Chapter Ten
The Fourth of Finn
Finn watched the golf ball sail down the fairway.
“Good hit, sir,” the caddy said.
“You flatter me,” he replied, squinting into the sun.
“Better than me,” Greg replied.
Greg Bennett—CFO of Saxon Enterprises, a hedge fund company that was heavily invested in Woodhouse.
He was important.
Dark brown hair, gray eyes, a face that could have passed for British royalty despite hailing from New York.
Finn knew golf at the Olympic Club in San Francisco with him was a bit risky. Golf talk always got more personal than he would have liked. Golf was never just golf. But he didn’t want Greg to think Woodhouse was hiding anything. Or that there was cause for concern about the merger going through.
“I hardly think my one-stroke lead signifies anything,” Finn countered, handing his driver back to the caddy.
Greg laughed. “Maybe not. But you do have a few years on me in the youth department, and I can’t imagine that working to my benefit.”
Finn got into the cart. He barely registered Greg taking them down the fairway. He was thinking about Flora. Ever since the fire, he’d been thinking about her.
“Looks like rain,” Finn remarked, seeing puffy clouds forming in the distance. “Better move quick.”
“How’s the family?” Greg asked suddenly.
Finn eyed him. “Good. Nothing’s changed.”
“Your brother still not showing any signs of life?”
“He’s fine now from the accident. Mostly.”
“No, I meant with the business.”
“Oh.” Finn sighed. “Yes, no signs of life there. But that’s no surprise.”
Greg seemed satisfied for a moment as they pulled to a stop.
Finn’s ball was parked in the rough near a mud puddle.
He stepped out, eyeing it with irritation.
He was not the best at golf and had always preferred soccer.
Golf, as his father once put it, was a good walk spoiled.
Yet no businessman he knew had ever asked him for a casual game of soccer.
It was always a round of golf and drinks after.
Never soccer. Never any food. Weren’t people hungry after piddling aimlessly around a glorified lawn all day? He was always starving.
“Wedding plans coming along?” Greg asked, watching him.
Greg always marveled at Finn.
Only twenty-nine—maybe thirty now, he didn’t know—one of the better-looking young men he’d ever come across. Yet he still managed to stay grounded, never once caught in headlines for something other than business. He was calculating, cool, and no nonsense.
Greg’s daughter, Emiline, said to mention her success at business school. She wanted a job at Woodhouse and a husband. Preferably Finn.
Finn didn’t look up. “Don’t ask me. I’m not involved in the treachery of planning that wedding.
I just pay for it. I got an alert from the bank after a twenty-thousand-dollar charge went through to some florist in Sonoma.
They thought it was fraud. Nearly passed out.
Twenty grand for flowers? It’s highway robbery. ”
“I tell my wife that every day,” Greg replied, watching Finn pace around the fairway trying not to get his shoes dirty.
“She spent a ridiculous amount on fall decorations last week. We had no flour, but we did have about seven hundred Harry Potter-themed cups, plates, and bowls, a very annoying motion-activated ghost, and a tent. We don’t camp. ”
Finn laughed mirthlessly, eyeing the fairway now.
“You don’t have a wife yet,” Greg added, sounding jealous, “but one day you will, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Then we can commiserate.”
“I understand well enough,” Finn said, grabbing his seven iron and squatting down to see how he was going to get himself out of the rough and onto the green. “I see the charges go through from Roman, and I assume it’s a similar feeling. Rage coupled with exasperation and resignation.”
“It’s slightly different… believe me.” Greg replied.
“Having a wife is more complicated. You can’t say anything because you’ll be sleeping on the lawn in the tent she bought, and then she’ll tell you it was a wise purchase.
And you’re perfectly happy to keep your mouth shut because you don’t want to be in trouble.
Yet the frustration is there, nonetheless, making it all a wash in the end.
But I assume your brother is exasperating in a different way. You pay for his life with no benefits.”
“Well, that is true. Though I can’t imagine my wife doing what he does. Spa trips to Napa, wine tours, the Ferrari.”
“Believe me, it will be worse.”
Finn was beginning to wonder if Greg needed marriage counseling, but just said, “Roman will be married before me, so I suppose I’ll have to ask him for confirmation if marriage really is that bad. Though, Jane is a great girl.”
“I suppose so,” Greg said, in a voice that didn’t sound very convinced. “However, one does have to wonder with your brother’s… behavior toward even simpler things, like what shoes he’ll wear that day—”
Finn looked up.
“—if the wedding will…” Greg shrugged. “Makes us all wonder, is all I mean to say. Jane is a great girl, sure, but is that enough? Marriage at such a young age is bad enough as it is. I never recommend it. But marriage between the likes of Roman and Jane? Seems unlikely to be anything but disastrous. My wife said not to worry about marking the date off on the calendar.”
Finn didn’t reply, but he felt annoyance rising.
“To investors the merger is now pivotal. You’ve made it so,” Greg added, as if it was nothing. “Which is fine for us. Saxon could pull out at any time. But for Woodhouse, it could be catastrophic.”
Finn straightened up, now feeling indignation and paranoia. He was glad his hat was covering his eyes enough so that Greg couldn’t see him flinching.
“Roman and Jane will be getting married,” he said evenly.
“How can you be so sure?” Greg asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Rest assured, Greg,” Finn said, setting himself up to swing, “that it has all been taken care of. All Brooks has to do is sign the papers.”
He swung cleanly and watched the ball go sailing towards the green. It landed just shy of the hole.
“Ah, nearly a birdie,” Finn said.
“Good,” Greg replied, watching him. “Very good.”
When it was finally all over, Finn felt his heart lurch in relief. He watched Greg’s Mercedes drive out of the lot and put his head back.
“How was golf?” his mother asked as he walked into the entry hall.
“Miserable. I hate golf.”
“But you’re so good at—where are you off to?” she called.
“I’m going on a walk.”
“A wa—are you alright?!”
“Fine!”
The game, the fire, and the stress of the wedding were beginning to wear on him. His shoulders were tight, a headache was shooting through his forehead, and his eyes were hurting. He felt like a bungee cord about to snap.
So he went outside to get away from his desk and prying questions about the merger. He headed for the stables, hoping for some peace and quiet, but of course, halfway there the sky opened like a dam breaking.
A freak summer rainstorm. Of course.
He looked up, annoyed at the timing.
He looked back at the path, no longer annoyed at the timing.
Flora stopped when she saw him.
They froze, still twenty feet from each other. Rain pounded harder. The brim of Finn’s hat was dripping, Flora’s shorts and shirt were soaked through, and her hair was curling into Medusa-like ringlets.
She was so—
Without saying a word, she closed the distance.
Collision course.
Next thing he knew, she was against him. Head on his chest, arms wrapped around his neck, letting out a soft, contented sigh.
The wind left him.
He stood there stunned, thinking she’d pull away, but she didn’t.
She stayed, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
However, it was the oddest sensation he’d ever felt in his life.
Of course, he’d been hugged before—not often, but he had been hugged—he never remembered liking them very much.
His heart did an odd somersault in his chest. He heard an annoying voice in his head saying, “Resist!” but he gave in moments later.
His arms wrapped around her, tightening slowly, and his head lowered.
Maybe hugs weren’t so bad.
“Oh, I could hug you forever,” Flora murmured.
Everything else disappeared.
Greg, the merger, the wedding.
“Then don’t let go,” he said quietly.
She didn’t.
It was a long hug. Long enough for it to be more than a simple thank you, long enough for it to mean something, and long enough for Rosa—who was heading to the garden for dinner—to stop dead in her tracks.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the sight.
Flora and Finn together beneath the lane of birch trees in the meadow, summer rain falling, pink and yellow dahlias in full bloom. Finn’s head was tilted down, whispering something, rain dripping off his hat, and Flora’s head was on Finn’s chest…
It was undeniably romantic.
“Dios mío,” Rosa breathed.
Rosa was a very good exaggerator, and since this scene needed no exaggeration, it wasn’t long before everyone in the house knew that Flora and Finn had been tangled in a long hug at the stable meadows. In fact, by the time it reached the stables, it was a little more than just a hug.
The word reached her father before Flora got back.
When she did return from a long, rain-soaked walk with Finn—breathless, sopping wet, and lazy with happy daydreams—Fairchild approached her in the manner that only a father could.
“Flora.”
“What?” she asked, wringing her hair out in the sink.
“I’ve heard a bit of news that I am worried about.”
“Yes? What news?”
“Rosa—and I don’t tend to believe her, usually, but this would be an odd lie—said she saw you and the eldest Mr. Woodhouse in the meadow today.”
Flora’s face flushed bright red.
“Dad! Good grief! Can’t do anything on this estate without someone reporting it!” She huffed. “I gave him a hug, Dad. A long overdue hug for saving my life. Which you’ve conveniently forgotten. That’s it.”
She figured now was not the time to mention that she was convinced if they’d spent any longer in the meadow, they would have kissed.
They hadn’t.