Chapter 11 Finn #3
Her body fits against mine as if the universe designed her just to lean into me like this. Every inch of her is pressed to every inch of me. My body goes hot and tight, and I know she feels it. God help me, I know she does.
Then she laughs, a soft, breathless sound that melts straight into my bones. “Well. That was a wave.”
“Yeah,” I manage, voice low. “That was a wave.”
We try to untangle, but we are both slippery with saltwater, so we end up falling into each other again, laughing too hard to stand upright. Her fingers curl around my arm, and I cannot stop touching her, steadying her, memorizing the shape of her against me.
When we finally pull apart, I already miss her warmth.
Later, back at our spot, we reach for the sunscreen again.
The bottle is slick with sand, so she hands it to me, and I spray her shoulders.
Her skin glows in the late sun, warm and smooth under my hands.
She lets out the tiniest sigh when I massage the lotion in, and I have to look away before my thoughts slip somewhere dangerous.
Then she does me.
Her fingers glide across my back, slow and careful, lingering at my shoulders, the back of my neck. Every touch burns, but in the best way. Her breath fans my skin when she leans in to reach the middle of my spine, and I almost lose it.
When we finally collapse into our chairs again, toes buried in the sand, hearts still racing, the sun is sinking lower, painting the whole beach in gold.
We sit there in silence, side by side, the kind of quiet that feels intimate.
And I know with absolute certainty: If I touch her again tonight, I will not survive it.
The sun sinks lower, and everything feels soft and golden and stupidly perfect.
By the time we’re ready to call it a day, the beach has emptied out a little.
We walk back to the cottage and I unlock the door.
She hangs up her towel on the hook in the entryway of the cottage and calls, “Dibs on the shower first!”
“Okay,” I say as I hunt down some food. Neither of us have eaten since the airport and we need real food.
Cal left us a little care package in the fridge with burger patties, all the fixings on a separate plate under foil, and a note that says, Finn, don’t burn down my favorite grill.
I fire off a text to Cal thanking him for the food.
He responds:
Cal: Come see me at Cocktails & Chaos later. Can’t wait to see you guys!
A cold beer sweats against my palm as I lean back on the porch railing, the sky melting into shades of pink and orange that look too perfect to be real.
The sound of the shower slips through the open bathroom window. I lean against the porch railing, beer still in my hand, but my focus is shot to hell picturing Rowan in the shower not too far away from where I’m standing.
Then I hear this quiet, breathy sound that slides right under my skin. A moan of pleasure filters quietly through the screen.
My pulse stutters. Is she?
Another soft moan follows, and then… my name. Whispered like it’s not meant for anyone else to hear. What the hell? No fucking way.
Everything in me goes still. My grip on the railing tightens. The air feels hot and heavy, like I’m unable to move.
I can picture her too easily, steam clinging to her skin, water rolling down her body, head tipped back while she makes herself come while she says my name. The image hits me like a punch. I’m rock hard.
Before I realize it, I’m moving. One step toward the door, then another.
Screw the burgers. They can burn straight to hell for all I care.
Her soft moan floats through the air again, wrecking me.
I stop just shy of the door, chest rising and falling like I’ve just run a mile. My fingers brush the handle. One turn and one step, and I could be inside. I could find out if she really meant it when she said my name just now.
But I don’t move. I don’t go to her. I do not touch the door.
Because she is not just anyone. She’s Rowan, the woman who has her roots tangled through every damn part of my heart. The woman I want in every way a man can want someone, but only if she wants me just as much, and chooses me.
And as much as hearing her moan my name sends heat crashing through me, that is not an invitation. That is not consent. That is not her saying she’s ready for me, or that she even wants me in the same way when she is not lost in a dream or a fantasy.
The last thing I would ever do is mistake her pleasure for permission. Or turn something real into a moment we regret, a moment she’d pull away from, a moment that could break everything we have spent years building.
So, I stand there, hands shaking, breath unsteady, wanting her so much it hurts.
But I let her have her privacy.
Because if I finally get to kiss her the way I’ve wanted to for years, I want it to be because she looks at me with clear eyes and says my name for real.
Not through a shower door. Not through a dream. But choosing me back.
Still… the thought sinks its hooks in. She said my name. Not someone else’s. Mine.
My heart’s pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. Does that mean she actually wants me? Not just in the way I’ve been torturing myself wanting her, but really wants me? Is this finally the thing neither of us has been brave enough to say out loud?
This is when I decide that on this trip I’m going to find out if she wants to end this bullshit game and make it real between us.
Could we finally stop pretending the app jokes and “best friend” crap are what we’re doing and really give this a shot?
The sound of the shower keeps spilling out, wrapping around me like heat, like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
She has no idea what she does to me. Or maybe… she does.
It’s dangerous being here like this with no distractions. No daily Wisteria Cove routines. Just me, her, a sunset that already feels like it’s cheering us on, and the growing truth sitting heavy in my chest that she has feelings for me, too.
I’m so far gone for her it’s not even funny. I drag in a long breath and push off the door, forcing myself back to the grill. The flames hiss when I flip the patties, and the sizzle is a good distraction from the way my body’s still burning for her.
I focus on the burgers and try to get the vision of her in that shower out of my mind. Don’t think about her moaning your name, I silently tell myself again, the mantra barely working.
The ocean breeze rolls through, cooling the sweat on the back of my neck. I grab plates, line up the buns, add lettuce, tomato, and onion, trying to keep my hands busy.
Inside, I set the small table in the cottage kitchen. Two plates. Condiments. Beers sweating on the wood coasters with seashells printed on them. I try to ignore the way my heartbeat kicks up at the sound of the bathroom door opening and her walking toward me.
She looks like she’s glowing, like whatever just happened in that shower didn’t just try to ruin me.
She’s wearing a lacy V-neck little purple tank top and cutoff black jean shorts, nothing fancy. But damn if it doesn’t make my pulse skip anyway.
“Wow,” she says with a content smile, padding barefoot toward the table. “These look amazing. I’m so hungry. What can I help with?”
Well for starters, there’s a few things, I think smugly. But I clear my throat, aiming for casual. “I’ve got it, we’re all set.”
She plops into her seat, tucking one tanned leg under her. I slide a plate in front of her, trying not to look like someone who spent the last twenty minutes wrestling with self-control.
She picks up her burger, eyes sparkling. “This has been the best day so far, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back against the chair opposite hers. “It has.”
She bites into the burger, and I swear I’ve never been more jealous of food in my life. She moans, just a little, all soft and content and my knuckles tighten around my beer bottle.
“Good?” I ask, my voice is rougher than I mean it to be.
She nods, licking a bit of ketchup from her thumb. “Perfect.”
I take a big bite of my burger like it’s a lifeline.
I can do this. Just two friends eating dinner.
Two friends… who probably shouldn’t be thinking about each other the way I am right now.
But she’s over there having orgasms thinking about me apparently, so this is pretty fair I guess for me to think things as well.
But then she looks at me across the table with that summer-night glow, and my stomach flips.
Yeah. I’m so screwed.
And God help me, a part of me is already imagining this as more than a trip. “You know,” she says, watching the flames catch, “Maybe Willa and Ivy were right.”
I glance over at her. “Why’s that?”
She laughs, that warm, soft kind of laugh that slides under my skin and makes my chest feel too tight. “They said we’re like a Hallmark movie,” she says, and takes a huge bite of her burger.
Then she tips her head back with a groan that’s half laugh, half moan, like the burger might actually be a religious experience.
“Wednesday Addams,” I tease, leaning across the tiny table, “are you admitting that you watch Hallmark movies?”
Her head snaps up. “No,” she says way too fast. “Mom and Donna do.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, smirking. “Sure.”
She narrows her eyes at me, sauce still on the corner of her mouth. I lean in to wipe it away with my thumb. She grins and takes another bite. “Keep feeding me like this and I’ll stay here forever with you, Finn.”
Fine with me.
The breeze off the ocean slips through the open windows, carrying the sound of waves and distant laughter from the tiki bar where Cal works down the beach. I could live here forever if she was with me.
I tap my bottle against hers. “Let’s go to Cocktails and Chaos and say hi to Cal after dinner. You in?”
She sits back, crossing one bare leg over the other like this whole night was made for her. “Yes,” she says, grinning wide and giving me a teasing look. “Let’s do it.”
And I swear, right then, watching her this happy, it feels less like a vacation and more like a plot twist.