. I’m just going to focus on that, not the technicalities of it all.

  “Took a minute, but I got it.”

  She flits her eyes to the shirt I’m wearing. “I see you dressed appropriately as well.”

  I smother a laugh. “What can I say? I’m a predictable guy.”

  She dips her hand into the small purse she has slung around her shoulder and pulls out three pieces of candy.

  “Three?”

  She nods. “For figuring out the location, the shirt, and the…hmm…let’s go with anticipation you created on the porch. Good move.”

  Right. A move—because I’m supposed to be practicing.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Pushing the annoyance aside, I tug the door open and wave her inside. “After you.”

  “We don’t actually have to go in, you know.”

  “Bullshit we don’t. Get your ass inside,
Daniels.”

  “You’re seriously going to make me eat at my place of employment for a date?”

  “Yes. Now in.”

  “I’m docking points for this.”

  “That’s fine. I’m sure things were going a little too well anyway. Gotta keep it realistic.”

  She huffs but brushes past me nonetheless, a smirk begging to break out.

  I follow closely behind her—probably too close if I’m being honest—my hand going to her waist as she comes to a sudden stop in front of me.

  “What the…”

  Her eyes are trained on the corner of the restaurant where a giant wall of taped-together pizza boxes blocks off an entire booth. There’s an archway cut out for a server to come and go through, but the space is narrow, just the perfect size for someone small to slip in. Other than that, it’s completely closed off.