Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Rhodes
I expect to feel guilty, holding another woman in my arms as she sleeps.
As we lie in the bed I shared with Anna.
Instead…I’m happy.
I mean, I have the blue balls to end all blue balls, but…
I’m happy.
This isn’t a quick fuck, isn’t me scratching an itch—something I haven’t done in all the time since Anna died.
It was something I couldn’t even stomach the thought of after she was gone.
Not with Chloe struggling, not with the grief so heavy in the house, not with me barely keeping my head above water for so long afterwards.
But Finn…
She’s different.
So, when I slip out of bed, it’s not to run away.
Not to allow guilt to sweep forward and suck me under.
It’s to clean up the remnants of that cocktail we never got around to drinking.
Or well, I think, my lips curving, that Finn never got around to drinking.
Me lapping it off her skin is a memory I’m tucking safely away…
Because we are so doing that again.
When she’s completely comfortable. When the edge is off and my balls aren’t going to explode and I’m not feeling rushed. When I can take my time.
All the fucking time.
I wash the shaker, mop up the mess on the counter, the floor, and when I climb the stairs a second time, when I crawl back into bed beside Finn, I know it’s me making a deliberate choice.
To move forward.
“Meow.”
I wake with a sore ass and…
A cat on my chest.
“Meow.”
I look down to find Olive sitting squarely on my sternum like she owns the place, blinking at me with shameless entitlement.
“You are five pounds of pure demon,” I mutter.
She meows again.
Pear sits on the floor beside the bed and does that weird butt-wiggle thing cats do before they launch themselves at things.
I point at her. “Don’t.”
She leaps anyway.
Right onto the comforter, her claws catching for half a second before she scrambles up, triumphant and completely unrepentant as she settles on my chest beside Olive.
“Demons,” I mutter.
They just purr in response.
I scratch them, knowing I should get up.
The spot beside me is empty, and Chloe will be home soon and based on the delicious scents lingering in the air, Finn is making something yummy for breakfast.
I should help her.
Instead, I lie there for another minute thinking about last night.
And yeah, the memory puts a giant grin on my face.
Finn in my bed.
In my arms.
Her skin soft under my hands.
Her pleasure on my tongue.
My balls ache, but yeah, so totally worth it to watch her orgasm breaking her apart, to be the one who was able to piece her back together.
And sleeping with her pressed against me? Fucking perfection.
Pear bats at my beard and I sigh, finally pushing up. “All right. Fine. I’m going.”
Both kittens leap off the bed like they’ve won.
And they likely have—me getting up means they’ll have food in their bowls and treats in their bellies.
But first, I make a pitstop in the bathroom, take care of the necessary morning business.
I wash my hands, brush my teeth, slap on some deodorant, then freeze when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
For once, I don’t look like a man drowning.
I look like me.
Fucking finally.
Because for so long I was lost.
Wake up.
Take care of Chloe.
Play hockey.
Come home.
Do it all again. And again. And again.
There’s been joy in there, sure—because of Chloe, because of the guys and their shenanigans, because life doesn’t completely stop even when grief tries to make it do exactly that—but underneath it all was…
Quiet. No. Emptiness.
Like I was going through the motions, putting on a mask so I could be a good dad for Chloe.
And now I see a glimpse of a future that will be different.
Except…the person who’s responsible for it?
She’s leaving in just a few months.
“Fuck,” I whisper, scrubbing my hands over my face, the reminder hitting hard enough to suck the air from my lungs, to wipe my smile off my face.
Because somehow thinking about that hurts a lot fucking more today than it did yesterday, than it did when I was assuring Finn this would all be fine.
“Enough,” I whisper and shove that thought—that worry—out of my head. I make my way downstairs, the demon kittens weaving around my ankles, doing their level best to end my season early by tripping me.
I make it to the first floor unscathed, walk down the hall.
The scent of coffee and something sweet lingers in the air.
Then voices reach my ears.
Chloe’s chatter coming a mile a minute.
Finn’s quiet replies.
My pulse speeds, thundering through my veins, and I take the last two steps slower than I should, looking through the opening, watching the pair.
And knowing I’m going to commit this moment to memory too.
Finn standing at the stove wearing my hoodie. It dwarfs her, stopping at mid-thigh, and I hope—fucking hope—she’s not wearing anything under it.
She probably is, though.
Because she’s responsible.
I tear my eyes from those lush thighs between which I spent some of my favorite moments last night, and see she’s barefoot, one hip cocked as she flips a pancake.
Chloe is perched on her stool next to her, talking so fast half the words blur together.
“And then Joan of Freaking Arc—”
I chuckle.
Finn looks up, her cheeks flushing instantly, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip, her eyes telling me that last night is front and center in her mind too.
She smiles and it’s a little shy. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I move toward her, lean down, and—very aware of Chloe watching me—I brush my lips over Finn’s.
Then I turn to my daughter, kiss the top of her head.
“What are my favorite girls up to?”
Chloe looks at me. Then at Finn.
Then I watch her accept what I just silently communicated with all the aplomb of her typical four-year-old self. “We’re making pancakes, Daddy!”
“Yeah?”
“Finn made cinnamon pancakes.”
“Wow, I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“It is a thing,” Finn teases. “A delicious one.”
“I can’t wait to try them.”
“What shape do you want?” Chloe asks. “We tried to make a dolphin but that didn’t go well”—a nonplussed nod at a lumpy shape on her plate—“now we’re making Olive and Pear.”
I study the pancakes before Finn lifts them out.
“That’s not going well either,” Chloe stage whispers.
I chuckle.
Finn laughs outright.
“Should I try?” I offer.
“Have at it.” Finn passes me the container with the batter. “I’ll finish up the eggs.”
“Make a turtle, Daddy!” Chloe demands.
“I thought we were trying for cats.”
“I have them already,” she says, lifting one of the misshapen attempts in my direction. “See? Meow!”
More laughter from Finn as she cracks eggs.
Chloe, meanwhile, starts eating the “cat’s” ears.
And I do my best to make a turtle.
(Spoiler alert: it ends up looking like a lump.)
Luckily, it still tastes good, and later, as we gather around the table with our oddly shaped, but delicious cinnamon pancakes and the delicately scrambled eggs, I’m not thinking about Finn leaving.
I’m thinking how good it feels to have her here right now.