Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

I nod. She's got more insight into what's going on inside of me than I do. "I wanted that because everything felt different after that call. My family will never be the same again."

***

I've sat quietly for the past five minutes while she talked on her phone to her mom. I assume it's her mom based on the number of times she's had to tell the person on the other end that Elijah is fine, and will be fine until he's back home.

"I'm sorry about that." She lowers the phone to her lap. "My mom worries about him. She worries about all of us."

I hesitate, knowing I should segue into this in a more civilized way, but at some point she's going to have to go back up to her place to hang out with her brother. If I don't say it now, I'm going to lose another night of sleep. "My mind has been jumping all over the fucking place the last few days, Falon. When I pulled back from you at your studio, that was… that had nothing to do with you. That was all me. I was still reeling from that call."

Her eyes widen. "I get family drama. I've got my own to deal with."

"I didn't handle it well. I want to start over. I'd love to take you out for dinner. It could be our first date."

"You do realize that we've already had dinner together, don't you? It was cheeseburgers with extra mustard and soggy fries. That was technically a date."

"I don't consider that a date. We grabbed some food after midnight. That's completely different than an actual date so I'm asking you again if you'll go out with me one night this week."

Her top teeth catch her bottom lip as she studies my face. "You asked me that in my studio too. Let's cut to the chase. Do you always ask the women you want to fuck to go on an actual date first?"

My brows rise at the playful way she slowly and distinctively says the word 'fuck.' I swallow hard. "Do you always talk about fucking with men before you've gone on an actual date with them?"

"Touché," she says through a wide grin. "It depends on the man and I like to be clear about things."

"I don't know about the other men you're going out with." A muscle in my jaw shudders. "This man would like to take you out for dinner at a nice restaurant before midnight one night. You choose what night and what we do after that is entirely up to you."

"Entirely?" Her face brightens with a smile. "You'd put yourself at my mercy like that?"

"I've kissed you, Falon." My fingers brush over my lips. "If that's a taste of what's to come, I'll sit right here on this stoop for days waiting for you to say yes to dinner."

Tilting her head she brings her mouth close to mine. I can feel her breath as she whispers into the air between us. "Now, I'm the one who can't resist when you put it like that."

The urge to reach out and grab her to kiss her again is strong but before I have time to react, she's on her feet, her hand lightly brushing my shoulder as she climbs the concrete steps, unlocks the door and disappears behind it.

CHAPTER 17

Falon

"Your brother told me about the rock and roll singer." My mom pounds her fist into a ball of dough. I take a step back to shield my dress from the cloud of flour that erupts. "Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend, Girlie?"

It's Falon, Mom. My name is Falon Frances Shaw. You chose my name. Use it.

I want to say that but I wore out my voice when I was a teenager trying to convince my mom, and my dad, to call me by my name. Obviously it was time wasted.

As I've gotten older I've realized that my desire to hear my name from the two people who brought me into this world has a lot to do with security. Everyone has memories of their childhood they'd like to box up and hide in a tomb for eternity.

My memory like that is actually a series of memories of helping in the bakery on the weekends with my siblings and listening to my mom calling one of our names, then correcting herself by calling out another, and then another and then two or three more before she finally sputtered out the one she meant to say in the first place.

The easiest solution to avoid that after all the disappointed looks on the faces of her kids was simple. The boys became lads and the girls became girlies.

From that point forward, she never called any of us by name in the bakery again. If she needed help, the first lad or girlie to pop their head around the corner, put their hands to good use, rolling, kneading, icing or carrying a tray to the front.

"Does your boyfriend have tattoos? Those boy band types always have the tattoos in all the wrong places."

"He's not my boyfriend, Mom." I grab a small spoon from the rack that's near me, dipping the tip in a bowl of chocolate ganache. "If Eli told you that, he was mistaken. I took pictures of him for work. That's it."

"That's not it, Girlie." She waves her hand in the air so high that flour rains down on the hairnet that's covering her dark hair. "Elijah told me that he was loitering outside your apartment after dark. He wants to be your boyfriend. Your father did the same thing before I married him."

I've heard the story of my parents' romance a million times and if I'm lucky, I'll hear it a million more before they're too old to remember or death steals them away. My mom always tears up when she talks about meeting my dad. Right now, I don't have time to walk down that particular path of memory lane. I have to get back to Manhattan for an evening shoot that's scheduled to start in ninety minutes. I asked Eli to stay to assist me, but he wanted to get home, so we hopped on the subway right after we had an early dinner at the Italian restaurant around the corner from my place.