Chapter Eighteen
Foster knocked on the door of his father’s study and, when he heard his father’s “Enter,” went in through the open doorway.
His father was behind his giant mahogany desk in his giant mahogany chair, smoking a fat Cuban cigar. Foster bet it didn’t taste as good now that they weren’t illegal.
He took the seat opposite his father—in a much smaller leather chair—and shook his head to decline the offered cigar.
“Come on, son. It’s Thanksgiving. Indulge.”
“No, thanks. I’ll take some of that whiskey, though.”
Without waiting for the answer, he poured himself two fingers in the crystal glass and took a sip. It went down smooth and oaky. Foster would give his father one thing: he knew his whiskey.
“So.” Foster leaned back in the lesser leather chair, trying not to wince as it squeaked. “To what do I owe this audience in your lair?”
Andrew Deacon locked his gaze on Foster’s. Foster knew the move. He was trying to intimidate him, to stare him down, to make the weaker man blink first.
But Andrew’d been staring guys like him down for a long time. Foster blinked first.
“When are you going to quit dickin’ around, son?”
And there it was. Foster showed one sign of weakness, Andrew pounced.
Maybe he should have let Becky come in here with him. She was missing out on a great Deacon family tradition. It was the one where his father berated him for not joining his firm after college and dragging his feet on joining it now, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
“Work’s going great, Dad; thanks for asking.”
“I hear you’re finally stepping up to the big leagues. Congrats on winning the Goliath business. Now you gonna win this case?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know you will, son, because you work hard. You got that from me. And I think it’s about time you paid me back.”
“For what? For making me genetically incapable of losing an argument?”
“I made you who you are. Your drive, your success, your love of the law: all that comes from me.”
“That’s right, I keep forgetting you were father of the year.”
“We’re not going to start this crap again. So I didn’t go to your baseball games, boo hoo. Get over it, son. You’re almost thirty. It’s time you started thinking about putting down roots.”
“Putting down roots at your firm?”
“It’s only right that I pass it on to you.”
“You retiring?”
“Ha.”
“No, thanks, Dad. I don’t think us working together would be great. Besides, I don’t have any experience with mergers and acquisitions.”
“You’re quick. You’d pick it up. And you have the privilege of being my son, so the others will show you the way.”
“Gosh, Dad, practicing a branch of law that doesn’t interest me and getting other people to do my work . . . sounds really satisfying.”
“I didn’t know you were turning into one of those justice warriors, or whatever they are. I seem to recall you working in corporate law, same as me.”
“Intellectual property isn’t the same as corporate law.”
“No, I work for the big dogs, the ones who eat clients like yours for breakfast.”
“Jesus, Dad, I’m not getting into a damn pissing contest with you over who has the biggest clients.”
“Because you know you don’t stand a chance.”
Foster went to take a bracing sip of his whiskey, but somehow the glass was empty.
“What do you make of this business with your sister? Don’t look so surprised. You’re digging your heels in on your career, so I’m changing the subject. What’s going on in that girl’s brain?”
“I wish I knew.”
“She’s driving your mother crazy. I’m sick of coming home from work and it’s all I hear about. Madison talked back, Madison slammed the door, Madison . . . I don’t know, what else does she get into?”
“Dad, she was arrested for underage drinking and public intoxication.”
“I know she was. I bailed her out. Your mother was too upset.”
“Have you talked to Madison about it?”
“Sure I have. I talk to her plenty. That girl has everything she could ever ask for and she’s acting like a damn brat.”
Foster clenched his fists and let out a slow breath. He didn’t think he was ready to add brawling to the list of Deacon Thanksgiving traditions. Not just yet. Let his father say one more thing about Madison.
“Dad, it’s Thanksgiving, so I’m not going to sit here and list all your shortcomings as a father.”
Foster was about to launch into a list of just that when the office phone rang.
“Deacon here. Roger! Good to hear from you! I expected you to be knee deep in family bullshit. Ha! Ha! I know. Listen, Happy Thanksgiving; I’m glad you called. Hold on just a sec.” Andrew held his hand over the receiver. “I’ve got to take this, son. Good talk.”
Foster left the room in a hurry, more relieved than he was willing to admit.
He needed pie.
* * *
Becky knew it was rude, but she was hoping Foster would beg off dessert. He’d been looking pretty distracted since the talk with his father. Mr. Deacon hadn’t emerged from the study yet. She hoped Foster hadn’t killed him.
If he had, though, he might be willing to make a getaway.
Thanksgiving was long. Why hadn’t anyone ever told her that? And there was so much football! She hated to seem ungrateful for Mrs. Deacon’s hospitality, but it was either sit in the parlor and hear gossip about people she didn’t know or sit in the den and watch a game she didn’t understand. Not even Maddie was there to rescue her because she’d locked herself in her room with her phone and, presumably, Starr.
Instead, Becky sat in a chair near the fire and watched the snow fall.
Besides, she’d brought a pie. It would be rude to leave before she partook of the course she had contributed to, wouldn’t it?
Except that when she followed the remaining herd to the dessert table, her homemade sweet potato pie wasn’t there.
“Told you,” Maddie said, appearing out of nowhere.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the kids’ table?” Foster called out as he passed on the way to his seat across from her.
“The snow exodus made some space for me.”
“We will not talk about the snow,” Mrs. Deacon warned from her spot at Mr. Deacon’s right hand.
So they didn’t. They ate their dessert and talked about things that weren’t snow. And then, when it was time to leave, they couldn’t.
They were all staying overnight.
Staying overnight. With Foster.
Gulp.
* * *
“Madison, is Starr in there with you?”
As soon as he’d put her down on the marble floor in the foyer, Starr had beat a quick retreat away from all the little kids who thought she was so cute and fluffy. She was cute and fluffy, now that her coat was starting to grow back after her post-shelter shave. But the haircut hadn’t changed her personality.
Those kids were noisy.
Starr didn’t do noisy.
It took them twenty minutes to find her, which wasn’t bad, considering the size of his parents’ house. She was behind the pull-out sofa in the den, and after two of his uncles moved the thing away from the wall, Madison was able to squeeze behind it and pick Starr up.
It took a while for Starr to allow herself to be put down again. Finally, Madison offered up her room as a dog sanctuary, and after checking on Starr several times and bringing her a small piece of turkey, Foster decided she was happy in there.
But he didn’t want her to get too happy in there. Starr was still his dog.
“Yes,” came the muffled reply from behind the door.
“Does she have to go out?”
“I just took her.”
He waited.
“So is she sleeping in there with you tonight?”
“Can she?”
Foster shook his head. How could he say no? He didn’t want Madison to know what a softy he was for that dog.
Hell, she probably already knew.
And Maddie had had to sit through dinner at the kids’ table. He could share his dog for one night.
“Fine. Hey, do you have any pajamas Becky can borrow?”
He was tired of talking through the door. Using his rights as the older brother, Foster opened the door to Madison’s room without asking first. So even though he’d been talking to her literally seconds ago, she was surprised enough that she couldn’t hide the plastic-wrapped brownie behind her back.
“Why are you eating a brownie?”
Starr looked up from her throne on Madison’s pillows and let out a soft bark. He gave her a scratch behind the ears.
“I’m not!” She held out the unwrapped but uneaten brownie and started to stick the plastic wrap back together.
“How are you not stuffed? I feel like I ate enough for three meals.” He patted his full, full belly.
“I’m not . . .”
“I saw you eat as much as I did. I don’t know where you’re putting it . . . wait a second.”
Madison wouldn’t meet his eye.
“Is that an edible?”
“What do you mean? It’s a brownie, of course it’s edible.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Shut up! God, you’re such a narc.” Her annoyed huff propelled her off the bed and she knelt down and pulled a shoebox out from underneath it.
But before she could slide it back under, Foster grabbed it from her.
“Hey!”
Starr barked at the commotion.
“What other contraband do you have?”
Inside the shoebox was a diary—not interested—some condoms—horrified but not interested—and the brownie. That was it. Not at all as terrible as he was expecting.
He held up a condom and looked at her.
“What? I’m being safe.”
“You’re sixteen.”
“Oh, like you didn’t have a girlfriend when you were sixteen.”
“We didn’t have sex.” That was a lie, but he was the older brother. He was allowed to lie.
“Yeah right.”
“Anyway, since when do you have a boyfriend?”
“Ugh, I literally cannot talk with you right now!” She flopped down on her bed, face first. Starr got up to sniff her hair, then curled up in a ball next to her ear.
“You know, you have to be twenty-one to consume recreational marijuana.”
“Maybe I have a medical card.”
“Really? Let’s see it.”
“I hate you.”
He kissed her on the top of her head and handed back the shoebox—sans brownie. “Good night, sister.”
“Wait! You can’t have that!”
He didn’t really want the brownie. Edibles weren’t his thing. But he couldn’t just leave it with Madison. She was a kid. A kid who was old enough to get busted for public intoxication, but still a kid.
He wondered where she’d gotten it.
He’d grill her about that in the morning.
“Good night, Starr. You traitor.” Starr made no move to follow him out the door.
That was fine. He didn’t need to sleep with his dog. He’d sleep with . . .
With Becky.
Not with Becky of course. But in the same room as her. Because there weren’t enough beds for everyone to stay over; well, everyone who was related to the Deacons. The nonfamily guests didn’t know any better, so they dared to defy Lydia Deacon and braved the roads. With all the uncles and cousins and aunts, he should consider himself lucky he was only sharing a room with Becky.
A room. Not a bed. They weren’t like that.
His back hurt in anticipation of a long night sleeping on the floor.
Maybe he would eat the brownie. Or part of it. Either way, he wasn’t leaving it here with Madison.
“It’s the price for my silence,” he said, and he had the door shut behind him before the pillow she threw at him was even close.
It wasn’t until he got halfway down the hallway that he realized he didn’t have any pajamas for Becky.
Maybe Becky would sleep naked.
Maybe he needed to eat this brownie and track down another bottle of wine so he would pass out.
When he opened the door to his room—and it was still his room, complete with lacrosse trophies and an unfortunate collection of CDs—Becky was sitting on the bed, her hands tucked under her thighs, her shoes kicked off, and her toes curling into the carpet. He should be grateful she wasn’t riffling through his stuff or peeking into the drawers of his nightstand. Good God, what did he have stuffed into the drawers of his nightstand? Instead, he noticed how the hem of her dress had hiked up and she’d taken her hair down.
“Did you—that’s not pajamas,” she said, nodding toward his hands, which were full of pot brownie rather than of borrowed nightwear.
“Uh . . . she didn’t have any clean.”
“But she had dessert? Didn’t you eat enough dessert?”
“No, this is . . . this is a Colorado dessert.”
He watched her face morph from confusion to understanding. “Ah,” she said. “Maddie gave that to you?”
“Not really. I confiscated it.”
“Yikes.”
“Hey, she’s only sixteen.”
“I know. That’s why I said yikes. You’re a little tense.”
He was tense. He felt strung tight as a bow. First he’d caught his sister with drugs—and condoms!—then Becky was going to have to sleep naked, and now that he was sitting next to her he could smell her. She smelled like pie. He wanted to eat her up.
Whoa.
“I might have some old sweatpants or something,” he said, hopping off the bed. Anything to keep his back to her.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to poke at a sore subject.” Even though she was barefoot on the carpet, he heard her padding up to him, and before he could move away, she put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Well, comforting to every part of him but his groin.
He coughed uncomfortably and bent to his dresser. Oh good. Sweatpants.
“Here,” he said, handing one pair to her. “There’s the bathroom.”
“I know. I was snooping.”
Ugh. Tension.
“What? You were gone a long time. But then I started to feel guilty, so I stopped. OK, anyway. I’m babbling. Wine. Pie. You know. Anyway, I’m going to just go in the bathroom to . . .”
He tossed an old T-shirt at her. That was all he needed, her coming out topless.
He swallowed, hard, and turned to look for baggier sweats.
* * *
“I can’t go out like this,” Becky said to her reflection in Foster’s childhood bathroom mirror.
The sweatpants and T-shirt he’d lent her were way too long; no surprise, considering how big he was. But he wasn’t big, was he? Just tall. And even though he was pretty broad across his chest, the shirt was no match for her and her D-cups. Just like his hips were no match for hers, and she looked nervously at the straining seams of the pants across her butt. She didn’t used to think her butt was that big. Foster was making her reconsider.
No, he wasn’t. His pants were. Foster liked her ass, and she liked the way he grabbed handfuls of it when she was . . .
Now you definitely can’t go out like this. Because now, in addition to what she assumed was his high-school logo being stretched beyond recognition, it also had two little pebble points where her nipples were hardening at the thought of her riding Foster . . .
“Quit thinking about it,” she hissed. Why was she so bad at listening to herself?
She stuck her arms inside the shirt and pressed her elbows out in a desperate attempt to give herself a little breathing room. It might ruin the shirt, but she didn’t care.
Desperation made her not very nice.
Shirt stretched, she washed her face with the random products she found under the sink—she wouldn’t be getting any pimples tonight!—but she didn’t see a spare toothbrush. She briefly considered the one sitting in the cup next to the sink. But no. She couldn’t. She wasn’t that not-very-nice, and besides, she didn’t know how long that toothbrush had been sitting there. So she squirted a little toothpaste on her finger and did her best.
“OK,” she said to her reflection. She sucked in a big breath, then whooshed it out. “No more big breaths,” she told her reflection, then reached in her shirt to stretch it out again. At least the too-long shirt covered the worst of the tight sweatpants.
Without a deep breath, she opened the bathroom door.
And gasped.
No amount of shirt stretching was going to hide the deliciousness of Foster’s naked butt.
He must have heard her because he turned. Then he must have realized that turning gave her an even more indecent view, so he turned back. But he must have forgotten that he had one foot in the leg of his sweatpants, because he went down—hard—on the other side of the bed.
“Are you OK?” She wasn’t laughing. She really wasn’t laughing.
She was totally laughing.
“Don’t come over here!” he shouted from the floor. There were the sounds of some mad fumblings, then he popped up, all his bits and pieces covered by a pair of plaid pajama pants that actually fit.
Too bad.
No, no, she scolded herself, thinking of her too-tight shirt. Not too bad at all. Very good.
“Those, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yup,” she said, resisting the urge to crawl under the bed and hide.
The bed.
Oh.
How was that going to work?
He must have caught her looking pillow-ward because he grabbed one of the pillows and the plaid throw at the foot of the bed. “I think I’ll sleep on the floor, if that’s OK?”
“Sure yeah. Sure, that’s OK. Yeah.” Sure, fine, if the idea of me busting out of your old clothes doesn’t turn you on, fine, go ahead and sleep on the floor.
Oh God, was she turning into his mother? Saying things she didn’t mean and expecting him to understand her anyway? “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable?” Because the way she thought of him definitely wasn’t motherly.
“No problem. I’m ready to pass out. I’ve eaten so much.”
“And drunk so much.”
“Ha, yeah, no. I mean, I drank enough. Are you sure it’s OK that we’re staying here? I’m an adult. My mother can’t actually require me to stay the night.”
“It’s fine. Really. I’ve got these nice sweatpants on . . .”
“Sorry about that. I was really skinny in high school.”
She gave him a moment to let the way that sounded sink in.
“Not that you’re not skinny! I mean, you’re not, you’re . . . you have womanly . . . rgh.” He quit fumbling and backpedaling when he saw her laughing at him.
Laughing made her shirt feel tighter and that made his pants look tighter, and for one hot second she thought he was going to launch himself across the room and devour her.
“Well, good night,” he said suddenly and firmly. Then he was on the floor, blanket tossed haphazardly over him.
“Good night,” she said, and she crawled under the covers. Alone.
* * *
Whose stupid idea was it to sleep on the floor?
Not his. If he had his way, he’d be sleeping in bed with Becky.
Not that she’d told him not to sleep in bed with her.
Because he could totally sleep in the same bed with her and keep his hands to himself.
It wasn’t like the sight of his summer lacrosse camp shirt straining across her breasts made her look completely and totally hot. No, that was ridiculous.
His back hurt.
He was never getting to sleep.
He wasn’t lying earlier. He had eaten way too much; it was as much a tradition on Thanksgiving as football and trying really hard not to talk about politics. But it wasn’t making him tired. Or, rather, it wasn’t making him tired enough to get the image of Becky’s ass in those sweatpants out of his head.
She moaned and shifted in her sleep and the sheets rustled around her.
He bunched his hands into the blanket.
He sat up and looked at the clock radio. It was only one A.M. He had a long damn night ahead of him.
Then, in the green glow of the clock radio, he spotted Madison’s brownie.
On one hand, the thought of eating anything else made his stomach hurt.
On the other hand, he needed to relax. And it was either spend the night jerking off in the bathroom or take a more medicinal approach to relaxation.
He got up quietly.
He unwrapped the brownie.
“Foster?”
Becky’s voice was husky with sleep and it went right to his groin.
He shoved a chunk of brownie in his mouth.
“Are you eating?”
She sounded husky and confused.
“Mm-hmm,” he said with a mouthful of brownie.
“Are you eating your sister’s pot brownie?” She sat up, and the comforter fell back, revealing his high-school wet dream. A hot girl in his T-shirt.
He groaned.
“It’s that good, huh?” When he finally convinced his gaze to move to her face, he saw she had one eyebrow raised. And her hand out.
He broke off a piece and gave it to her.
“Um,” she said. “God, now maybe I can sleep.”
“You weren’t sleeping before?”
“No, I was too . . .” She cleared her throat. “I was too full.”
“I was hoping this would help me sleep.” He held up the brownie, or what was left of it. He offered her another piece. She shook her head.
“You know, this isn’t going to kick in for a while.”
He wrapped up the rest. He’d give it to . . . well, he didn’t know what he’d do with it. Maybe Grandmother Deacon could use it.
“It’s only one o’clock?” Becky flopped back against the pillows. “This night is going to last forever.” Then she pulled the covers back. “Quit standing over me.”
“I . . . uh . . .” How do you tell a woman that you’d like to sit next to her, but your giant erection is going to make it embarrassing?
“Relax, I’m not going to jump on you.”
Not what I was worried about.
But the floor sucked, so he crawled under the covers and lay down next to her.
“So,” he asked, putting his hands behind his head. “How was your first Thanksgiving?”
“Great. Amazing.” She leaned up on one elbow. “Thank you.”
He leaned up on an elbow to face her. “Thank you. My mother barely mentioned eligible women who might need dates to various holiday parties.”
She flopped her head forward and laughed.
When she tossed her head back, she was smiling wide and her hair was all over her face. He didn’t know why he did it. He’d sworn he wouldn’t. But he traced his finger across her forehead and tucked her hair behind her ear. She sucked in a breath. He ran his finger along her cheek. Across her lips. Under her chin. Tilted her face up.
She was the one who closed the space between them. She was the one who pulled him nearer, who opened his mouth wider so her tongue could get inside. She was the one who wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled so their bodies were aligned, then threw her leg over his hip and got them even closer.
He was pretty sure his high-school sweatpants were destroyed in their frantic efforts to get them off, but he didn’t give one iota of a shit. He just wanted her naked and close, and when he shifted them so she was underneath him, he rolled his hips into hers and she gasped at him and he rolled again and she dug her nails into his shoulders and closed her eyes tight.
How did she do that? How did she manage to make him feel like a god when she wasn’t even looking at him? The way her body reacted to his . . . he felt like a king. Like king of the goddamn world.
He hooked an arm under her knee, pulled her leg up to his shoulder. God, his librarian was flexible. He flexed into her again and she made a sound he’d never heard before. Part growl, part squeal, part laugh. He wanted her to do it again. But when he shifted into her again, her whole body bowed up tight and her arms went wild until he grabbed one and she fisted his hair and gasped desperately in her release. It had happened so fast, he’d barely had time to savor it. He wanted to watch her writhe and catch her breath, and then he wanted to see if he could do it again, but it was too late. He shuddered and growled and he felt her limp arms go around his back as he jerked and then, finally, relaxed.
* * *
“You are so much more comfortable than the floor.”
She laughed, even though she’d thought she was too tired to laugh. She didn’t know if it was the brownie or Foster, but her limbs felt heavy and she felt all floaty and relaxed.
Foster ran his fingers up and down her bare arm. She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
Before she could answer, he’d pulled the covers up over them both and rubbed her back.
“I think you killed me,” she said softly into his chest. He tipped up her chin and kissed her gently, then a little less gently. Then, before she could tell him that, while his kisses were delightful, she didn’t have the energy to lift her limbs, he let his head flop back onto the pillow.
“Becky.”
“Mm.” He started stroking her scalp. She wanted to purr, but she was too tired.
“What are we doing?”
“Sleeping?”
“No, I mean . . . I mean this.” He squeezed her shoulder.
She tipped her head up, rested her chin on his chest. “I can’t date you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m supposed to be using you for your body.”
“Thanks?”
She reached up and ran a finger along his jaw, where the stubble was coming in. “If we started dating, would you grow a beard again?”
He raised his eyebrow at her. “I don’t know. It’s not very professional.”
“Mr. Glassmeyer has a beard.”
“Mr. Glassmeyer is almost seventy and he’s a founding partner. He can do whatever he wants.”
She sighed. “Okay. How about if you don’t shave on the weekends?”
“Deal.”
She smiled sleepily and put her head back on his chest.
Had she just gotten herself a boyfriend?
“Are you sure about this?” her boyfriend asked.
“No. But that’s OK.”
“Why? Because I’m a lawyer?”
“Not really.”
“Because I’m a genius?”
“Because you won’t shut up.”
He growled at her and surged them both up, tickling her ribs. She squealed and flailed, but he let her pin him underneath her. They lay there, panting, bodies aligned, his arms held up over his head. She leaned down and kissed him, a little deeper than she meant to, and his arms went around her and he rolled her onto her back and good thing she wasn’t tired because they weren’t getting any sleep tonight.