His condo isn’t small by any means—it would eat my one-bedroom apartment for a snack—so it takes me a couple of hours to get through the first floor, before moving on to the second. I’m meticulous with dusting and all the other duties that I complete, no matter what. Even if they look dust free. That’s what keeps the homes I clean looking fresh, and that’s what’s kept me in a job for the last seven years.

  Upstairs, I take care of the bathroom before moving to the spare bedrooms. One is a workout room, so I use disinfectant spray to clean the machines. Finally, it’s time for his room. My headphones are in, and I’ve been rocking out to Koe Wetzel. He just dropped a new album that’s fire. With Koe singing in my ears, I push open his bedroom door and freeze.

  The room smells like him. Something masculine and woodsy that I can’t name but wish I could so that I could bottle it up and take it home with me. I’m aware that makes me sound like a creeper, but I’m okay with it. The room smells that good.

  Moving to the bed, I strip the sheets. I just changed them on Wednesday, but today is Friday, and I won’t be back until Monday. That’s not terrible, but I don’t know if he has a lady friend coming over, and well, he’s going to want fresh sheets for that, I’m sure. Something sharp twists in my gut at the thought. I bet whoever she is, she’s gorgeous and looks like she belongs on his arm.

  Shaking out of my thoughts, I work on remaking the bed. I dust and clean the bathroom, leaving the floors for last. By the time I’m finished, I’m sweating my ass off, and I don’t need to look in the mirror to know I’m disheveled, but I’m not here for a fashion show. I’m here to work. It’s never bothered me before now. What is it about Foster Vaughn that makes me care all of a sudden?

  Grabbing my bag of cleaning supplies, I head back downstairs and store them in the closet. Quickly, I slip into the half bath, splash some water on my face, wipe off my neck, and refresh my ponytail. That’s as good as I’m going to get. When I step out of the bathroom, I run into a hard chest.

  “Whoa,” Foster says, his hands gripping my waist.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Vaughn.” Heat races up my neck, coating my cheeks. Great second-day impression, Eden.

  “You good?” he asks.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were home.”

  “It’s fine, Eden,” he says, and I melt.

  Why does hearing him say my name in that sexy-as-sin voice of his turn me on so much? This is bad. So bad. I have to stop this. This is my job, my livelihood. No way am I willing to do anything to jeopardize that. I need to get my shit together.

  “Thank you for saving me,” I whisper. He nods, drops his hands from my waist, and I immediately miss the warmth of his touch, so I skirt around him and rush down the hall and into the kitchen. I have two hours left, so I need to keep myself busy. Digging through the pantry, I don’t see any of the ingredients I need to bake, so I decide to make him something for dinner. He’s got a box of Bisquick, canned chicken, and chicken broth. Chicken and dumplings, it is. I’m sure it’s not something he would typically eat, but it’s a comfort food for me, one that’s cheap to make, and I can eat it for several days. Maybe this will hold him through the weekend.

  A flash of him and his gorgeous, nameless, faceless lady friend rolls through my mind, but I shut it down. I don’t even know if she exists. But I’m certain that a man like Foster is not at a loss for female companionship. Female companionship that can never be me.

  Such is life.

  I get lost in my task. I enjoy cooking. Growing up, my foster families gave us chores, and almost every one of them gave me the task of cooking. I didn’t mind it, and I liked seeing people enjoy my food. I once thought that I would go to culinary school or open my own bakery, but those were just dreams of a naïve girl. When I turned eighteen, I had two weeks of school left before graduation. My current foster family allowed me to stay through graduation, but then I had to go. Luckily for me, my last family was nicer than the others. I lived with them for two years, my junior and senior years of high school. As long as my chores were done and my grades were good, they allowed me to babysit for the family next door, and I didn’t have to share my money with them. I saved every penny I made. I even did some landscaping, like mulching and weeding flower beds. Anything I could think of that would get me out of the house and put money in my old coffee tin.

  The Harper family was good to me, but I was still anxious living within their walls. Anytime I could escape them, I was all in. I didn’t have it as bad as some. I got slapped around a few times at my first few homes I was assigned to. Groped over my clothes by the teenage son of another. I spent lots of nights huddled in a small twin-sized bed, listening to my foster parents scream and shout at one another. I hated it. Every minute of it, until I moved in with the Harpers. They were kind. They didn’t scream or yell, and no one touched me inappropriately, but they were also cold. I would have given anything for a warm hug, but that’s not who they were. Regardless, I’ll be forever grateful to them for saving me from all the others.

  “Something smells good,” Foster says, walking into the kitchen.

  Thankfully, he’s fully clothed. “Chicken and dumplings. The cheater’s version.”

  “What exactly is the cheater’s version?” he asks, stepping close and leaning over my shoulder to peer into the pot on the stove.

  “I used canned chicken, instead of boiling and shredding it myself, and for the dumplings, I used biscuit mix instead of making them from scratch.”

  “I had all that here?” He raises a brow.

  “You did.” I smile. “This should feed you for a couple of days. If you tell me things you like to eat, I can make a grocery order and prepare those for you.”

  “I’m not a picky eater.” Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can define it.

  “I’m not either. I grew up in foster care. It was an ‘eat what I put in front of you’ kind of situation, at least until the last two years.”

  “Foster care?” he asks, and I can hear the skepticism in his voice.

  “Yeah, my mom was an addict. She passed when I was three, and we had no other family, at least not that they could find. So, I grew up in the system. I don’t remember her.” I clamp my mouth shut. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually talk about my past, especially not with someone I work for. My apologies,” I say, looking down at my feet.

  I can’t believe I just word vomited all of that. It has to be because I’ve spent a lot of today thinking about how I grew up. I’m usually not this open because when people find out you grew up without a family, they look at you differently. Some look at you with pity, and others with uncertainty, like you’re different from them, and they don’t know how to handle that. I hate both, so I don’t usually tell my story.

  There’s something about Foster that has me acting out of character. Whatever it is, I need to be more careful and lock it down. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s now worried that the poor little foster girl might rob him blind. I’ll probably get a call from Jasmine, my boss, telling me he’s requested my transfer.

  So fucking stupid, Eden.

  “Growing up in foster care isn’t a reason for an apology.” His voice is quiet. “I can empathize with your struggles.”

  “Don’t.” My shoulders stiffen. “Don’t play the nice guy because you pity me. I survived it, and I’m doing well for myself. I might not live in a million-dollar condo in downtown Nashville, but I’m taking care of myself. I have a warm, safe bed, food in the fridge, and a car that doesn’t break down every other day. I made it when so many like me get caught in a vicious cycle of the system and the homes they’re sequestered to. So, don’t.” My voice is stern as I hold his stare.

  I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not for Foster to stalk toward me. He stops when we’re toe to toe, and I have to tilt my head back to look at him. His dark brown eyes penetrate me.

  “I don’t pity you, Eden. I was you.”

  My mouth falls open in shock, and I have no words. What does he mean? Did he grow up in the system, too? Before I can find my voice, he takes a step back.

  “See yourself out. Have a good weekend, Eden,” he says, before turning on his heel and stalking down the hall toward his office.

  “Shit,” I mutter. My heart is racing, and my hands are trembling. This day derailed, and this is not at all how I expected it to turn out. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. He’s on the phone, calling Jasmine. I let my emotions get the better of me, and that could cost me my livelihood.

  Turning off the burner on the stove, I place the lid on the pot, change into my outdoor shoes, and slip out the door. I should call Jasmine and explain, but I’ll wait for her call to tell me that even though I’ve been with the company for seven years and have a perfect record, I’m done.

  Way to go, Eden. You just messed up a good thing.

  The drive home is quiet. I don’t turn on the radio, not that I could hear it over my thoughts. I trudge up to my apartment, kick off my shoes, and land face-first on the couch. I expect that call to come in any minute, and then I’ll get myself together and look for another position.

  This isn’t the first curveball life has tossed my way, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I’ll figure it out on my own, just like I always do.

  Chapter Three

  Foster

  * * *

  I recheck my phone, for the ten millionth time since Eden walked out of here on Friday. I expected to get a call from the agency telling me I was getting a new cleaner again, or worse, that my rudeness led them to cancel my client status. Then I remembered what I pay them each month, and that I received zero notice or communication when Tiffany left. I should call and complain, but this agency vets their employees, which is why they cost so much.

  Besides, I’m an easy guy, or usually, I am.

  Anyway, that’s why I’m up and dressed for the day, sipping on a protein shake, waiting for the new cleaner to arrive. I’m sure Eden asked to be moved. My stomach twists. I shouldn’t have dismissed her like that, but hearing her story, talking about growing up in the system, the same as me, it affected me in ways I don’t want to think about. I was an ass, and I should probably get her number from the agency and at least apologize. I’ll do that as soon as the new person gets here.

  I felt so guilty for our interaction on Friday that I spent the entire weekend thinking about it. About her. I couldn’t have slept in even if I wanted to today. My conscience wouldn’t let me.

  At ten minutes until eight, the door handle moves, and my eyes go to the door, waiting to see who enters. When it’s Eden that I see, with her long black hair pulled up in a messy knot, my breath hitches.

  Her big blue eyes are cautious as she notices me. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughn.”

  “Foster,” I correct her. “Good morning, Eden,” I reply. She looks stunned at my words, and I’m once again mentally kicking myself in the ass. I open my mouth to apologize immediately, but she beats me to it.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I was out of line. I never should have talked to you that way.” She breaks eye contact and gazes down at her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, and her eyes pop to mine. “I’m sorry that I dismissed you the way that I did,” I tell her. “I don’t talk about my past much, and even the little bit that slipped on Friday was more than I wanted to deal with. I took that out on you. I was wrong.”

  Her eyes widen, as if she can’t believe I would apologize to her. My mind instantly goes to what kind of men she’s been hanging around, if she’s not used to an apology.

  She nods once. “Is there anything you’d like me to do today, outside of the normal routine?”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  She hesitates, then shakes her head.

  “I was going to make some eggs and toast. Sit and eat with me.” I nod toward one of the stools at the island. It’s a lie. I wasn’t going to make breakfast; I just drank mine, but something about her diving right into work after our shared apology doesn’t sit right with me.

  “Oh, no, I’m okay,” she says, her words rushed.

  “I insist. This is what I’d like for you to do today, outside of the normal routine.” I busy myself pulling eggs out of the fridge and a skillet out of the cabinet, giving her time to decide.

  “I really should get to work.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the next.

  I make her nervous.

  “We both know my house is clean and that there’s nothing pressing for you to get started on. Sit down and eat.”

  This time, I hold her stare until she slips off her shoes, places her bag on the floor, and pads toward me in nothing but her sock-covered feet. Something about that has my chest tightening. Probably because she’s the only woman ever to be here, outside of Tiffany, the guys’ wives, and well, Hope, Coach’s wife. They’ve visited a few times—just friends, family, and staff. No woman has been here just for me, intimately, and watching Eden in my home, shoeless, that’s exactly how it feels.

  Intimate.

  It might also be because the last woman I cooked this exact meal for was my ex-girlfriend back in college. Either way, the invitation is out there, and I find myself wanting her to sit and eat with me. It’s the right thing to do, right? To show her I’m not a troll. That’s what I’m telling myself as I ignore the flutter in my chest while she hops up onto the stool.

  “Can I help?” she asks softly.

  “I’ve got this,” I tell her, cracking eggs into a bowl, adding some milk, salt, and pepper, before whisking them together. Silence hangs between us, and for someone who has never hated the silence, it’s annoying the fuck out of me right now.

  “How was your weekend?” I ask her.

  “Oh, um, it was fine.” Her voice is high, telling me that it was indeed not fine.

  “I’ll ask again. How was your weekend?”

  She sighs heavily. “It really was fine. Although,” she’s quick to add, already knowing I’m not one to give up, “I did spend most of it worried I was going to get a call for reassignment for today.”

  I’m just about to pour the eggs into the skillet, but I freeze to look at her. She’s chewing on her bottom lip. I suddenly have the urge to reach out and free it from her teeth, only to trace it with my tongue to soothe the ache.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t think these kinds of thoughts. Not ever.

  “I was up early today, waiting for your replacement to arrive.” Her skin goes pale, and I realize how my words sounded. “Shit. Not that I wanted to replace you. I didn’t. I just assumed after the way I acted on Friday, you’d ask to be reassigned.”

  “No,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  This time, I’m the one who’s nodding my response as I pour the scrambled eggs into the hot skillet. I push them around with the spatula before dropping some toast into the toaster.

  “Are you sure I can’t help?” Eden asks.

  “Are you afraid I’m going to burn it?” I tease, baffled because I really only ever tease with the guys. I’m not this person. Not anymore. Making a pretty girl smile has been low on my list of priorities since being drafted.

  “The jury’s still out,” she says, and this time, I look up just in time to catch a soft smile tugging at her lips.

  Damn.

  “I see how it is. Just because I’m an athlete, I can’t cook; is that it?”

  “I mean, you pay me to clean for you,” she teases.

  “Touché.” I chuckle. The toast pops up, and I quickly slather some butter on it, place it on the two plates I have sitting out, and then divide up the eggs.

  “What, no cheese? No hot sauce? What kind of food establishment is this?” She pretends to be appalled, but that smile that tugs at those full, kissable lips tells a different story.

  “Ask, and you shall receive.” I wink before grabbing a bag of shredded cheese and a bottle of hot sauce and placing them on the counter in front of her.

  “I was just teasing,” she says, with a soft laugh.

  “I can’t have you dissing my cooking skills,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head. “Trust me, I wouldn’t have anyone to tell, even if they weren’t perfectly fluffy and delicious,” she says, shoving another bite of egg into her mouth.

  “What do you mean?” I ask her.

  “My best friend, Carrie, is married and has two kids. I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like. They invite me over all the time, and I know that I’m welcome, but I hate tagging along on their family things just because she feels sorry for me.”

  “Does she?” I ask.

  “Does she what?”

  “Does she feel sorry for you? Maybe your best friend wants to make memories with you and her family.”

  She pauses, letting my words sink in.

  “You’re right,” she agrees. “It’s my hang-up. When you’re always the one left behind, it feels like pity when you fifth wheel it with your best friend, her husband, and her two kids.”

  “I understand. I have four best friends who are also my teammates, and they’ve all settled down and are starting or trying to start families. Sometimes, I feel like the odd man out, but I still go. I still participate because they’re my family. My guess is that Carrie and her husband both see you as family. And you’re Aunt Eden to her kids, aren’t you?”

  A light pink blush coats her cheeks. “Yeah,” she says. “I love those kids.”

  I nod. “If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that family is what you make it. So next time they invite you over, go. Don’t worry about being the fifth wheel. Hell, I’m the ninth wheel, but I still go. They’re my people, and when you grow up not having people, you cherish and hold on to them when they come into your life.” Fuck, I just need to shut up. What is it about this woman that has me opening up to her more than I ever have with my found family that I’ve been lecturing her about?

  “You know,” she says, before wiping her mouth and tossing her napkin onto her now-empty plate, “you’re pretty insightful for a jock.”