Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
One day soon, I need to come clean to my friends about my past. Maybe then they’ll truly understand. I let the rejection fester, and instead of fighting like I wanted to, like I knew I should, I let her walk away.
I’ll tell them soon. Just not today.
“So, Saturday,” Knox says, clearing his throat. “One o’clock. I’ll order in food, so you only need to bring yourselves. Everything else will be taken care of.”
“Order extra,” Reid tells him. “That way, you and Corie can eat it for a few days and not have to cook.”
Knox points at him. “Good plan.” Everyone chuckles, even me, and some of the tension fades away.
Chapter Eight
Eden
* * *
It’s a little after four when I make my way downstairs. I decided a deep clean was in order today, because you can only sweep, mop, and dust the exact spot that doesn't need it so many times. Instead, I stripped the beds in the guest rooms, those that no longer get used now that the guys are wifed up. Those are Foster’s words, not mine.
Anyway, I stripped the beds, vacuumed the mattresses, washed the bedding and the curtains, and moved every single piece of furniture to sweep and mop. I wiped down the walls and baseboards, then put them all back. I’ve tackled every room upstairs—except for Foster’s. I need to ask him if he’s okay with me doing the same in there.
Once in the laundry room closet, I put all the cleaning supplies away before washing my hands and stepping back into the kitchen. Foster walks in at the same time.
“Hey.” I smile at him.
“Done for the day?” he asks, placing his laptop next to him on the couch.
“I am. Do you mind if I deep-clean your room next week? Vacuum the bed, wash the curtains, move all the furniture, that kind of thing?”
“What? No. You don’t need to be tugging on all that heavy furniture,” he says, furrowing his brows.
I laugh. “Foster, that’s what I do. It’s literally my job.”
“It’s not your job to move heavy furniture.” He frowns as he stands from the couch and moves toward me.
“So that’s a no?”
“It’s not a no, but it’s an ‘I’ll help you.’”
“I did just fine today on my own.”
His face pales. “What? That’s what you’ve been up there doing all day? Moving heavy shit?”
He’s truly upset about this, and he shouldn’t be. Taking the remaining steps that separate us, I’m standing before him. Reaching up, I rest my palm against his cheek. “It’s okay, big guy. I’m fine, as you can see. I know what I’m doing.”
His hand covers mine, and I expect him to pull my hand away, but instead, he surprises me when he leans into my touch. “Not here. Not for me. I hate that you could have been hurt.”
I smile and swallow back a laugh because he’s being ridiculous. “I’m perfectly fine, and next week, if you insist, you can help me with your room.”
“That’s the only way it’s getting done. No more, Eden, you hear me?”
“Chill out, Iron Man,” I tease. “I was in no danger of hurting myself. I might be tiny, but I’m stronger than I look.” My words do nothing to take the scowl away. “How about I make you some dinner before I head home?” I offer, pulling my hand from his cheek. He keeps his hand on my wrist, not letting me go.
“No. Not after all you did today.” His tone is clipped, but I know he’s not mad at me. He’s mad at the situation, for reasons I don’t understand. I was literally just doing my job.
“You don’t even know what I did today.”
“You moved heavy shit while I sat down here on my ass, watching game clips.”
Ah, so that’s the issue. He feels guilty? He shouldn’t. This is what I do. We’ve become… friends, or closer, and he feels guilty. “So, we both did our jobs, then?” I say, tugging my hand free and crossing my arms over my chest.
“Eden.”
The way he says my name, it’s not quite a warning, but it feels like one. So, of course, I sass back. “Foster.” I mimic his tone.
He stares at me for several long seconds, and I fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. “I’m ordering pizza for dinner. You’re not cooking.”
“Fine. I want pepperoni and bacon.”
“Fine.” He smirks as he goes back toward the couch, grabs his phone, and calls in the order. He gets a large pepperoni and bacon, and a large meat lover’s, with a family-size order of breadsticks.
“Are you feeding anyone other than the two of us?” I ask him.
“No, why?”
“Foster!” I laugh. “That’s so much food.”
He shrugs. “Everyone loves leftover pizza.”
“That’s a lot of leftovers.”
“I didn’t want you to be hungry.”
“I can’t eat an entire pizza by myself.” I chuckle.