13. Real Life Isn’t a Romcom
13
Hadley
Ilean back against the kitchen counter and try to relax, but a second later, I pop upright and begin pacing again. Picking up the bowl of potato chips, I shake it, then set the bowl down before rotating the plate of ham and cheese sandwiches to present a better angle.
I’m nervous as hell and feeling a bit ridiculous.
Foster will be home from practice at any moment, and I have a little couch picnic surprise planned for him. It seemed like a good idea when I thought of it. I dressed in a pretty blue sundress that makes my gray eyes pop, curled my hair to perfection, and dusted on some light makeup paired with shiny pink lip gloss. I made the picnic-style dinner with the intention of suggesting we watch a movie while we eat.
But as the minutes pass by at an agonizing, snail-like pace, doubts and fears threaten to overtake me. Is this a stupid idea? Will Foster turn me down flat? Or will he agree, only to keep his distance while we eat and watch a movie as nothing more than friends?
And which of those options would be worse?
I know next to nothing about the art of seduction, but shit like this always seems to work in romcom movies, right? Two friends on a comfy couch in the dark suddenly realize how attracted they are to each other and, unable to control themselves, kiss. When they realize how good the kiss was, they attack each other, and bada-boom, bada-bing…sex.
But real life isn’t a romcom, and this is stupid.
“Shit,” I mutter as I start to move, intent on escaping up the stairs to change before Foster can get home and see what a fool I’ve made of myself trying to entice him.
I shake my head. Ham and cheese sandwiches? Couldn’t I come up with something better? More…I don’t know…romantic?
But before I can get out of here, the front door opens and closes. I twist first left, then right, looking for an escape route. I briefly consider hiding in the pantry, but it’s too late. Foster’s footsteps are approaching, and if I try to hide now, he’ll see me. That would be even more mortifying than having this little ill-advised seduction scene fail.
“Hey,” Foster says as he rounds the corner and sees me.
His steps falter as his gaze moves down my body, drinking me in. I feel my face heat up, but I somehow manage not to move a muscle until his eyes rise back up to meet mine.
“Hey,” I reply softly.
“You look really pretty,” he breathes, and butterflies erupt in my stomach.
“Thanks,” I say, then clear my throat. “Are you hungry? I made sandwiches.”
He tilts his head to look past me at the food on the counter, then meets my eyes once more. “I’m starving.”
The deep, husky timbre of his voice makes my heart gallop, and I swallow thickly, unable to look away from Foster’s intense gaze. My nipples start to tingle, and I regret not wearing a bra despite the built-in support and coverage in this dress.
Jesus. What is happening?
I swallow again, then attempt a light tone when I say, “I thought we could have a picnic on the couch. Maybe watch a movie?”
I say that last bit like a question, and Foster nods in response. “Sounds good. Let me help you carry everything into the living room.”
My heart throbs in my chest as we carry the plate of sandwiches, the chips, two paper plates, napkins, and some sodas into the living room and set them on the coffee table. I sit down on the couch, and Foster sits beside me, leaving a foot or so of space between us. He picks up the remote and hands it to me.
“You pick,” he says before grabbing a paper plate and loading a sandwich and some chips onto it.
He sets the plate on the couch between us before making his own plate. I turn on the television and open my favorite streaming app. I quickly find a popular romantic comedy and pull it up.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“It’s perfect,” he says, settling back into the couch with his plate on his lap.
I watch him for a moment as he picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. His eyes focus on the television as he chews, and there’s not a trace of disappointment that I chose a romcom instead of something with more action or gore. My mouth lifts into a smile as I set the remote down and lean back, picking up my own plate and snagging a chip before popping it into my mouth.
My nervous energy settles into a feeling of comfort as I get into the movie. Laughter bursts from me at a funny part, and I glance over to see Foster smiling as he takes a drink of his soda. His plate is empty, and he leans forward to set it on the coffee table, placing the soda can on top of it. He leans back again, settling into the cushions with his legs spread wide. His arm stretches out across the back of the couch as if he’s inviting me to snuggle in closer.
Don’t read anything into it, Hadley. He’s just getting comfortable.
Forcing myself to look away, I try to refocus on the movie as I finish my sandwich. Ignoring his proximity is damn near impossible, but somehow, I manage to relax again as I polish off the chips on my plate. The movie makes me laugh again as I take a drink of my soda, then I lean forward to set my plate and can on the table like Foster did.
I pull my legs up on the couch in an attempt to get more comfortable, careful to hold onto the hem of my dress so it doesn’t ride up too far. I pause mid-motion, rethinking my decision. Maybe showing a little thigh isn’t such a bad thing, considering my end goal for this little scene I’ve created.
Releasing the material, I shift my weight until my feet are tucked behind me. The position forces me to lean a bit closer to Foster, and my knees brush against the thin athletic material covering his muscular thighs. He inhales audibly, and I glance over to see his gaze locked on the exact spot where the hem of my dress now ends halfway up my thighs.
I watch his teeth tug at his bottom lip, gnawing it as if he’s waiting anxiously for the material to shift upward a few more centimeters. I remain frozen, the movie forgotten as I silently implore him to make a move.
Curl his arm around me and pull me closer.
Reach out and trace a fingertip along the bare skin of my thigh.
Kiss me.
Anything.
But he doesn’t move. He just stares and gnaws while I refuse to even breathe for fear that the moment will be broken. My lungs start to burn within seconds, and when I can’t take the pain any longer, I open my mouth and suck in a ragged breath.
Foster’s gaze snaps up to mine, his teeth releasing their death grip on that lip. We stare at each other for a long, tense moment. My nerves spark beneath my skin, every part of me coming alive under the intensity of his stare. I swallow against the lump of fear in my throat and steel my resolve.
If he’s not going to make a move, it’s up to me.
Moving slowly, I lean toward him. He doesn’t move toward me, but he doesn’t pull away, either, so I take that as encouragement and close the remaining distance between us. Tilting my head to the side, I press my mouth against his for the first time.
Heat flashes through me at the softness of his lips. It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed a man, and the number of times I’ve done this is embarrassingly low, but I’m not completely ignorant in the art.
Parting my lips slightly, I touch the tip of my tongue to Foster’s bottom lip. A rumbling sound vibrates from his chest, and taking that as encouragement, I shift closer, intent on deepening the contact.
That’s when everything goes to shit.
Foster pulls back, the motion almost violent. My eyes widen as he stares at me with a pained expression. It’s filled with some emotion I can’t quite define at first, but it only takes me a moment to realize what it is.
Regret.
“Oh, God,” I murmur, horror flooding in to replace the heat of lust I felt just moments ago.
“Hadley.”
I shake my head vigorously as I leap to my feet, mumbling “I’m sorry.”
“Hadley, stop,” he says, his voice as firm as it is pleading.
“I…I need to go.”
I turn to run from the room, but before I can take a step, Foster’s fingers circle my wrist to halt my escape. My gaze locks onto his strong hand before slowly moving to his face. His features are twisted with something that resembles self-loathing.
“Please. Sit,” he says roughly, tugging gently on my wrist.
My eyes fall closed as I exhale through my nose and nod. He releases me, and I sit, making sure to keep as much space as possible between us. I’m stiff with apprehension, my mind spinning as I wait for him to speak.
There’s not much point, though. I know what he’s going to say.
Maybe he won’t use the exact words, but he’s too kind to tell me the truth. No, this is the moment when he tries to convince me his rejection isn’t about me. That it’s all him.
He opens his mouth, and I brace for the impact.
For him to use the old cliché, It’s not you. It’s me.