Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Eden
Stepping into the house, the smell of cinnamon fills the air.
I kick off my shoes and drop my bag by the door as I make my way to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mr. Vaughn.” I smile. Last Monday, I thought I would show up at his condo and receive my walking papers.
Instead, he made me breakfast. He did it again on Wednesday and Friday, so I have a pretty good idea what will be waiting for me today.
“Foster,” he says, his voice laced with sleep.
“Foster.” I nod. He’s told me to call him Foster every shift, but I’m trying to keep some distance between us.
Mainly because he’s drop-dead gorgeous, and he’s being kind to me.
I don’t know what he’s going to say today, but I do have a protein bar in my bag, just in case he changes things up this week.
Maybe last week was him showing me he was sorry for being grouchy with me on my first day here.
“Sit. Coffee?” he asks.
“Yes, please. I can get it,” I tell him.
“Nope.” He slides a plate with a massive cinnamon roll on it in front of me. “I’ve got it.” He smiles, and I melt into the stool I’m perched on.
You see, this is why I call him Mr. Vaughn. I need the separation, because he’s damn sexy with his messy bed head and sleepy smile he’s been offering me first thing every morning when I arrive. I need to remember that he’s just being nice to me. That’s all this is.
“These smell great. Thank you, Foster,” I say softly as he places a cup of coffee in front of each of our plates, then slides onto the stool next to mine.
“Thanks. I opened the can all on my own.” He chuckles. “Coach and his wife used to make homemade cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings. Sometimes I would help them. It’s been a long time since I’ve had them. I’m sure I could remember. If not, I’m sure they’d give me the recipe.”
“Your coach? As in the Rampage coach?” I ask. He must be really close with his players if he’s inviting them over for homemade cinnamon rolls on Sundays. Not only that, but I can’t imagine how many they’d have to make to feed the team. Maybe they split it up or something.
“No, uh, my high school coach. Coach Pruitt and his wife took me in my sophomore year of high school,” he says, his voice growing quiet.
“My foster family got into some trouble—drugs—and I was headed back to the children’s home if another family didn’t step up.
Coach and his wife asked me to come and live with them. ”
My heart aches for him, and I’m relieved at the same time.
I know exactly what a bad foster home is like, and living at the children’s home is no walk in the park, but it beats some of the alternatives that foster kids are faced with.
“That’s incredible, Foster. That they were there for you.
” What I don’t say is we both know his life might be very different if they hadn’t.
“Yeah.” He nods. “They were good to me. They gave me my first real look at what a family should act like.”
“Are you still close with them?” I ask, forking off a hefty bite of cinnamon roll and shoveling it into my mouth.
“Yeah, I mean, I send them tickets to a few games a year, and we get together when we can.”
“But?” There is so much in our backgrounds that's similar, and I know he’s not telling me everything.
Not that he has to. But if he wants to open up, I’m here to listen.
Maybe I should tell him that. Reaching over, I place my hand on his arm.
His muscles ripple beneath my touch. “No pressure, but if anyone knows what your life was like back then, it’s me.
I’m here to listen anytime, and I’m a vault, Foster. You can trust me.”
He nods. “But I should do more. I know that. But to Coach and Hope, I’m the teenage boy with no family. I don’t need them to hang around because they pity me.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but a wise man once told me that family is what you make it.”
“My friends are my family, but I’ve never told them how I grew up. They don’t know me. Not like that, anyway. I was drafted to the Rampage and left it all in the past. They know I don’t have parents and that I’m close to my high school coach, but that’s it.”
“You’re keeping your past hidden from them.”
“I don’t want their pity.”
I nod, wiping my mouth before taking a sip of coffee. “I understand that. The feeling of being looked at differently, like the only reason they’re talking to you and befriending you is that they either want to make fun of you, or they feel sorry for you.”
“That.” He nods, taking the first bite of his breakfast. “I wanted them to look at me for me, the new guy on the team, the rookie. Not the rookie with no family.”
“I get that. I do. But Foster, you can’t hide from your past. It’s a part of the man you are today.
Anyone worth being in your life knows that and will accept you regardless.
My best friend, Carrie, I met her on my eighteenth birthday.
I was sitting in a diner at the counter with a single cupcake in front of me.
She was my waitress. She noticed I was sad and lonely, and she struck up a conversation, then invited me out for a movie she’d been dying to see.
” I smile, thinking about the day we met.
“Turns out it was a movie she heard another customer talking about. She didn’t want to see it, and we hated it.
We left and ended up driving around listening to music the rest of the night.
From that night on, she was my person. I told her all about my past, and she told me about her high school boyfriend, that she one day hoped she’d spend the rest of her life with.
” I smile because my bestie got her wish.
“Did she?” he asks.
“Yeah, she did. Carrie and Nick were married two years later. They have two adorable little girls.”
“Aunt Eden.” Foster smiles at me, and I eagerly return it.
“You know it,” I say, leaning my shoulder into his. “You should tell them, Foster.”
“They’re my family. One that was built on friendship and respect.”
“Then let them in. Really let them in. I know it’s hard. I know that fear of rejection is there, and it stays there, but give them a chance to prove you wrong.”
“Maybe,” he says, not committing to opening up to his friends.
“You should call your coach and his wife, too. Invite them over when it’s not football or holiday related.”
“Not really a fan of putting myself out there,” he admits.
“You did it with your teammates and their wives.”
“Yeah, but that’s different.”
“It’s not. You’re still you, Foster Vaughn. You’re the same man. You’re just hiding a small piece of yourself.”
“Rejection.” He pauses and takes a sip of his coffee. “I’ve seen a lot of it. Foster families, families from the children’s home, my ex.” He clamps his mouth shut.
I’m sure he didn’t mean for that to slip out. “Foster families… So many do it for the wrong reasons, but in the end, you had two strong parental figures who guided you. They loved you, and with that guidance and love, you put in the work, and look at where you are today.”
“Are you secretly a therapist or something?” he asks, his tone light and teasing.
“Nah, but I’ve had a lot of it. It helps more than you know. To talk to someone. To have someone in Switzerland who is concerned with your life to help you unpack the chaos of the past.”
“I went as a kid, but not since. It was something my social worker said I had to do.”
“I can give you the number to mine if you ever want it.”
“I should get your number, too. I mean, in case I ever need to cancel or something.”
I smile, because he could call the agency, but when an Adonis of a man, with big, strong hands and a soft heart, asks for your number, you give it to him. “I guess.” I sigh, as if handing over my digits to this man is a hardship for me.
Reaching across the island, he grabs his phone, unlocks it, and hands it to me. I quickly add my number. “Text yourself,” he tells me. “You know, in case you need to cancel or something,” he says.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a slight coat of pink covering his cheeks, but he looks away quickly, so I can’t be sure.
However, I do know his heart is soft. I recognize so much of myself in him, but he’s more reserved about his past. I guess his high-profile career is a reason for that, but it’s also a reason to speak up about it. He could use his platform to advocate.
“Done,” I say, handing his phone back to him, and my phone beeps from its spot in my back pocket. His hand brushes mine, and sparks ignite. I don’t know if he feels it, but his eyes widen slightly, so I’m guessing it wasn’t a one-sided zap.
“Will you go somewhere with me today?”
“Uh, sure. I mean, if you have errands you need me to run for you, I’ll take care of it.”
“No, it’s not an errand. I-I want you to come with me.”
“Where are we going? And I’m supposed to be cleaning, but I can come back and do that tomorrow.”
“No, it’s fine. But today, you’re with me.” He stands, grabs our empty plates, and places them in the sink. “Give me five,” he says, rushing away, taking the steps two at a time. I know because I watched him walk away.
Butterflies take flight in my belly at the thought of spending the day with him.
Standing, I busy myself cleaning up from breakfast, cover the leftover cinnamon rolls with foil, and leave the pan sitting on the stove for now.
I’m wiping off the counters when he comes back into the kitchen, clothes changed, with a Nashville Rampage hat pulled low over his eyes.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
I laugh. “Cleaning for you is literally my job.”
“Today, you’re just Eden, and I’m just Foster, okay?” He reaches out as if he’s going to take my hand but quickly drops his arm back to his side.
“Just Eden and Foster. Got it.” I nod. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but after the heaviness of our conversation this morning, I’m guessing it’s something important.
“Ready?” he asks.