Love: Not Until You, Part 8. Roni Loren

       Chapter 38

      I woke up groggy and disoriented, a loud sound filling my ears and the bed jostling. I rolled over to find Foster groping around the hotel room in the dark and cursing.

      “Who the fuck would call this early? And where the hell is my phone?”

      I wrapped the covers around me, the chill of the room raising goose bumps on my skin, and climbed out of bed, dragging the sheet with me. “I think it’s over here on the desk.”

      I grabbed it for him, but it’d stopped ringing by that time.

      “Dammit,” he said from the other side of the room.

      I peeked over at the clock. A little past five. Calls this early were never good. For me it usually meant a panicked family and an injured pet, but I had a feeling someone calling Foster this early would be even more ominous.

      “Does it say who it was?” he asked, fumbling around for the lamp.

      I flipped over the phone and hit the button to illuminate the screen. Ugh. Bile burned the back of my throat. I tossed the phone on the bed. “Yeah. It’s Bret.”

      “Bret?” he said, the lamp flicking on, lighting his stricken face. “Shit.”

      I pulled the sheet tighter around me, my chill no longer related to the overactive air conditioner. “I’m going to go shower, so if you need to call her back, you’ll have some privacy.”

      If he caught the biting edge to my tone, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he was already moving toward the phone, probably not even hearing me.

      “Right,” I said under my breath. Guess when she called, the whole world needed to stop. I turned on my heel and headed to the bathroom before the ugly jealousy could cause me to say something I’d regret.

      As I stood under the stream of hot water in the shower, I tried to pull myself back together and not picture Foster in bed with that blond knockout. He’d said Bret was a colleague and a friend now, not a lover. If she was calling, it probably wasn’t for a booty call. My logical brain knew that, but my completely irrational heart wasn’t hearing any of it.

      He’d told me last night that he loved me. I still couldn’t fully digest that turn of events. My cognitive functioning had frozen when he’d said the words. In a lot of ways, it’d been everything I’d wanted to hear. Being with him last night, feeling his touch, had only solidified how strongly I felt for him. And maybe I had fallen in love with him, too. But I had no idea if that was enough. I had moved my life here. And a relationship with Foster meant a certain kind of lifestyle that my brain and body were at war over.

      I couldn’t—wouldn’t—say the words to him if I wasn’t going to be able to back them up with a commitment. I didn’t want to be another hurt in his life.

      By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, Foster was fully dressed and tossing clothes into his suitcase. Any remnants of my jealous bitch side shut her mouth and concern flooded me. “What’s going on?”

      He turned to look at me, face drawn. “Bret said she found some information about my sister’s case and had to go to the FBI with it. They wouldn’t let her give me the details over the phone. I have to get back to town.”

      I wrapped my arms myself. “Of course. Is there anything I can do to help?”

      He walked over to me, taking my face in his hands, and pressed a quick kiss to my lips. “You can forgive me for leaving before we have a chance to talk things out.”

      “Done,” I said without hesitation. We could deal with the complicated tangle of our relationship another day. “She didn’t give you any indication of what type of news this was.”

      He went back to his packing, his movements efficient but his shoulders stiff with tension. “Well, there really is no good news in this. I’m not naive enough to think Neve is just going to reappear one day. But if we could find out what happened, who took her … I may be able to provide some closure for my parents. Some peace. They’ve spent every day since she went missing dedicating their lives to the cause.”

      “So have you,” I said gently.

      He peered back over his shoulder at me. “I owed that much to her. If I had done what I was supposed to that day, she may still be around.”

      “You were a kid, Foster,” I said, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. “You weren’t old enough to be responsible for someone else.”

      His jaw twitched. “I just need to be able to tell my parents—we got him or them or whoever was involved. Maybe once there’s some justice handed down …”

      “They’ll forgive you?” I asked, my heart heavy for him.

      He zipped up his suitcase and stared down at it, his expression grim. “No, angel, they’ll never do that. How could they? But maybe they’ll at least be able to move on.”

      The lonely ache in his voice—that of a kid still looking for love from his parents—made my chest hurt. But I knew there was nothing I could say to make him feel better. That wound was one

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