Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
And then I’d remember that he’d lied—or close enough—that night. I’d remember the woman in the Bride sash. I’d remember his big-city aspirations. I’d remember his presence in my life was temporary. And I’d hit the ground with a thud so hard and painful, it felt like my chest would shatter.
I was already exhausted and hurting, pissed at myself for still caring this much over what should have been nothing, should have meant nothing. And we still had eight goddamn weeks to go.
Chickie padded over and rested her chin on my knee, looking up at me with sympathetic brown eyes.
“Yeah, girl,” I whispered, scratching behind her ears. “I’m fucked.”
When Tommy emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, his hair was damp, and he wore thin sleep pants and a fitted T-shirt that clung to his chest. He moved quietly to his bed, clearly trying not to disturb me, but I was hyperaware of every sound—the rustle of sheets, the creak of the mattress as he settled.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe in the darkness. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to cross those three feet, to slide into his bed and let him experiment with a man all he wanted.
“Foster?” His voice was soft in the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry. For Hawaii. For not telling you about the wedding. You deserved better than that.”
My throat tightened. So there had been a wedding after all. “Forget about it.”
“I can’t.” The words emerged as a whisper, low and tortured. “That night… it meant something to me. More than I knew how to handle.”
I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to tell him it had meant something to me, too. That it had given me hope there was still someone out there for me… and then just as quickly dashed it, reminding me yet again that love was a false promise. Trust was an elusive thing, and it damned well didn’t grow on trees.
If someone as seemingly upright and good as Tommy Marian could kiss the fuck out of me one day and get married the next, there was no way to tell a trustworthy man from an untrustworthy one.
“Go to sleep, Tommy. It’s over and done.”
It wasn’t, not really, but there was no way in hell I’d ever let him hear it from me.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren’t saying. Eventually, his breathing evened out, but I lay awake for hours, acutely aware of his presence just feet away, knowing that eight weeks of this was going to be the sweetest torture I’d ever endured.
8
TOMMY
The fourth day of the program started at 6:00 a.m. with coffee that could strip paint and a breakfast briefing that would be quickly followed by the students’ first exercise in the field.
Just like the previous four nights, I’d barely slept, hyperaware of Foster’s breathing in the bed across from me. Every time he’d shifted, my body had gone on high alert, remembering the weight of his hands on my skin in Hawaii… and his obvious lack of interest now that we were in Montana.
Because despite our heated exchange on the drive back from town that first night, Foster had retreated back into professional mode as promised. Every attempt I’d made to talk to him since then had been shut down by polite dismissal.
Over and over since January, I’d told myself to stop thinking about the man. That our interaction had probably been a blip on his radar—and not one he cared to remember, given the way we’d parted.
But experiencing it up close and personal? Seeing him act cool and distant where he’d once been so warm and engaged? Having him so fucking close but not at all in the way I wanted him? It was soul-crushing. I felt even more depleted and hollowed out than I’d felt in New York.
Thankfully, the first few days of the program had been busy and overwhelming enough to distract me. Our schedules were packed with orientations, education sessions, and hands-on preparation. Although we’d been paired up several times in the course of our work, Foster had made it very clear he wanted to keep things professional, so I gave him the respect he deserved and stayed in my own damned lane.
During the day, that had worked fine. At night, however, it had been almost impossible. Being that close to something you wanted more than anything else in the world and knowing you couldn’t have it was excruciating.
By the time my alarm went off this morning, I felt like I’d run a marathon in my sleep.
Foster was already up, dressed in tactical pants and a dark SERA T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that should have been illegal. He’d taken Chickie out and returned with two cups of coffee, setting one on my nightstand without a word.