Chapter 1 #2
“Nope.” Definitely not. I didn’t talk about Foster Madden for a reason.
I stood and tiptoed around the desk, my eyes glued to the windows in case Foster made a return appearance. But the only thing I saw on the sidewalks was snow. “I should go.”
“What about dinner?” Memphis asked.
“Rain check.”
Before they could stop me, I bolted. Sprinting had never been my forte, slow and steady distance races were more my speed, but there was no way I’d risk bumping into Foster. So I tore out of the lobby, and after one quick check down the sidewalk to make sure he was gone, I hoofed it to my car.
My hands gripped the steering wheel with so much force that my knuckles were white before I’d even pulled out of the darkened parking lot.
I checked my rearview mirror no less than two hundred times as I drove through town, searching for headlights that might be following me home.
It wasn’t until I was inside the house, sagging against the kitchen counter with a glass of wine, that I let myself breathe.
What was he doing here? His life was in Las Vegas, exactly where I’d left him. Exactly where he’d stayed after breaking my heart. Why was he looking for me now? Why, after all this time, had he come to Montana?
My stomach plummeted. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to hear that voice or look into his stormy blue eyes. Seven years and I still wasn’t ready to face him again. If I managed to avoid him long enough, would he leave?
“No,” I muttered. Unless Foster had undergone an entire personality change, he would eventually track me down. His nickname was the Iron Fist for a reason. He was tenacious and persistent. Unshakeable.
But at least I’d avoided him tonight. He hadn’t been able to take me by surprise. I gulped from my wineglass, then took it with me upstairs to my bedroom, where I stripped out of my scrubs and took a shower to rinse off the day.
My dark hair was wet and twisted into a knot when I returned to the kitchen.
My scrubs had been traded for leggings and a ratty University of Washington sweatshirt when I opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs.
It wasn’t a Knox Eden meal, but for tonight, an omelet would have to suffice.
If I’d gone to dinner, Memphis and Knox would have peppered me with questions.
Questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.
Dad knew about Foster, but only because he’d been there in the aftermath. He’d flown to Las Vegas to help me move and seen me at my lowest. Mom knew because Dad didn’t keep secrets from her, but the one and only time she’d brought up his name, I’d begged her never to speak it again.
That had been during the raw days. My wounds had healed, mostly, but that didn’t mean I was ready to relive the pain. It was too hard. Too humiliating.
Why was he here? After all this time, hadn’t he forgotten about me?
The eggs didn’t sit well in my knotted stomach but I forced myself to eat. It would be the same meal I’d have for breakfast, sans the wine. I was just rinsing my plate when the doorbell rang.
The dish brush slipped from my hand, clattering into the sink.
It was him. I couldn’t see the door, but somehow, I knew it was Foster. The doorbell rang again, followed by a knock.
Why hadn’t I dried my hair? Why hadn’t I dressed in anything else? Scrubs would have been better than facing him with a bare face and bare feet. There was a hole in the knee of these leggings and this shirt would have fit my brothers loosely.
If I didn’t answer the door, would he leave? Or would he stay here all night, knowing I was hiding inside? If I ignored him tonight, would he come to the hospital again? The last place I wanted to talk with Foster was at my work.
So I lifted my glass, draining the rest of my wine for liquid courage. The moment I swallowed the last drop, I squared my shoulders and walked through the house.
The sooner this was dealt with, the better. I’d find out why he was here, then send him on his way. With any luck, Foster would be gone from Quincy by morning.
My heart beat so hard it hurt. Every pulse resounded through my limbs. I sucked in a breath and held it as I inched through the entryway, my footsteps silent. When I reached the door, I stood on my toes and pressed an eye to the peephole.
Foster stood in profile, his gaze cast across the covered porch. He’d grown a beard. It was a nice beard. Short trimmed, so you could still make out the sharp corners of his jaw. But my Foster hadn’t had a beard, just stubble on the days when he hadn’t shaved.
A stab of pain pierced my heart. This wasn’t my Foster. There was no version of Foster that belonged to me. Not anymore.
He raised a finger and pushed the doorbell again. Then he ran a hand through his chocolate-brown hair, something he’d obviously been doing a lot tonight because the ends were sticking up at odd angles.
I dropped to my heels and waited through another three agonizing heartbeats, then I flipped the dead bolt and opened the door to Foster Madden.
The man I’d dated for one year, two months and eleven days.
The man I’d loved with my whole heart.
The man I’d vowed to forget.
The view from the peephole hadn’t done him justice. He was every bit as handsome as I remembered. Maybe even more now that he’d grown that damn beard.
Age had only enhanced his rugged features.
He was bigger than he’d been, years spent honing his body into the perfect fighting machine.
His black hoodie stretched across his broad chest, molding to his shoulders.
His jeans hung on his narrow hips and pooled at the hem above a pair of motorcycle boots.
How many times had I traced the bump in the middle of his nose with my fingertip? How many nights had I drowned in those deep, ocean-blue eyes? How many kisses had I given the soft pout of his lips?
“Talia.”
God, that voice. Raspy and deep. My name had never sounded as good as it did out of Foster’s mouth.
“What are you doing here?”
He studied my face. “You’re not surprised to see me.”
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest as the chill from outside seeped through my clothes. “I saw you at the hospital.”
His jaw clenched. “You saw me.”
“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “And how did you know where I lived?”
Not that it would be hard to figure out. Quincy hadn’t entirely transitioned into the modern age, and the local newspaper still printed an annual phone book along with putting the information online.
“It’s been a long time,” he said. “How are you?”
It’s been a long time. How are you? “Small talk? Really? Does your wife know you’re here?”
He lifted his left hand, wiggling his naked ring finger. “I’m not married.”
When had he gotten divorced? This was the problem when you vowed to forget someone. It meant that in the past seven years, I hadn’t once let myself search for Foster.
I hadn’t peeked at his social media accounts or typed his name into Google.
I hadn’t watched any of his pay-per-view fights, and if his name came up on ESPN, I’d either shut off the television or walk out of the room.
My brothers liked to rent UFC fights. I’d lied more than once about being on call to avoid one of their parties.
“Why are you here?” The growl in my voice surprised us both.
Pain clouded his beautiful eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then dropped his chin.
What had he expected? Me to open my arms and welcome him back into my life?
The hurt in his eyes vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. And all that remained was sheer determination. The focused stare. The steeled spine. The flexed jaw. It was the look Foster wore in the boxing ring, usually before he won.
He shoved a hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a single silver key. “Here.”
I took it from him as he held it out, careful not to let our fingers brush. He wasn’t mine to touch. Not anymore. “What’s this?”
“My building.”
“Your building.” I narrowed my eyes. He’d better be talking about a building in Nevada.
Foster’s hand dove into his jeans again, this time coming out with a small slip of paper. He took my other hand and pried it open.
Electricity zinged up my arm. The calloused tips of his fingers sent tingles across my skin.
His eyes flared, like he’d felt that charge too, as he placed the paper in my palm, then let me go. “That’s the address.”
At the street name, my heart sank. “This is in Quincy.”
“Yep.”
“Why do you have a building in Quincy?”
“Come tomorrow and you’ll find out.”
“No.”
He dug into his other pocket this time, pulling out a small velvet pouch in a familiar shade of teal. “I’m guessing this will make it a yes.”
“What is this?” I asked as he handed it over.
Foster didn’t answer and he didn’t wait for me to open the pouch. He spun on a heel and marched across my porch, jogging the few steps to the sidewalk. Then he rounded the hood of a gleaming black truck, started the engine and drove down the block.
I inched away from the threshold as his taillights disappeared, kicking the door closed. With every passing second, the pouch got heavier.
Don’t open it.
Foster was counting on my curiosity. He hadn’t answered a single question of mine tonight, instead leaving me with even more than I’d started with.
Don’t open it.
“Gah.” I stretched the top of the pouch and turned it over, the item inside dropping into my palm beside the key.
A ring. A two-carat, emerald-cut diamond inlaid on a gold band.
I gasped as the diamond glinted from the overhead light. How did he have this ring? Why?
In my other hand, I crumpled the paper into a tight ball, squeezing as hard as possible.
Then I pried it apart.
Damn him. I should ignore him. I should pretend he didn’t exist. But considering I hadn’t managed that in seven years, I doubted I’d forget Foster Madden by morning.