Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Bowie Jane swallows, stabs another fork full of pancakes, but before she puts it in her mouth, she says, “I really like Mazzy, Dad. She’s not like Chet. So if you wanted to date her, that would be fine with me.”
A victorious flush of happiness wells within me and I want to fist bump, but then Bowie Jane brings me back down.
“But,” she says, her countenance solemnly grim, “Mazzy doesn’t date.”
“Wait. What?”
“I asked her why she doesn’t date Leo because he’s so handsome.” Dude isn’t that good-looking. “But she assured me he was just a friend. Then I asked her if she had a boyfriend, and she said she just doesn’t have time to date and it’s not big on her priority list.”
Huh.
Well, good to have affirmation that Leo is just a friend because in my opinion, he’s far too handsy with her. And also good she doesn’t have a boyfriend.
It’s a slight sticking point that she says she doesn’t have time, and it would be difficult trying to figure out when we could go out on a date between my game schedule, her job duties with Bowie Jane and her days off.
But I know we can manage it.
“I think I’ll still ask her.” I muse over the best way to approach it with Mazzy, absently picking up my fork and cutting into the pancakes.
“May the force be with you,” Bowie Jane quips.
“Nerd,” I reply affectionately. “Any advice for your pop?”
“Speak clearly and don’t mumble the way you did with me. And don’t keep going on and on. Just ask her simply.”
What a smartass. And I love her for it.
“Duly noted,” I drawl, winking. She winks back, but she’s never been able to master the one eye closing while the other stays open, so it’s just a hard blink, and we both laugh.
CHAPTER 17
Mazzy
The heft of the grocery bags strains against my arms as I push the door open to Foster’s kitchen from the garage entrance. It’s late Sunday afternoon, and the low sun streaming through the nook windows casts elongated shadows across the polished wooden floor. The house is quiet, save for the faint, muffled sounds that suggest Foster and Bowie Jane are somewhere upstairs. Foster’s truck, parked neatly in the garage, confirmed that they’re home.
I set the bags down on the vast island, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious room. The subzero fridge stands imposingly against the wall and I begin the task of unpacking—crisp bell peppers, a bundle of green onions, a neat packet of chicken breasts destined for tonight’s stir-fried chicken. The plastic bag rustles as I pull out jasmine rice and hoisin sauce, setting them on the marble counter.
Tonight’s dinner is a sort of farewell as Foster has a two-game road trip against the Atlanta Sting and the Florida Spartans. An early-morning departure means I’m staying over, slipping into my caretaker role for Bowie Jane while he’s away. It’s a new routine we need to settle into because Foster missed all the preseason away games while he was handling the custody situation.
I lean against the counter, allowing myself a moment of reflection. I spent part of my day at my parents’ house, surrounded by the comforting hum of laundry and family chatter. I then spent the early afternoon at Leo’s apartment, losing hours as we blended our music into something magical. When we get deep into melodies and chords, time sort of comes to a standstill. I was rushing out of his apartment and to the grocery store so I could get here to start dinner.
But even with the day’s pleasant distractions, I found myself drawn back here, to this house, to Bowie Jane’s bright laughter and Foster’s… well, everything about Foster. I try to quell the flutter in my chest as I recall the near-kiss from four days ago, a moment so charged with tension it still lingers in my thoughts, an unspoken question hanging in the air between us.
I know with a certainty that sits heavy in my stomach that anything between Foster and me is a line we can’t cross. It’s a thought I’ve turned over in my mind countless times—inappropriate, confusing, potentially disastrous. Yet, as I pull out the cutting board and begin to slice the peppers, my mind can’t help but wander to the what-ifs. The way his eyes searched mine, the unsteady cadence of his breath, the heat of his proximity—the memory stirs longing deep within me.
In this kitchen, under the soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle afternoon light, I allow myself to indulge in these thoughts for just a moment longer. It’s fantasy, really.
The sharp knife moves methodically through the vegetables, but my heart, it seems, has a rhythm of its own—erratic and hopeful, foolishly caught in the gravitational pull of a man who I very much wish could be more than my employer.