Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

Just as I reach for one of the paper napkins on the table, Falon pulls a silver business card holder from the large canvas purse she has strung over her shoulder. "You can sign the back of one of my cards."

I smile in appreciation as I take it from her. I slide it in the front pocket of my jeans and instead sign the back of the paper napkin before I hand it to the woman.

"I gave you my card so you could sign it." She taps me on the shoulder just as the three women walk away. "Why did you put it in your pocket?"

"I want your number." I pick up the empty orange juice bottle and toss it in the trash. "I planned on asking my assistant to get it for me, but then you handed it to me."

She bows her head to hide her sudden, and brilliant, smile. "You could have just asked me for it."

"You would have given it to me?" I straighten, shoving my hands into the front pockets of my jeans.

"I didn't say that." With that, she brushes past me and walks out of the coffee shop before disappearing seamlessly into the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 5

Falon

I can't believe I just walked out of that café and away from Asher Foster. I should have hung around to see what he wanted to do next but my heart was beating so hard I felt dizzy. I was afraid I was going to topple right over and onto my face on the disgusting tile floor.

He was flirting. I know enough about men to distinguish flirting from just polite conversation. He was also hurting.

When we walked out of my studio, most of his entourage was still waiting for him. He had a brief conversation with his manager before he motioned for me to follow him. As we walked down the street, I sent Remy a quick text after I realized that she'd messaged me three times demanding to know what I was doing.

I don't owe her any explanations but I also didn't want her to jump to the wrong conclusion. She's my sister's best friend and right now, I don't need my family to think that I've got something going on with one of the most famous men on the planet. Since I moved out, and into Manhattan, I've kept my personal business to myself, for the most part. At least, I've tried to.

After I sent Remy the text telling her that Asher and I were going for a coffee to talk business, I'd fallen in step beside him. He walked with a determined focus, oblivious to all the stolen glances around him.

Just as many men stopped to take a second look at him as did women. His face is everywhere right now, including on the billboard in Times Square. Seeing his album cover lighting up that screen while he was standing next to me waiting to cross Broadway, may have been the most bizarre experience of my life.

Taking photos with strangers' smartphones of Asher and some of his fans only added to the randomness of this day. I need to get back to my studio so I can decompress. I'm also eager to go over the shots I took of him.

My phone rings just as I approach the door that leads into the building that houses my studio. I answer it without looking at the screen. It's my sister Clara. I know that. She's going to give me hell for bailing on our early dinner plans.

"I have a good reason," I say as I pull open the heavy glass door that leads into the lobby. "I can explain."

"You had a good reason for doing what?"

"Noah?" I stop in place. "Noah Foster?"

"The Noah Foster."

I laugh at that. My former boss, Noah Foster, once told me the story of how he met his wife, Alexa. At the time, he was taking nude photographs of women and selling them for an obscene amount of money. In the art world, his name was synonymous with success. To Alexa, it meant nothing. Even though he viewed himself as 'the Noah Foster,' she saw him as just a regular guy. The affection in his voice when he told the story stayed with me for a long time.

When I landed the job as his assistant right after college, I was beside myself. I learned more from him in the nine months that I worked for him, than I did the entire time I studied photography in school. I watched him expertly handle the egos of some of the city's most influential people. I also stood next to him as he worked events that garnered national attention. His current work is featured in magazines, on billboards, and all over the internet.

I owe much of my success to him. I know, for a fact, that he often sends potential clients my way. I'm grateful. I stopped telling him that when he told me that I deserved all the attention I'm getting for my work.

"What did you do?" His voice is gruff. "You said you had a good reason for doing something."

"I thought you were someone else." I settle onto a fabric covered bench since the cell phone reception in the elevator is horrible. "Why are you calling?"

"My cousin is crushing on you."

Noah's blunt. I admire that about him. He's also hilarious. He's one of the funniest people I've ever met. "Your cousin is crushing on me?"

"Don't pretend you don't know." He chuckles. "Asher never calls me. Hell, I don't remember the last time I spoke on the phone with him before today."

I easily connected the dots of their relationship when I booked Asher's shoot. I knew that it was Noah who sent me the job. I should thank him but he'll give me some bullshit line about how I'm better for the job than he is.