Chapter 8
Eight
Sweeney was still grinning as they entered the house a minute later, but it didn’t last long. All the lights were out apart from the night light Rhonda kept plugged in at one of the kitchen power points so late-night snackers could see where they were going.
‘Mum?’ Fin called.
There was no answer as he switched on the living room and kitchen lights, which was when Sweeney spotted the letter on the dining table. Snatching it up, she read it out loud.
‘Dearest Feeney.’
Fin snorted as he opened the fridge and stuck his head inside.
‘We hope training went well. There is no doubt in our minds that with both your skills the Banshees will not only be able to travel to the comp but shine.’
Another snort, muffled this time. ‘We need a magic wand for that.’
‘Connie and I have decided—’
‘Oh god,’ Fin interrupted, straightening with alarm, plastic orange juice bottle in his hand. ‘What now?’
Despite knowing she too should be concerned, Sweeney grinned at the horror on his face as she continued. ‘That it would be a better look if we gave the two lovebirds the run of the place without your old mother hanging around.’
Shutting the fridge door, Fin shook his head. ‘She cannot be serious.’
Sweeney doubted Ronnie was serious about the old bit, but the rest? Yup … ‘With you in Dublin and Sweeney flitting around the world, you don’t get a lot of couple time—’
‘That’s because we aren’t a bloody couple,’ he spluttered.
‘So, it would be remiss of us to not give you that opportunity now you’re both under the same roof.’
‘Jesus, are they … drinking their own Kool Aid over there, do you think?’
‘Ballyshannon and Marjorie Weaver (who BTW called in after you left with some old wedding magazines but actually to snoop around the house if you ask me—looking for what, I have no idea) are watching and it’s just until Sweeney leaves in a few days.
There’s a pasta bake in the oven for tonight but we’d love it if you could join us for dinner after training the next couple of nights so Connie can spend some time with Sweeney. ’
As far as Sweeney was concerned, going to her house with the buffer of Fin and Ronnie and the topic of the fake engagement to occupy them was the best way to spend time with her mother without having to be alone with her and the memories of twenty years ago.
Win/win. And perhaps the one good thing to come out of this whole fiancé fiasco.
‘Also,’ Sweeney continued, ‘Connie has stocked the freezer with a couple of tubs of Golden Gaytime ice cream.’
Her mouth watered at the thought. At least that was some compensation. She glanced up from the page, her eyes meeting Fin’s. ‘It’s signed, love from your ever grateful mothers. And then a bunch of x’s and o’s.’
Fin rolled his eyes. ‘They should take that letter and put it in an official archive somewhere. That’s a masterclass in how to flatter, cajole, guilt and bribe in two hundred words or less. Those two are wasted at the library. They really should enter politics.’
He chugged back half the orange juice as she watched, the bob of his whiskery throat strangely thrilling. Wigged out by such an errant thought, Sweeney gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’m going to tell your mother you drank straight out of the container.’
For a brief second, she saw a flicker of eight-year-old Fin, who would never have dared even contemplate the egregious sin of drinking from the container, before thirty-two-year-old Fin’s gaze turned defiant and he slowly and deliberately licked the inside of the lid before twisting it back on and returning the juice to the fridge.
Sweeney wrinkled her nose. ‘Ewww.’
He grinned and strolled past her. ‘I’m calling dibs on the shower.’
‘Good,’ she called after him without turning, as an answering grin spread across her face and she reverted to their childhood banter. ‘You stink.’
And he did. But in all the good ways.
His cologne had mixed with the sweat he’d built up running after a plethora of wildly wayward balls, and his scent had morphed into something deliciously base.
More yo-ho-ho-anda-bottle-of-rum pirate than pina colada.
She was glad he was washing it off because seriously …
Fin, her geeky childhood friend, had no business smelling that good.
None whatsoever.
*
The source of Fin’s seriously amazing scent was not, in fact, cologne.
Something Sweeney discovered when she stepped into the cubicle ten minutes after he had vacated.
The air was still humid from his shower, the aroma of him clinging to the invisible globules of moisture hanging around in the confined space, and she shut her eyes to savour it for a beat.
When she opened them again, her gaze landed on the wire shower caddy and the very masculine bottle of body wash that hadn’t been there the last few nights. Fin must have forgotten to take it back to his bedroom after his shower.
Flicking the taps on and adjusting the temperature to a nice warm spray, curiosity got the better of her and she reached for it, noting the navy colour and the bold black and silver print proclaiming it to be Rum Punch.
Lifting it to her nose, she popped the lid and inhaled, dragging the addictive fragrance deep into her lungs.
Yup. That was it. The scent she’d come to recognise as Fin. It smelled slightly lighter in the bottle, though, clearly needing masculine pheromones to elevate—or maybe lower—it to something much deeper and richer.
It was Fin that took the scent from heady to intoxicating.
Without giving it a second thought, Sweeney squeezed a dollop into her cupped hand and lathered it over her body, enjoying how readily it foamed and how easily her fingers slid over her naked body.
When she found her brain wandering to how Fin had stood here fifteen minutes ago—also naked and slippery with body wash—she threw on the mental brakes.
She did not think about Fin like that just because he’d become nerdy-hot and she was seeing him as a man for the first time.
They were old friends, playing lovers, and there were only two more sleeps until she flew away, after which it’d probably be another four years until she saw him again, so this line of thought was ludicrous.
She should be thinking about what Fin had said in the car.
About the lie their mothers had entangled them in and how they were going to navigate the situation.
But that was even more bamboozling and Sweeney didn’t have the bandwidth to figure it out.
Besides, they really only had two more days, two more training sessions to endure town speculation, and then she’d be gone and the risk of their mothers’ lie being exposed by either of them putting a foot wrong would be reduced to zero.
She’d never looked forward to a flight more.
A pang of guilt hit, thinking about poor Fin being the one left behind to suffer their fake engagement alone while she was swanning around Indonesia, but … better him than her.
*
If he noticed Sweeney had used his body wash as they sprawled on the couch in front of the television and tucked into dinner, Fin didn’t say.
With his long legs stretched out, his feet up on the coffee table, he was the epitome of relaxed as he watched the evening news, alternating mouthfuls of cheesy pasta goodness with cold beer.
Sweeney, her legs also outstretched, feet up on the table, had her bowl balanced on the arm of the couch and was forking pasta out with one hand and scrolling through the picture haul she’d downloaded onto her laptop with the other.
Mai had already messaged twice, eager to get something up on Instagram, so Sweeney was only peripherally aware of the chatter of newsreaders as she quickly assessed the contenders.
Fortunately, considering this was not her forte, there were quite a few relatively decent snaps that Sweeney felt okay about sending to Mai and that would probably work well on social media.
With the image permission forms from the families signed, all Sweeney had to do was choose and send them over.
Her fingers paused on the trackpad as a picture of Fin signing appeared.
She’d been so transfixed by him communicating with Winnie with such utter ease that she hadn’t thought to get a picture until the very end, managing to snap off this one before Fin and Tori had returned to the centre of the field.
And she was pleased she had. It wasn’t technically a great picture in a lot of ways and it certainly wouldn’t make the cut tonight, but it tugged at her nonetheless.
She’d somehow managed to capture Winnie, clinging to her grandfather’s leg, peeking up at Fin shyly but clearly fascinated by this stranger who knew how to communicate with her, and Fin with his smiling face animated as his busy hands were captured mid-sign.
It had been the first time all session he’d looked happy. Comfortable, even. And he hadn’t been that since before they’d walked into the birthday party on Saturday night to the news of his surprise betrothment.
Despite the technical imperfections that had seen Sweeney already trash about two hundred photographs, she knew she wouldn’t trash this one. Because, of all the ones she’d taken, this was the only one that truly told a story.
So maybe she didn’t suck at this so much after all.
Finishing her dinner, Sweeney did her second trawl through, shuffling about a dozen pictures into a folder on the home screen she labelled Banshees, before trashing the rest. She’d edit them later to make them pop a little more, but if she had an image bank of a few dozen by the time she left then Mai should have plenty of pics to continue her social media campaign.
As Sweeney decided which three images she’d send to Mai, Fin finished his pasta and picked up the remote, flicking around the channels. ‘Some more Lost?’
She nodded absently. ‘Sure.’ They’d been revisiting the drama series of their youth, which they’d watched unfailingly and talked about obsessively for the entirety of their high school years. Even when it got impossibly, ridiculously over-the-top, Sweeney and Fin had stayed doggedly loyal.
Rediscovering it again on streaming had been a fun way to pass what Fin had dubbed their home detention.
They could have gone out, of course, but hiding in the house away from any potential public faux pas that would reveal them as big fat lying liars had definitely been the better part of valour!
Between Marjorie’s low-key stalking and the Murphy family WhatsApp group all atwitter with Feeney fever, keeping things on the down low until she left and thus erasing any potential for contradiction made perfect sense.
So, Netflix and no chill it was.
As the opening music played, Sweeney turned her laptop screen in his direction. She’d pulled up the three she thought were the best of a bad—or exceptionally average anyway—bunch. ‘What do you think about these ones?’
Fin glanced at the screen, then reached for it as he asked, ‘These are for Mai?’
‘Uh huh.’
Balancing the laptop on his thighs, he scrolled between the three.
They were action shots—two had kids only in the frame, while the third had both Fin and Donny and a girl called Lillian, whose face was puckered in concentration as she attempted to kick the ball on the fly.
Of course, she’d missed and fallen on her ass, as the rapid-fire pics taken immediately after could attest, but this one was gold.
‘They’re great,’ he enthused, meeting her gaze. ‘Not bad for a landscape photographer.’
Sweeney shrugged. ‘They’re okay.’
His brow furrowed as he returned his attention to the screen. ‘Okay?’
‘The framing’s off and I need to be able to adjust for and incorporate movement more.’
‘But look at their faces—you captured such a range of expressions. Look at this kid’s tongue.’ He pointed to a freckly boy in the first picture, the tip of his tongue clamped between his lips as he’d tried to catch the ball. ‘That’s what it’s all about, right?’
‘Maybe,’ she conceded, staring at the face. She’d been so focused on the big picture issues, she hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the detail. But that tongue definitely told a story, and maybe that’s why these three pics had subliminally appealed the most.
He shot her a grin. ‘I reckon we’ll make a wedding photographer out of you yet.’
‘Ha.’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘You take that back, Fin Murphy.’ He’d been with her several times over the years when people had asked her if she did weddings, and it had become a running joke.
She had nothing against wedding photographers, it was just that the thought of trying to manage multiple people with too many variables at stake—emotions, family dynamics, venue constraints, weather—gave her the heebie-jeebies.
In her current line of work there was usually only one variable—the weather. And that’s the way she liked it.
He laughed. ‘Or what?’
She almost said, ‘Or I’ll tickle you.’ She and Fin had been exceptionally ticklish as kids and it had always been her go-to punishment for him. Prior to Saturday night, she’d have said it without hesitation. And followed through because she knew where all his sweet spots were.
But everything was different now and perhaps, alone in this house in their pyjamas with his grandmother’s Claddagh ring on her finger, it wasn’t really appropriate anymore.
Which was probably the worst part of this whole thing—could her and Fin’s relationship ever get back to what it was prior to this ludicrous fake engagement?
Surely, it would always be this awkward thing between them now?
‘Or I’ll knock on Janelle Pearson’s door and tell her you wrote poetry about her in grade eight.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t.’
Sweeney folded her arms. ‘Try me.’
‘That’s a low blow, Sweeney Bailey. I showed you those in confidence.’
‘My sweet, sweet Janelle, your name ringing softly tinkles like a bell, in my ears, my dear, as you near.’
He groaned then he laughed, shutting his eyes briefly before opening them again. ‘You’ve got a memory like an elephant, you know that?’
‘Even a goldfish would remember that travesty.’
‘You said they were good,’ he said, half laughing … half accusing.
‘I was thirteen.’ She bugged her eyes at him. ‘What did I know about poetry?’
‘Fine.’ He huffed out a breath. ‘I take back the wedding photographer bit.’
A triumphant grin split her face. ‘Attaboy. Now, are we watching Lost or are you going to talk all the way through it?’
Passing over her laptop, he didn’t bother to answer, just turned back to the television and started watching. Sweeney smiled to herself as she attached the three photographs to an email and sent them to Mai.