Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
The Harper family was good to me, but I was still anxious living within their walls. Anytime I could escape them, I was all in. I didn’t have it as bad as some. I got slapped around a few times at my first few homes I was assigned to. Groped over my clothes by the teenage son of another. I spent lots of nights huddled in a small twin-sized bed, listening to my foster parents scream and shout at one another. I hated it. Every minute of it, until I moved in with the Harpers. They were kind. They didn’t scream or yell, and no one touched me inappropriately, but they were also cold. I would have given anything for a warm hug, but that’s not who they were. Regardless, I’ll be forever grateful to them for saving me from all the others.
“Something smells good,” Foster says, walking into the kitchen.
Thankfully, he’s fully clothed. “Chicken and dumplings. The cheater’s version.”
“What exactly is the cheater’s version?” he asks, stepping close and leaning over my shoulder to peer into the pot on the stove.
“I used canned chicken, instead of boiling and shredding it myself, and for the dumplings, I used biscuit mix instead of making them from scratch.”
“I had all that here?” He raises a brow.
“You did.” I smile. “This should feed you for a couple of days. If you tell me things you like to eat, I can make a grocery order and prepare those for you.”
“I’m not a picky eater.” Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can define it.
“I’m not either. I grew up in foster care. It was an ‘eat what I put in front of you’ kind of situation, at least until the last two years.”
“Foster care?” he asks, and I can hear the skepticism in his voice.
“Yeah, my mom was an addict. She passed when I was three, and we had no other family, at least not that they could find. So, I grew up in the system. I don’t remember her.” I clamp my mouth shut. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually talk about my past, especially not with someone I work for. My apologies,” I say, looking down at my feet.
I can’t believe I just word vomited all of that. It has to be because I’ve spent a lot of today thinking about how I grew up. I’m usually not this open because when people find out you grew up without a family, they look at you differently. Some look at you with pity, and others with uncertainty, like you’re different from them, and they don’t know how to handle that. I hate both, so I don’t usually tell my story.
There’s something about Foster that has me acting out of character. Whatever it is, I need to be more careful and lock it down. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s now worried that the poor little foster girl might rob him blind. I’ll probably get a call from Jasmine, my boss, telling me he’s requested my transfer.
So fucking stupid, Eden.
“Growing up in foster care isn’t a reason for an apology.” His voice is quiet. “I can empathize with your struggles.”
“Don’t.” My shoulders stiffen. “Don’t play the nice guy because you pity me. I survived it, and I’m doing well for myself. I might not live in a million-dollar condo in downtown Nashville, but I’m taking care of myself. I have a warm, safe bed, food in the fridge, and a car that doesn’t break down every other day. I made it when so many like me get caught in a vicious cycle of the system and the homes they’re sequestered to. So, don’t.” My voice is stern as I hold his stare.
I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not for Foster to stalk toward me. He stops when we’re toe to toe, and I have to tilt my head back to look at him. His dark brown eyes penetrate me.
“I don’t pity you, Eden. I was you.”
My mouth falls open in shock, and I have no words. What does he mean? Did he grow up in the system, too? Before I can find my voice, he takes a step back.
“See yourself out. Have a good weekend, Eden,” he says, before turning on his heel and stalking down the hall toward his office.
“Shit,” I mutter. My heart is racing, and my hands are trembling. This day derailed, and this is not at all how I expected it to turn out. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. He’s on the phone, calling Jasmine. I let my emotions get the better of me, and that could cost me my livelihood.
Turning off the burner on the stove, I place the lid on the pot, change into my outdoor shoes, and slip out the door. I should call Jasmine and explain, but I’ll wait for her call to tell me that even though I’ve been with the company for seven years and have a perfect record, I’m done.