Chapter 8
EIGHT
Lilliana
Waking up next to Foster the next morning is surreal. I’ve dreamed about this happening so many times that when I first wake up, I wonder if I’m dreaming. I reach out, running my fingers over his arm.
He stirs, blinking blue eyes at me sleepily, and I smile.
“Morning,” he rasps, and I clear my throat.
“Morning.”
I can feel my face heating with a blush, but Foster doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy stretching and trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. Seeing him like this feels so intimate. He looks younger when he’s just woken up or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t look like his usual grumpy self right now.
“Are you hungry?” He asks, and my stomach growls.
“I never went grocery shopping yesterday,” I tell him, and he nods.
“I’ll go down to the bakery and be right back.”
I nod, watching as he climbs out of my bed and pulls on his clothes. He’s acting like nothing happened last night, like us sleeping together is totally normal, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign for me or not.
“Be right back,” he says as he heads out, and I wait until I hear the front door close before I let out the breath that I had been holding.
What am I supposed to do here? Should I just pretend like it never happened? Act like I’m totally fine sleeping with my best friend and that I haven’t been dreaming about doing that for years?
Does he regret sleeping with me? Did we just ruin our friendship? And right when I had just moved back here. Things will be so awkward between us now, and I know that I’ll never be able to avoid him. Not in this small town.
I climb out of bed and head into the bathroom before I can really start to spiral out.
My eyes lock on my reflection in the mirror, and I gasp when I see the marks all over my body.
There are a few fingerprint bruises forming on my hips and legs, and my body heats as I remember the way that he had taken control last night.
Red spots dot my breasts and chest, probably from his mouth. My hair is a tousled mess from having his hands in it, and I sigh as I start to untangle the strands.
I look like I’ve been well-loved.
I was well-loved. I just wish that I knew what I was supposed to do now.
He brought up the marriage pact last night.
Sure, it might have been a joke, but maybe not.
Plus, there’s no denying that he liked what he saw last night.
I mean, he thoroughly ravaged me when he saw me in my lingerie.
I know that I’m a good designer, but it felt like more than that.
It was like he wanted me, had to have me.
The front door opens as I’m pulling on a shirt and a pair of yoga pants. I grab both of our phones as I go out to greet him.
He looks gorgeous as he sets the bakery bag and two coffees on the counter.
“I got a bit of everything,” he tells me, and I could swear that he seems nervous.
I start to relax, when his phone buzzes in my hand and I frown when I look down and see that he has six missed calls from Ford and a new text telling Foster to call him back ASAP.
“Ford’s been trying to get ahold of you,” I say, passing him his phone.
“I’ll call him back in a minute,” he tells me.
His phone starts to buzz again, this time with a call, and he sighs, giving me an apologetic look.
“Go ahead. I’ll just be here eating all of the good pastries.”
He grins at that and heads into the living room as he accepts the call.
“What?” He answers, and I roll my eyes at his way with words.
I open the bag, pull out a coffee cake, and break off a piece.
“What?” He asks, quieter this time, and I can tell right away that something is wrong.
I drop the baked goods and take a step towards him when he turns, his eyes locking with mine.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
He hangs up, and I walk towards him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My dad… he was in a car accident early this morning,” he says, and my stomach drops.
“Is he…” I ask, not able to finish that sentence.
“He’s still alive, but he’s unconscious. Ford is with him at the hospital.”
“Let’s go,” I tell him, already stuffing my feet into my sneakers.
I grab my keys, and we jog down the stairs and over to my car. Foster tries to open the passenger door for me, but I shake my head.
“I’ll drive you.”
I hurry over to the other side of the car and climb in, cranking the engine and pulling out onto the street. The hospital is only a few minutes away and we ride there in tense silence.
“He’s going to be fine,” I try to reassure Foster, and he nods.
He reaches out, taking my hand in his and squeezing. I squeeze him back.
“I’ll drop you off at the door and then go park,” I tell him, but he shakes his head stubbornly.
“There’s a spot there.”
I follow where he points, and we park, both hopping out at the same time. As soon as we’re headed to the front doors, he grabs my hand again.
Foster is normally the calm, level headed one, but I can feel him panicking right now. I don’t blame him. The Miller boys are all close. I don’t know what Foster or Ford would do if their dad passed away.
“We’re looking for Frank Miller,” I tell the receptionist at the front desk.
“Room three hundred and two,” she says after a minute of typing on her computer.
“Thanks.”
We head towards the elevator and ride up to the third floor in silence.
“I’m here for you guys, okay? Just tell me what you need,” I whisper as we walk onto the third floor.
“I just need you.”
I squeeze his hand and take a deep breath as we walk into the hospital room.