Chapter 2 #2
He shrinks to my eye level, and his expression turns serious. “What are you watching, Morticia, if you don’t like Marvel and you don’t like sports?”
“Literally anything but those two things.”
“So, Amish romance, then?”
I make a face at him. He’s easy on the eyes but wow, is he wrong for me. I’m wondering just how many other women he talks to exactly the same way.
He grins and stands back up, shaking his head. “You’re still beautiful.”
I tell myself this is just classic male ego, but the words still try to weasel their way in and soften my defenses.
“You can’t say stuff like that.” I look away.
“Why not?” He shrugs. “You are.”
I look at Poppy, thankful she didn’t hear him, then grab his arm and pull him through the bouncing crowd.
I hear someone say, “Yeah, buddy, get it!” as we make our way out of the crowd and into the kitchen.
While it’s still loud, it’s considerably quieter than the living room.
Muffled music and conversations still pulse through the walls.
Once I’m sure we’re safely out of my sister’s earshot, I turn and face him.
He’s still grinning. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, this is like déjà vu . . .”
I smack him across the arm. “Finn! You cannot tell anyone that we’ve met.”
“I told you I won’t,” he says, matter of factly.
“Yeah, but I don’t believe you.” I go to push my hand through my hair, then remember there’s about half a bottle of hairspray in it. I turn away and huff out a breath. “Is everything just a joke to you?”
“I mean, most things, yeah.”
I stare daggers at him.
“Oh. Except this, of course.”
I try to enhance my calm and talk slowly. “Look. Finn. My sisters don’t know anything about that night.”
“Why not?” The question is so earnest, it makes me laugh.
“Because I don’t share my humiliations with people.”
“They’re not people.” He frowns. “They’re your family.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you afraid they won’t love you anymore if they find out you’re not perfect?” He leans toward me. “Because—newsflash—they probably already know.”
I groan. “You don’t get it.”
“I have a pretty big family. I think I get it.”
“You clearly don’t.”
“Then explain it to me.”
I search my mind for a way to make this clear to him, but when I come up empty, I just let out a noise in frustration. “You are infuriating.”
Because how do I get into it without getting into it? Someone like Finn will never understand someone like me. I’m driven by ambition and perfection.
I have a feeling he’s driven by testosterone.
He reaches past me, opens a cupboard, and pulls out a canister of cashews. He pops the top, grabs one, and tosses it up in the air, catching it in his mouth.
“Have you grown up at all in five years?”
He shakes the can, dumps out a handful, then caps the canister and puts it back in the cupboard.
“I have, actually,” he says. “But I’m still me, thank goodness. I’m not a college kid anymore but I still know how to have fun once in a while.” He has an air of confidence that walks right up to the line of cockiness and dips a toe on the other side.
“Finn. I’m being serious.”
“Oh, I know, Hart,” he says. “I have a feeling you’re always serious.”
“And I have a feeling you never are.”
“I wonder which one of us has better stories.” He grins.
I roll my eyes.
And then we just look at each other. In those few seconds, my mind goes blank, and I wonder what it might be like if I were a completely different kind of person. A person who likes to have fun.
“You never texted me, by the way.” He says, taking me out of my own head. He reaches over, takes the Coke out of my hand, and cracks it open. “After that night.”
At that, I lift my chin and meet his eyes again, expecting to feel chastised, but instead, he looks amused. He hands me the can.
I’d done my best to forget that night—and everything that led up to it—over the years. And I’d mostly succeeded.
It’s one of those things that pops back in late at night when I’m trying to sleep, and my brain decides to take me on a tour of my most embarrassing moments.
The fact that Finn witnessed my first and only genuine meltdown is a very unfortunate reality.
“I was embarrassed,” I say, honestly. “It was not my finest hour.”
He opens the freezer and pulls out a frozen pizza. “It happens. No one’s perfect, you know.”
I watch as he moves around the kitchen, shocked at the way my past and present are colliding right here in this room.
I draw in a breath. “I . . . am . . . sorry I didn’t text.” A follow-up thank you would’ve been nice. Even I can’t deny that he’d gone above and beyond for me that night.
“Are you, though?” He pulls a pizza pan from a skinny cupboard, and when he looks at me, I see the tease playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes,” I say, honestly.
He smiles. I wish it weren’t a nice smile. I get the feeling that Finn is used to being very well-liked. I’ve never had that knack with people, but I’ve convinced myself that being respected is more important.
“Apology accepted. Eat this pizza with me. You said you wanted pizza, so—” He walks over to the oven and sets it to preheat.
“Wait . . .what?”
“Eat. Pizza. With me.” He acts out every word.
“You . . . just like that? Apology accepted?”
“Yep.” He shrugs. “It’s not deep dish, but it’s pretty good.”
I watch for a few seconds, then press my lips together, inhaling slowly. “And you won’t tell anyone about before?”
He leans against the counter, on the opposite side of the room. “I mean, forgiveness is free. Keeping a secret, though, might cost a bit more.”
Great.
“Like what?”
“A real date.”
I roll my eyes. “Please.”
“I can do much better than frozen pizza in my kitchen,” he says.
“Oh, I’m sure you think you can.” I quirk a brow, feeling a little lighter.
He must see it as a crack in my armor because his smile brightens. “Oh, come on, Hart. Give me a chance to prove it.”
“Be serious for once,” I say.
“I am!” But everything about his tone says otherwise. The last thing I need is to fall for this act and end up as the butt of some locker room joke.
“I don’t date hockey players, Brookie,” I say.
“That’s great, because I’m not a hockey player. I’m just a guy who happens to play hockey.”
I steel my jaw, ignoring the wordplay. “Are you going to keep this secret or what?”
At that moment, the door to the kitchen opens and Poppy walks in, a curious expression on her face. “Keep what secret?”
My eyes dart from her to Finn and back again.
Her eyebrows are perked up, clearly expecting an explanation. My brain is completely blank. I’m not a great liar.
Finn picks up the pizza and shakes it. “We’re ditching the party food and making frozen pizza. Don’t tell anyone.”
For a second, I don’t think Poppy is buying it. But then the oven beeps, right on cue.
“It’s your party,” she says with a smile. “I don’t think anyone cares.” She looks at me. “You good?”
“I’m good,” I say.
She glances at Finn, then back at me, then walks out of the room.
In the silence, I dare to meet his eyes, not at all surprised to find him smiling. “Oh, yeah. I think I’m going to like keeping your secret.”