Page 67 of Bound Hearts

Foster reaches across his desk with his palms open, inviting me to place my hands in them, but I only smile wryly because we’re in the office, he knows it, and he pulls his hands back.

“I do. I kind of have a backlog. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with this little thing and gained myself a wife.”

Affectionately, I smile. “Yeah, sounds like a good reason.”

“I’ll try to get home for a late dinner. We can order in.”

I always love how his eyes have an extra glint when he’s in a suit, which brings out his brown eyes more. “Don’t worry. I kind of want to lie in bed and take it easy. I think he is beginning to move.”

He instantly sits up straight, his jaw dropping slightly as he shows excitement, completely invested in the news. “Really?”

“Yeah. He hates the sound of Celeste’s voice, by the way.”

“Don’t petrify our son,” he requests humorously.

Bringing my hands to my stomach, I look down. I’ve really entered a showing-off phase. “You’re hearing a lot. Vows, angry lawyers, ooh, and your daddy doing things to your mom.”

It causes Foster to shake his head ruefully, still ecstatic but not entertained by my reminder.

“You need to leave before I do something I swore I would never do on my desk, or the sofa, hell, the rug will suffice.” The swaggered smirk of his appears, and I’m in trouble.

It’s my cue to leave.

Standing up, I’m at ease as the day is winding down.

As much as I want to lean over the desk to steal a kiss, we have established some boundaries. It will have to wait for another time. A simple goodbye is what we get, and within seconds of closing the door behind me, I hear him already yelling at someone on the phone, and I smile to myself.

I get to see the softer Foster. But heaven help me, demanding and burning the earth Foster isn’t a bad side to know, either.

18

FOSTER

Thwack.

The sound of squash balls in the matchup next door to ours can be heard as I arrive at the court and see my dad on the bench preparing for our match. I’m not sure when I will slip it into a conversation about the changes in my life, and telling him while a ball is flying could be dangerous. But unconventional seems to be a theme for me lately.

My dad is busy tying his shoes when I drop my bag down and sit.

“Thought you would be late,” he mentions.

“Even on a busy workday, our squash games get a sacred spot on my agenda,” I joke and unzip my bag.

He switches feet and pulls on the laces. “Rough week at the office?”

“Nah.” I pull out my shoe, remembering Sutton’s restless nights. The new body pillow helped, and I don’t have the heart to admit her tossing leaves me needing extra coffee.

Taking a quick sip from my water bottle, I set it down to slide off my ring for the game. I haven’t actually taken it off yet, but this isn’t exactly a game of cards. Balls are flying, and once a ball jammed my finger. Squash is also the game where my dad’s eyes laser in on me because my casualness is also an unintended reveal.

“Since when do you wear rings?”

My eyes drop down to my finger, and I stop mid-twist. A careless move on my part, and here we go. “I was going to talk to you about it now, actually.”

“What?”

I take a moment to wonder what his reaction will be. One of a man who is a father first or the man who will take this win to fulfill his business interests. “Sutton and I… we got married.”

His eyes bulge, clearly not prepared for me to say that.