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Foster places both hands on my shoulders. “Look at me.”
I glance upward, but couldn’t give him my full focus. His eyes are so intense.
“If you want to get out of the contract, just return the money.”
“That’s impossible,” I insist. “I can’t afford to pay back the loans and credit card bills.”
He drops his hands from me. “Then fulfill your commitment.”
“I have every intention to. I can handle it.”
“Good. Now tell me what you want for dinner, or we can scrounge through the refrigerator. It’s well-stocked, but I can make you something.”
“You cook?”
“Don’t let what you see on the outside convince you of otherwise. I was given cooking lessons as a teenager.”
“You don’t seem very domestic.”
“My mother wanted me to be a well-rounded young man. I speak several languages, play the piano and guitar, and cook. I can even do laundry, but I hate to fold.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wouldn’t joke about laundry. I like clean underwear.”
I smile. “Stop teasing me.”
“I like it when you smile.”
“Are we becoming friends?”
“I think it’s necessary if we’re going to pull this off. Now tell me what you want to eat, or I’ll start without you.”
Foster yanks open the stainless-steel refrigerator, revealing it packed tight with food and bottled drinks. If this is to be my life, I better get used to it. Foster pulls out several containers of salads along with thick packages of cold cuts. From the pantry, he retrieves a package of wedge rolls and begins to make himself a sandwich.
I watch as he squirts yellow mustard on a roll and then stacks honey ham and swiss cheese on top, slicing the sandwich in half. My mouth waters, reminding me of how starved I am.
“Would you like this?” Foster asks, gesturing.
“Maybe half.”
He turns and removes two white china dishes from the dark cabinet next to the refrigerator, placing half on each plate. I take a seat at the breakfast bar, sliding onto one of the padded backed beige stools.
“Would you like some macaroni salad?” he offers.
“This makes no sense.”
Foster eyebrows knit together. “What makes no sense?”
“You.”
“Me? In what way?”
“You’re rich, but eating a sandwich for dinner.”
Foster throws his head back and laughs. It echoes off the high ceiling, and my face heats with embarrassment.
“I’m just a person,” he eventually says. “Don’t let my riches fool you.”
“I half expect you to be eating a thick steak. The other day we had pizza and now sandwiches for dinner.”
“I asked if you wanted to go out. I can get reservations at a dozen upscale restaurants. Just say the word.”
I shake my head. “The sandwich is fine.”
“Get used to the lifestyle. Soon you’ll be my wife, and you’ll have the city at your fingertips.”
Foster slides the container of macaroni salad across the counter, then removes two forks from the drawer under the large eggshell white granite counter. We eat in silence while Foster scrolls through his phone. It didn’t matter; I didn’t have much to say.
