Chapter Three
Becky woke up warm.
Her ideal conditions for falling asleep were a freezing room and a big blanket to cuddle under. This usually resulted in her waking up with cold toes, after having kicked her blankets off in the middle of the night. She was a restless sleeper. Maybe because her room was usually so cold that her body took advantage of her being unconscious to do some calisthenics for warmth. At least that was what Dakota thought. But Dakota only thought that because Dakota liked to fall asleep in a sauna.
So it was strange that she was so warm. She also thought her room smelled weird. Not bad, but not like fresh linens and lightly scented candles. This morning, her room smelled . . . musky. Kind of like a man.
All at once it registered: Her room smelled weird because it wasn’t her room, and she was warm because she was draped in naked man. Naked lumberjack with whom she’d had a toe-curling one-night stand.
Yay, lumberjack.
She owed Dakota, like, forty-five soy lattes. She was so right. Becky felt totally reset.
She should have one-night stands more often.
With the lumberjack.
No, no, not with the lumberjack. There were other lumberjacks in the sea, surely. One-night stand meant no more nights.
It also probably meant no mornings either. She didn’t have a ton of experience with them—a little, but not a ton—and it wasn’t called a one-night-anda-morning stand. A twelve-hour stand. A call-your-doctor-if-your-one-night-stand-lasts-more-than-twenty- four-hours stand.
She should leave.
Waa, leaving.
There was a big part of her that wanted to stay. He was a really good cuddler, the way his thigh was pressed up against her, his chest curled around her back, one arm across her waist, cupping her breast like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was comfortable. Plus, it brought back fond memories of the night before, when he was not so gentle, and her toes curled again at the memory.
But she should go. If she stayed, she would fall in love, and she had promised Dakota that she wouldn’t. This was just supposed to be a positive-sex moment, and boy howdy was it ever. She didn’t want to ruin it by getting to know the guy, because, as Dakota rightly pointed out, getting to know the guy had always ruined her positive-sex moments because she had terrible taste in men. If she got to know him and liked him, he wasn’t worth getting to know.
But if she stayed, just a little bit longer, they could have toe-curling morning sex. And she’d be able to see all that lumberjack gorgeousness in the daylight. She’d bet he’d feel even better if she could see him.
No. She had to be strong. She had to go.
She could just sneak one more look at him, though. She could do that without waking him up.
Of course, he had her breast in his hand. She kind of needed that back.
Moving like the stealth jungle cat she was—thank goodness he was a heavy sleeper, though the poor guy had earned it, she thought, her toes curling yet again—she rolled slowly onto her stomach. His hand, floppy with sleep, traced her movements: her chest, her shoulder, her back. She tried her best not to shiver with pleasure by focusing on being a stealth jungle cat, and she kept rolling until she was on her other side, facing him.
God he was cute.
Whatever tension she’d seen in his face in the bar the night before was gone, the line between his eyebrows smoothed out in sleep. She remembered how that line had deepened as he concentrated on her, and rather than let her reflexive toe curling convince her that maybe she really could go after they had a morning positive-sex moment, she shifted her butt so it was hanging off the bed, then bent a leg down until her foot hit the floor, then slid out and into a squat. He shifted in his sleep, snuffled into her vacated pillow, and she dropped down to the floor. Because he definitely wouldn’t be able to see her, what with her being a stealth jungle cat and also a morning-after ninja.
She ignored the way his hair stood up at wonky angles in the back in a very cute, sleepy way, and the way the muscles in his shoulders bunched and relaxed in a very sexy way. She almost willed him to wake up, he looked so perfect.
That, ultimately, was what propelled her to grab her underwear—how did it end up on top of the dresser?—dig her shirt out from behind the couch—how???—and sneak out the door as soon as she was decent enough to do so.
As the door closed behind her, she took a deep breath. As she exhaled, she expelled any feelings of regret she felt at leaving that perfect, perfectly naked lumberjackian male specimen alone in his warm, warm bed. She was left a little light-headed and a lot in need of coffee, but as she took the elevator down to the street and found her car, she had a decided bounce to her step. Positive-sex moment: accomplished.
She was reset and ready to find her settle-down guy.
Who wasn’t a lumberjack.
Well, not that lumberjack. But this was good information. This had opened up a whole new kind of guy to discover. She called Dakota to let her know she was still alive, and that they needed to figure out how to infiltrate the timber industry.
* * *
Foster woke up and stretched like he’d never needed to stretch in his life. How was he so tired, even though he’d just slept like a log? That might have been the best sleep of his life. Definitely the best sleep he’d had since moving back to Denver.
Then it started coming back to him. The bar, the blonde, the minds blown.
Becky. Becky in all her sweet, toe-curling, back-clutching, name-shouting glory.
Where was she? He ran his hands over the side of the bed, where he was pretty sure he’d left her, but, nope, his eyes did not deceive him. She was gone, and the pillow was cold. But it still smelled like her. He inhaled.
So he was now both a detective and a psycho.
Maybe she was in the shower. Brock’s place had an amazing shower. Three showerheads, heated floor, tile bench. It was like a carwash in there. Plenty of room for two.
But when he got to the bathroom, the shower was empty.
Disappointed, he threw on last night’s jeans—how did they get halfway under the mattress?—and headed toward the kitchen. Maybe she was making coffee. Naked. Or an omelet. He could go for an omelet. And coffee. And Becky wearing nothing but an apron . . .
But, no, she wasn’t in the kitchen either. She wasn’t on the not-very-comfortable couch watching TV. He went back to the bedroom, but, no, she wasn’t there.
He knew he was getting desperate when he checked for her in the hall closet. But he checked anyway.
She wasn’t there.
She was gone.
He flopped down on a not-very-comfortable chair that matched the sofa. Hmph.
Well, this was probably for the best. He didn’t want anything serious, and if she’d stayed, it could have gotten serious. Hell, if she had been naked and making coffee, it definitely would have gotten serious.
He rubbed his hands over his face. Definitely good she’d left.
Well, naked coffee obviously wasn’t going to make itself, so he got up and headed to the kitchen. Then he thought she might have left her number. He looked around for a scrap of paper in the sea of boxes. If it was there, he’d never find it. Even more reason for him to finish unpacking.
But first, coffee. He’d gotten a serious workout last night—man, he hoped she’d left her number—and he seriously needed to caffeinate.
As the coffee brewed, he leaned against the counter island and watched out the windows as the clouds drift over the mountains. You didn’t get views like this in New York, he reminded himself. Maybe it wasn’t terrible to be back.
His phone rang and he grabbed it.
“Oh good, you’re up.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed, love.”
He wasn’t disappointed. He hadn’t thought, in a momentary flash of joy, that Becky had somehow retrieved his number from his phone and was now calling him to schedule some more time of not getting serious.
But now he was on the phone with his mother.
So he needed to reset.
“Sorry; it’s early.” He looked at the clock on the microwave. Not that early, but, well, he didn’t need to get into that.
“I suppose you’re technically on vacation.”
He snorted.
“Don’t snort, dear.”
He rolled his eyes.
“And don’t roll your eyes.”
“How did you . . . never mind. What’s up?”
“It’s your sister.”
He tensed. There could be no good news about Madison this early in the morning.
“She’s at the pound.”
The pound? Was that another name for jail? Was his mother suddenly using slang?
Then he remembered the pound wasn’t really the pound, but rather an animal shelter run by the county and some local nonprofits, and the current location where Madison was working off her community service hours.
She must be serious about getting reformed if she was going to the animal shelter this early in the morning.
Well, not that early.
Focus, Foster.
“OK. So, uh . . . what does that have to do with me?” He tried not to sound petulant, but he hadn’t had caffeine and his mother was being obscure.
“I have a meeting this afternoon, so I’ll need you to pick her up.”
“What if I have plans?” Which he would, if he could successfully track down Becky.
“I suppose she could have someone at the shelter drive her home. I just hate to think what would happen if she was unattended all afternoon. . . .”
Foster knew the beginning of a guilt trip when he heard it.
And his mother wasn’t wrong. Madison was turning out to be a trouble magnet. His mother seemed to think, though, that it was all because of the bad influence of her miscreant friends. Because there was no way the girl who got kicked out of church choir when she was ten for a spontaneous solo that rhymed Christmas with some unfortunate biological functions was, as a teenager, able to come up with ways to break the rules on her own. Except now she wasn’t just doing crazy things because she was chafing at authority or wanted attention. Now she was doing actual stupid, illegal things, like drinking way too young.
And that was just the stuff she got caught at.
Foster hadn’t been a great older brother. He was embarrassed when his mother was pregnant with Madison, and he couldn’t relate to the little kid who followed him everywhere and was too annoying to be any fun. She was barely in school when he left for college. But somehow, that separation made them closer. When he hardly saw her, when she wasn’t constantly under his feet, that was when he was able to step back and think that she was kind of an OK person.
And, fine, the hero worship was good for his ego.
No matter what, though, Madison was his sister. He knew what it was like growing up with Lydia and Andrew Deacon and their high expectations. A Deacon doesn’t let someone else win captain of the lacrosse team. A Deacon doesn’t let someone else win valedictorian. A Deacon doesn’t let someone else win, period.
Madison was his kid sister, and whether he liked it or not—or whether he deserved it or not—she looked up to him. He had a responsibility to exert whatever good influence he had over her to make sure she didn’t totally screw up.
If nothing else, he could show her how to drink and not get caught.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He took a sip, braced himself. “No, Mom, you’re right. I’ll pick her up. We’ll grab some lunch.”
“Better make it dinner.”
He wasn’t going to find Becky anyway. Time to let it go and man up. He was only going to be here for a little while, after all.
“OK. Dinner.”
He brought his coffee over to the not-very-comfortable couch and listened to his mother tell him all about the charity meeting she was about to attend—complete with a mention of all the eligible daughters and granddaughters of the members—and looked at his boxes, willing them unpacked. Maybe he’d shave his vacation beard today. He kind of liked it. He liked that Becky liked it. Which, aside from its being unprofessional, was a great reason to get rid of it.
At least he had a great view.