Page 20

This is the Foster I only ever see after we’ve locked the doors behind us, and even then, only for the hour or two before he has to go be Fox Crue again. Except now the door isn’t locked, and he isn’t rushing to go anywhere. He’s just sitting in my chair reading my book in my ugliest sweater like he lives here.

I don’t move, wondering how long I can keep watching him undetected.

He turns a page. Takes a sip of coffee. Then, without looking up, he says, “You’ve been staring for a while, Griffin.”

“I have not.”

He sets the cup and book down on the windowsill, unfolds himself from the chair, and crosses to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He leans down and kisses me. His mouth tastes like coffee and his hand cups my jaw tenderly.

When he pulls back, he’s smiling. There’s almost a hint of a dimple in his left cheek.

Thinking about how easily I could get used to this is not helpful. I’m not caffeinated enough for this level of Fox.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

“Coffee would be the best thing in the world.”

“Stay put. I’ll bring it.”

He kisses my forehead and pads out of the bedroom.

I sit up slowly, pushing the pillow behind my back. My eyes catch on the paperback he left on the windowsill. I lean over and check the cover.

A. Lawton. Of course.

The Long Way Home is one of my favorites. I’ve re-read it more times than I’d admit to in a court of law, and I’ve underlined more scenes in this book than in any of my college essays.

I can hear him in the kitchen. A groan and a curse, probably because the French press is being a dick. I really need a new one. There’s the clink of mugs and then the pop of the toaster.

A few minutes later, he comes back with two coffees and a plate of toast, cut into triangles. He hands me one mug, sets the plate on the bed between us, and settles against the headboard beside me with his own coffee.

His shoulder is warm against mine.

“You’re reading my book,” I say.

“I’m trying to understand who Griffin Hall is based on his reading habits.”

“Oh dear. And what have you learned?”

“So far? Griffin Hall likes tall men.”

“Not a lie. Is that it?”

“Griffin Hall likes tall men with dark hair.”

“Interesting.”

“Griffin Hall likes tall, dark-haired men who are emotionally unavailable for the first two-thirds of a book and then have a devastating breakdown in chapter twenty-two.”

I choke on my coffee.

“I’m reading chapter twenty-two right now, Griffin. The pencil marks in the margins get very enthusiastic.”

“Those are private.”

“Nothing about your apartment is private anymore.”

“So it’s my fault for leaving you unsupervised.”