O Goalie Night (The Ottawa Otters #1)

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

BETH

“ W hat if she doesn’t like me?”

I will myself to stop playing with my seatbelt as we drive to Ben’s penthouse in the city. I just spent eighty dollars on this manicure and I’m hoping if I’m careful it will last me through the holidays.

“That’s literally impossible,” Foster answers, not taking his eyes off the road. He reaches over and takes my hand which had already started picking at the seatbelt again.

“It’s entirely possible. I have flaws, like everyone.”

He frowns as his eyes scan me up and down in appraisal. He shakes his head. “Nope. I’ve studied every inch of you and you’re perfect.” He kisses my hand before locking his eyes on mine. “Every. Inch.” He winks and I swat at him, making him laugh.

I missed him while he was away last week. His laugh, his smell, his presence. Yes, we texted constantly and Facetimed almost every day, but still; I missed having him at home. Knowing that Foster’s house is only going to be “home” for another week made his absence even more difficult. I leave for my parents’ in nine days and when I return, I’ll be moving into my own place.

But my complicated feelings about leaving Foster’s house is a problem for another day. Today I am focused on not making a terrible first impression with Valentina.

I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about meeting my brother’s girlfriend, but I can’t help it. She’s a supermodel. Her job title has the word “super” in it. The idea of being around someone who seems to live in a world of luxury and sophistication is intimidating. Her work must be so glamorous and thrilling.

The most exciting thing that happened to me today was that my class won the school door decorating contest and we got ice cream sandwiches.

They were really good ice cream sandwiches.

“What if we have absolutely nothing in common? What are we going to talk about?”

Foster shrugs. “Both of your boyfriends are hockey players.”

A small squeak escapes me, startling him.

“What?” he asks, looking curiously between me and the highway in front of us.

“Nothing. You just said that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I am your boyfriend.”

My boyfriend . My heart flutters, and I bite back a grin, attempting to play it cool, but inside, I’m squealing.

“So, if you’re my boyfriend, then by using deductive reasoning, would you consider me your girlfriend?”

The corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly. The subtle movement might have gone unnoticed, but I know his face well enough to know when he’s fighting a grin, and right now it looks like it’s taking everything in him not to laugh at me.

“Yes. I consider you my girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He cocks an eyebrow at me as he stops at a red light. “Do you not consider me your boyfriend?”

I do. Is that crazy? It’s only been two and half weeks since we first spent the night together and Foster’s been on the road half of that time. But I feel more for him already than I ever did for any other guy I’ve dated, and it’s getting harder to keep it a secret. I almost let it slip while talking to my sisters over the weekend. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it in.

Realising that he’s still waiting for me to answer, I say, “I would be open to considering it.”

Foster smirks. “You’re considering considering it?”

“Yes. I am taking it under consideration.”

“Well, let me know when you’ve considered it.”

“I will.”

“I wouldn’t want to rush your consideration.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

Foster’s deep, rich laughter fills the small space. It’s infectious, and I find myself grinning just listening to him. I love making him laugh. I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his whole face lights up.

As his laughter fades, he looks at me with a smile that makes my heart skip a beat.

There's something so pure, so unguarded about him when it’s just the two of us. I don’t think he shares this side of himself with many people and that makes me happy.

I want him all to myself.

“You made it!” Ben greets us as he opens the door, welcoming us into his condo.

He pulls me in for a quick hug and even from the brief contact, I can tell that he’s tense.

"I’m so glad you’re here." Ben takes Foster’s coat and waits while I unbutton mine. "Seriously, you have no fucking idea how glad I am." His tone is upbeat, but there’s a strain in his smile. This is not like him at all.

On that ominous note, I shrug off my coat and instantly feel Foster’s gaze on me. More specifically, on my dress.

I spotted the dress in the window of a consignment store while I was window shopping downtown over the weekend. It’s a deep red sheath dress with cap sleeves, a square neckline, and a skirt that falls just to my knees. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever worn, but it called to me. Wearing it makes me feel like Grace Kelly—timelessly elegant, effortlessly poised.

As Ben disappears with our coats, Foster approaches me from behind.

“That dress…” His mouth hovers just above my ear; not touching me, but affecting me all the same.

My pulse quickens. “What about it?” I made sure to slip my coat on before he could catch a glimpse of me in the dress, knowing full well that if he saw me in it, we probably wouldn’t have made it out of the house on time.

“It needs to be on my fucking floor,” he growls before stepping away, putting some much-needed distance between us.

Ben appears again and motions us to follow him into the living room. I still remember the first time I visited, how awestruck I was by the space. The décor had been simple back then, but the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning panoramic view of the city that left me speechless.

Today, the interior is almost unrecognisable. The room is dimly lit, with overhead lights casting dramatic spotlights on different areas. The living space, once open and minimalist, now features three long, plush white sofas arranged around a sleek glass coffee table. Bold, vibrant abstract paintings dominate three of the four walls, adding a burst of colour to the otherwise washed-out space.

It’s about as inviting as a roped-off art exhibit.

And the occupants appear to be just as welcoming.

Four people in the living room are deeply engaged in conversation and fail to acknowledge Foster and me.

I recognize Valentina from her pictures online, but I have no idea who her friends are. My first thought is they must be models too—how could they not be, looking like that?

I’ve never struggled with body image issues, but I’ve always seen myself as more cute than striking. These three women and their male companion possess a kind of beauty that feels surreal. Perfectly symmetrical features, flawless skin, and makeup so polished it’s as if they don’t exist in this world, but instead stepped straight out of a magazine into the condo.

“Babe,” Ben says, attracting the group’s attention. “Beth is here.”

“Hi,” I beam at her. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She stands, stepping around the coffee table as she walks towards me. She’s almost as tall as Ben .

Do I hug her? Shake her hand? I have no idea what the proper etiquette is.

When she reaches me, she places her hands on my shoulders as she leans down and gives me a quick air kiss next to my cheek.

“Hey.” She turns and with an effortlessly graceful hand motion gestures to the beautiful creatures sitting on the sofa. “This is Gwen, Dante, and Xan.” Even her voice is elegant. Soft but captivating as she introduces her friends.

I give the group an awkward little wave. The first two return my greeting with warm smiles. The third, Xan, I presume, stares straight past me and locks her gaze on Foster. Her long black hair is slicked back in a high, sleek ponytail. She’s like a cat, eyes on her target, ready to prowl.

“And you are?” she purrs at him. The sound makes my eye twitch.

I can sense his discomfort at being the centre of attention. My instinct is to close the distance between us and reassure him, but my feet stay firmly planted in place.

“This is my best friend, Foster,” Ben supplies. “I’ll grab you a drink, Bug.”

“I’ll help,” Foster says, giving me an intense look as he follows Ben into the kitchen. Foster is not a fan of crowds, or meeting new people.

Still. He’s gone and now I’m alone with not one but four strangers.

I glance nervously up at Valentina. Her blonde hair falls in soft, golden waves that catch the light perfectly. Her skin is flawless, glowing with a natural radiance I could never achieve no matter how much money I spend on serums from Sephora. The silence between us has stretched on too long, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know what to say to me either.

“Ben says you were travelling for work last week?”

She nods. “There was a show in Paris.”

“Paris? That sounds amazing. I’ve heard it’s really beautiful there.”

“You’ve never been?” Gwen asks from her spot on the couch. Her posh British accent combined with her platinum bob make her impossibly chic. But there is no trace of malice in her question.

“Me? No, I’ve actually never left North America.”

Xan scoffs and I feel myself shrink inwardly. When I was younger, our family vacations were mostly road trips. The rare times we flew, it was usually to watch Ben play hockey. I’d love to spend a summer travelling just for the fun of it someday, but that hasn’t happened yet.

Valentina ignores her friend’s rude reaction. “If you go, go in spring. It’s dreary this time of year.”

The others murmur their agreement.

“Are you all models?” I ask, tittering with nervous laughter. Xan laughs too, but I feel she’s laughing at me, not with me.

“Do you hear that, Dante?” Xan’s tone was mocking. “She thinks you’re a model.”

She irritated me earlier when she eye-fucked my boyfriend, but now I’m actually starting to loathe this woman.

“I’m prettier than you are,” Dante tells her before turning to me. “I’m a designer. It was my show they walked in last week.”

“Oh, that’s incredible. ”

“So is your dress,” he remarks as he casts his eyes downward. “Where ever did you get it?”

I feel myself flush under the sudden interest in my clothing. Smoothing my hands down the front of my skirt, I answer, “Well, to be honest, I found it in a thrift shop this weekend.”

I expect him to judge me for wearing second-hand clothing, but he surprises me by coming in for a better look.

He’s only slightly taller than me, but his presence feels much larger. Dressed in a tailored blazer and slim-fit trousers, he moves with a natural elegance, like it’s effortless. His light hair, perfectly styled, frames his sharp features, and his glasses highlight his intense, thoughtful eyes.

“Look at this stitching…” He gives the dress a thorough examination before declaring. “It’s vintage Chanel. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

Suddenly everyone in the room is a lot more interested in me, or my garment at least.

“It fits you perfectly,” Dante adds. “You look like Rita Hayworth.”

There is no suggestion in his tone or leer in his gaze. He strikes me as a man who appreciates beautiful things and he finds my dress beautiful.

Should I tell him I paid eighteen dollars for it?

No, Beth. That’s an inside thought.

My new friend is inspecting one of my sleeves as Foster steps out of the kitchen, a glass of champagne in hand. He freezes when he notices Dante’s hand on my shoulder, his usual stoic expression tightening into a deep scowl.