CHAPTER THIRTEEN ALEX
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALEX
My stomach growls as I walk down the aisles. I haven’t eaten much over the past few days. Hell, I haven’t really slept or done much of anything lately.
I head to the bakery and grab some of the sourdough bread I made earlier. Then a couple of pumpkin cinnamon rolls—I can already hear Finley huffing at my attempt to be friendly.
Butter for the bread. Honey mustard pretzels. A six-pack of pumpkin cider, and a bag of sriracha pistachios.
I stop by the office and grab my book, and the throw blanket that’s sitting on my chair. I then head back to the table where Finley was sitting.
After I sit, I fully expect him to hop over to a different table, or even just act annoyed at my presence.
But he doesn’t. He’s still here. For a moment I just stare at him. His bright blue eyes, strong jaw, the veins in his forearms and hands.
I snap my eyes away, cheeks heating. The man hates me, and I need to get used to it.
I spread the snacks across the table between us—bread, butter, the cinnamon rolls, the bag of pretzels, even the cider. “Help yourself,” I mutter.
Finley reaches for the pretzels, his mouth quirking. “These are my favorite!” He says.
I manage a small smile. And pick up my book, attaching my book light to the cover.
When I glance up, he’s still watching me. There’s something soft in his expression… sympathy? No. No way. Not from Finley the grumpy farmer.
He nods toward the book in my hands. “What’re you reading?”
I glance at the pink cover, then back at him. “Romance,” I say simply.
“Oh.”
The silence stretches. He drums his fingers against the table for a few seconds before pulling out his phone. The screen lights up his face as he starts tapping, probably some kind of game.
I try to focus on my book again, but the sound of his fingers against the screen keeps pulling my attention back to him. Him and his large, strong hands.
I’m not used to having someone around while I read. The quiet hum of the coolers and the faint tapping of Finley’s fingers on his phone are actually distracting. Or maybe it’s just him that’s distracting.
Normally I get to do this in silence—curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around me, a candle flickering on the counter. At least I have the blanket and the candle.
Now I’m sitting in the dark, across from a man who despises me and who would much rather be anywhere else.
I flip the page, trying to ignore him and sink back into the story. It’s getting to the good part—the part where the enemies finally become lovers.
My eyes burn as I try to focus on the words. I’m so damn tired it takes effort just to keep the sentences from blurring together. The cider isn’t helping, the alcohol—it’s making me drowsy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Finley glance up, like he’s about to say something. But then he doesn’t. He just looks back at his phone, his knee bouncing under the table, making it tremble with every bounce.
It’s annoying the hell out of me. But still… I’m grateful he’s here. The storm howling outside feels a little less loud with someone else here. Even if the company is wishing they were with anyone else.
I realize I probably look like shit—no makeup, dark circles, hair thrown up in the messiest bun imaginable. The last few days have completely drained me, and sitting here across from the hottest man on the planet only makes me more aware of it.
Finley finally breaks the silence, and I nearly drop my can of cider from shock. “Are you okay?” He asks.
I blink at him. “Why?” I ask sharper than I intended.
His cheeks flush, and he looks down at the table, rubbing the back of his neck. Great. He’s definitely noticed how rough I look.
He hesitates before speaking again. “You just… seem different. Not like yourself.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. “You mean… not pretty? Not what society expects us women to look like day in day out? You know Finley, sometimes people just have bad days.”
The words come out sharper than I mean them to, and the instant I see his expression shift, guilt twists in my stomach.
He clears his throat, looking at his hands. “No, no, I didn’t mean that.” He sighs, shoulders sinking. “I was genuinely asking if you’re okay. You just… seem like something’s bothering you. Ever since…”
I cut in, my tone softer now. “Ever since what, Finley?”
He lets out a slow breath. “Ever since the fall event. That man came up to you, and it just… killed your mood. I’ve never seen you so upset.”
My stomach drops. I stare down at my hands, twisting the edge of the blanket between my fingers. “Oh… you saw that,” I whisper.
He nods slowly. “Yeah, I saw it. And I didn’t like it.”
I freeze, my head snapping up. Didn’t like it? What does that even mean?
“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His jaw tightens, eyes darting away. “Never mind that,” he mutters. “Just… tell me what happened. Who is he?”
I let out a long breath and shake my head. “Why do you even care, Finley? You don’t even like me.”
He looks down, his fingers tracing the edges of his cider. The can looks so tiny in his huge hands. For a moment, the storm is the only sound between us.
“I’m sorry, Alex,” he says quietly. His voice is rough, hesitant. “I know I haven’t been very nice.”
Something in his tone catches me off guard—it isn’t defensive or sarcastic like I expected. It almost sounds…genuine.
“I have my own problems, and I have been taking it out on you, Alex. You never deserved the way I treated you.” He says quietly.
When he looks up, there’s a small awkward smile tugging at his mouth and I’m stunned. He smiled at me.
I let out a shaky sigh. “It was my ex,” I finally say. “Chase.”
Finley doesn’t say anything, just watches me, waiting.
“He was… awful. Mean. Sometimes worse than that. Sometimes he would…” my throat tightens.
“He would what, Alex?” He says, his voice low, lethal.
I swallow hard. “Sometimes he would even… hit me.” I force myself to take a breath. “It got really bad. And I found out I was pregnant.”
The words feel heavy on my tongue. I can't bring myself to look at him. My chest burns with shame, even though I know I shouldn’t. I hesitate, debating if I should continue. And then I feel his hand brush against mine. I almost fall from my chair in shock.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I lost it. The baby,” I whisper. “And left while he was at work. I blocked him, moved my things from his dorm, went completely no contact.”
I take a moment to steady my breathing. “I didn’t tell him because I knew he would blame me for the miscarriage.”
My voice cracks. “But someone I trusted told him what happened. My dorm-mate, Jessica, at the university. She was my best friend.”
My breath comes out shaky. “And now he won’t leave me alone. He confronted me at the event about ‘killing’ his baby.”
“He texts me from all these texting apps, saying horrible things, calling me awful names. It’s like he wants to destroy me for something I had no control over.
He wants to ruin me for saving myself. This morning, he sent a package to the market…
it had a onesie in it, and it was covered in fake blood. ”
By the time I finish, the tears are falling down my face. I can’t look at him.
I notice the table trembling beneath my hands and I slowly lift my eyes.
Finley’s knuckles are bone white. He’s gripping the table so tightly I think it may break. He’s looking down, his jaw so tight his teeth may crack.
He doesn’t say anything, just sits there, body rigid. He’s so tense it’s as if he’s trying to grasp on to every bit of control he can.
He takes a slow, shuddering breath as he slowly releases the table from his deadly grip. His hands are still trembling, and his jaw still looks like it may crack.
“I—I shouldn’t have asked.” He says, shaking his head. “I… could never imagine how someone would want to—” his voice is low, rough, tight, “—hurt you.”
I want to say something, to reassure him. To tell him it’s alright. But it really isn’t, is it? It’s not alright. I’m not okay and that’s okay. What I went through isn’t fine.
Finally, he speaks again, “what’s his last name?”
I hesitate, my stomach twisting. What does that matter? I tell him anyway, “Collins… why?”
He nods once. “I know someone in law enforcement.”
My eyes go wide, “Finley, that will only piss him off even more!”
He snaps his head up, his eyes meeting mine, his expression so serious it makes my breath catch. Slowly, confidently, he speaks, “he will never come near you again, Alex.”
I’m not sure why, but I believe him. I feel my shoulders drop, the tension I didn’t realize I had been holding, finally leaving. Tears of relief stream down my face.
He speaks again, his voice quieter this time, almost a whisper. “Have you… been keeping this to yourself? This whole time?”
I nod, still sobbing, my chest heaving.
Without another word, he stands and moves toward me. My heart races. What is he doing?
Then he’s gently wrapping me in his arms, pulling me close to his chest. My tears soak his shirt, but he doesn’t pull away. He smells like hay and warm spices; he smells like fall, like comfort.
I cling to him, letting it all spill out. His hand strokes my back, slow and steady. For the first time since the event—when Chase approached me—I feel safe.
I finally pull away, catching my breath, I crane my neck to look up at him. His hand moves from my back to my face.
“None of that was your fault, Alex, and you did the right thing. I hope you know that.”
I nod, the tears finally slowing and my stomach growls so loudly that we both hear it. We laugh together before sitting down at the table.