Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

His eyes latch on mine. There's frustration in his expression. I see it in the way his jaw has tightened and his lips have thinned.

I can't even being to comprehend what it must be like to be that recognizable. I've been surprised, each and every time I've seen him since we met a few days ago, that he doesn't have a bodyguard following him around.

He must get accosted like this constantly. He can't even go out for a coffee or a pizza without it turning into a fan fest. Other patrons, who moments ago didn't even look our way, are now pointing and whispering. I can already see people pulling out their phones, readying for their picture with him.

"Do you know her?" I blurt out. "Why is she calling you that name, David?"

The woman's neck cranes towards me, her brow knit in confusion. "Who's David?"

"Answer me, David." I pound my fist onto the circular table which sends our silverware flying. "If you're fucking around again, we're done. I'm not taking your sorry ass back again."

He smiles. It's quick, wicked and unnoticeable to the woman standing next to us who is now hugging her phone to her chest.

"I'm not." His voice is low.

Apparently my acting skills aren't any match for her desire to see Asher half-clothed. She grabs hold of the collar of the lightweight, long sleeved, grey sweater he's wearing, yanking it away from his skin as she tries to peer at his chest. "Who are you trying to kid? This is Asher Foster. He has tattoos under this. "

"You think David has tattoos?" I throw my head back in what sounds like genuine laughter. "David is scared shitless of needles. He passed out cold on the floor when he had a flu shot last year."

Asher pulls away, ridding himself of her touch. "I hate needles," he mumbles.

"He looks exactly like Asher Foster." She points at him. "You can't tell me that it's not him. I know he's in New York right now."

&nb

sp; "You're not talking about that singer, are you?" I scratch my chin. "That's it, isn't it? You think David looks like him? Really?"

She tilts her head as she studies Asher's face. "It's him. He's in New York writing music non-stop for his new tour. I follow him on Instagram. He posted a picture of Central Park today. It was this afternoon."

She waves the phone in front of us before I grab hold of her wrist, pretending to study the photograph. "That's not a bad picture. The focus could have been better. David didn't take it though."

"Asher Foster took it." She motions towards him. "He was writing music in Central Park all afternoon."

"David was in therapy with me from two until four. We're working on his commitment issues." I throw air quotes around the last two words for good measure as I roll my eyes. "It's not going well."

"My husband had commitment issues too." She turns towards me now. "It took time but we worked it out. We've been married for six years. We have two sons and another on the way."

I sigh heavily. "You're living my dream. I want your life."

"I have a picture of my kids." She yanks open her large leather bag, burying her gaze in it. "It's in my wallet. They're my angels. They both look exactly like me."

I use her distraction to my advantage, stealing a glance at Asher's face. He's smiling. His grin is so wide that I can't help but smile too.

"Well, shit." The woman, who just seconds ago, was rummaging through her bag, suddenly stills. "I was so caught up in thinking your David was my Asher that I forgot I have pictures of my kids on my phone."

"Is there one I can see?" I ask merely out of politeness. I already know what's about to happen.

She answers by pulling on the back of a vacant wooden chair that was at the table next to us. She sets it beside me, plops herself down and starts scrolling through the pictures on her phone, providing commentary for each and every last one of them.

***

"David?" He studies me. "Where did that name come from?"

"You look a little like a David to me," I joke as I watch Rhonda, the woman we just spent the past thirty minutes with, walk out the door. "I had to think fast. She was ready to rip your clothes off."

He taps his fingers on his stomach through the thin material of his sweater. "At least she went for the shirt. Some of them head below the belt straightaway."

My eyes drop to his jeans before I look back up. "They try to touch you? There?"