28. Sophie
TWENTY-EIGHT
SOPHIE
I don’t know what’s come over me, but standing in Foster’s room, surrounded by the essence of him, him standing next to me talking about having all that nerdy shit on his body makes me suddenly desperate, ravenous to see what he’s covering up.
I drag my eyes up his long lean body, my imagination going wild, pulling from the glimpses I’ve seen. When my gaze meets his, I see my hunger reflected back.
“Soph.” My name is only a whisper, but it snaps me out of whatever haze I’m in. The heady fog lifts rapidly, and I quickly look away.
“We should start on dinner.”
He doesn’t answer me right away, only smirks back. “We?” he asks.
“You?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Will you be a good friend and teach me something?” There’s no hunger in his eyes now.
“You wanna know how I learned?”
“Trial and error?” I suggest.
“I watched the Food Network endlessly. Keyword there, ‘watched.’”
“So, I can watch, but I can’t…” I know what I’m doing. I’m testing the waters. I’m seeing how some flirting feels for me and how he reacts. “Touch?”
“No touching unless I say so.”
I swallow and try not to react as chills race across my skin. The idea of not being allowed to do something unless I’m told, of not having to think about what to do, of Foster telling me what I’m allowed to do is something I never expected to want. But fuck, right now, that’s all I want. I need to pull it together. I keep saying friend and then my imagination goes to very unsafe places.
“Okay.” I tamp down the desire that’s bubbling up. “I won’t touch unless you give me permission.”
He leads me back into the kitchen, and my head instantly clears. It’s not quite as Foster-y out here and I can think straight again.
Sitting on the lone stool at the peninsula, I do as I’m told and watch.
I watch Foster steam and then blend broccoli with parmesan, garlic, lemon, and olive oil. I watch him slice onions so quickly I keep one hand on my phone, ready to call 911 in case he chops off a finger. I watch as he flips those onions in a hot pan with oil and butter, his forearms distracting me. I watch him dump pasta into boiling water. I watch as he strains the pasta and stirs in the broccoli mixture before adding in a knob of the goat cheese then carefully adds in reserved pasta water. I watch as he twirls pasta onto a fork and brings it to my lips.
“Open,” he commands, and I do so without hesitation. He smiles as my lips close around the fork, leaning in a little more, gaze intense as he pulls the fork back. Bright flavors burst on my tongue, and as badly as I’d like to keep looking at his smile, my eyes close as I sink into the taste dancing across my taste buds. “Good?”
I nod.
“Tell me, sunshine. What do you taste?”
I swirl my tongue around and concentrate. “Lemon, garlic, and something sweet.”
“That’s the onions. What else?”
“I don’t know,” I open my eyes to find Foster leaning in close. “Broccoli, but tamed. The cheese is less…”
“Goat-y?”
“Is that the technical term?”
“I believe so.” He pulls back and starts arranging bowls and cutlery. “Have I convinced you?” I hear him, but I’m lost in his hands as he expertly plates the pasta. He has long fingers and the veins along the back of his hands shift as he works. “I’ll take that look as a yes.”
He definitely caught me staring. No doubt he knows what I’m thinking, although that doesn’t seem fair because I barely know what I’m thinking.
He’s not Gregory.
“Am I allowed to take the plates to the table?” I ask, slipping from the stool and rounding the counter before he can answer.
“You may,” he says, handing over the cutlery, his fingers brushing my skin as my fingers wrap around it.
At the table we eat quietly, sneaking looks at one another and smiling. This feels like a first date. But looks instead of words aren’t us. We talk; we always talk. You don’t tell him everything, though. He’ll think you’re pathetic if you tell him.
Foster puts his fork down and stares at me. “What’s up, Soph?”
I have a hard time meeting his eyes. I’m afraid of what I’ll see there. “Nothing.”
“You know you can talk to me about anything right?”
I finally look at him. Soft eyes under slightly furrowed brows. Concern wrapped in something else.
I set my own fork down and lean back, trying to appear more relaxed than I currently feel. Hiding in plain sight.
“I guess…” I need to give him something. He’s been so patient with me. I know he isn’t the way he is to earn rewards, but I need him to know that when he says things like that, that I do believe and trust him. “I really appreciate what you did today. You challenged me in a fun way, made me step out of my comfort zone, but never once made me feel like if I didn’t, you’d hold it against me. Gre—” I stop abruptly because I don’t want to ruin the taste in my mouth with his name. “He always held it against me. Guilt and gaslighting were everyday tactics. So I appreciate you not taking that approach. And of course for not insisting I talk about it.”
“I’m not going to force you to talk, for the record. But you’ll tell me if I do something that makes you uncomfortable or… feel anything other than good.”
I want to scream that he makes me feel better than anyone else. That he makes me want to jump straight into something new and exciting. That he alone has fanned a spark into a flame I thought was forever extinguished. But I can’t, because if I start talking, I’m going to tell him that I want to hold his hand for real. I’ll confess that I want to feel his long fingers skim across my skin and sink into me. I’ll wax poetically about how I’ve loved him since we were kids. I don’t want to make things awkward or uncomfortable for him. I don’t want him to walk by me in the hallway and avoid looking. I want to be the one to hand him candy when he’s woozy from the sight of blood. And I don’t want him to think he needs to fix me.
“I’ll tell you, I promise.”