Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Raya
“Finn.”
Do I bother asking what he’s doing here?
He’s wearing a Comets hoodie, black sweats, and a baseball cap. No coat, even though it’s late November. And that trademark grin.
My head is jumbled. He’s constantly around. Insufferably chipper. Always in my business and not serious about anything.
But he took care of me the other day, the same way he did seven years ago. He seems to genuinely care about how I’m doing.
And he wasn’t the one who told Brian what Dr. Gilroy said.
I start to sort through this mix of emotions but quickly get overwhelmed. I’m too tired to figure anything out right now.
“It’s not enough for you to bug me at my office, now you’re coming to my house?”
“Good morning to you too.” He’s holding two cups of coffee, and after a beat, he offers one to me. “Poppy said you like a plain oat milk latte, so I got you a white chocolate mocha.” His smile holds. “Tastes better.”
I quirk a brow and stare at the cup. When I don’t take it immediately, he gives it a little shake.
I roll my eyes and take the cup. “Where is your coat?” I try not to sound like his mom, but I’m pretty sure I fail.
“Back home, this is T-shirt weather. Chicago’s got nothing on Montana.”
I think of wide-open spaces versus shoulder-to-shoulder buildings. He might be on to something there, but when he shoves his hands in his pockets and shivers a little, I realize he was blustering.
The coffee warms my hands, and I feel a twinge of thankfulness. Without even thinking about it, I say, “Do you want to come in?”
“Uh, sure.” He steps inside. I walk back into the house, taking a discreet sip of the drink when my back is turned to him.
I hear him come inside and close the door behind him. “It’s good, right?”
Not as discreet as I thought, I guess.
“It’s sweet,” I say, because it is. But also, yes. It’s really good.
Why can’t I just say that?
He follows me into the kitchen, and the room feels instantly smaller, though he doesn’t seem to notice. I suppose he’s used to his broad 6’2” body and the space it takes up.
I’m used to being the only one in my house.
He takes a drink of his coffee, then sets the cup on the table. “Oh! Did you see the game? I played thirteen minutes in the second half. Had a block that showed up on ESPN.”
For some reason, this makes me happy. And oddly, proud. Finn might be overbearing, but it’s easy to root for him. He’s the player whose name nobody really knows. The one who makes the other guys look like stars.
I want to ask if that bugs him, but it feels too personal. And the last thing I need is to open that door. Because why am I wondering so many things about Finn?
“I missed it,” I say, aware that he’s still looking at me.
“That’s right,” he says. “You hate hockey.”
I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “What are you doing here?” I ask, and when I realize it sounds like an accusation, I add, “I assume your visit is about more than coffee.”
He leans on the counter opposite me. “Well, you owe me something.”
I frown. “What do I owe you?”
“An apology,” he says. “A heartfelt one. Like you mean it. Has to be at least ten words long.”
I press my lips together. I don’t particularly like apologizing, but we both know he’s right. I do owe him an apology. I chew the inside of my lip.
The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. “This is killing you, isn’t it?”
“I can admit when I’m wrong.” I straighten. “I’m very sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“And . . . ?”
I fold my arms. “And accused you of something you didn’t do.”
“Great!” He holds out his hands. “Apology accepted.”
“Good, because—” I’m suddenly light-headed. I’m hoping I can mask it, because I really don’t want this to be the norm from now on. “I’m going to sit . . .”
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did you sleep last night?”
I make my way to the oversized chair again and fold myself into it. “I slept for twelve hours, but I still feel completely wiped out. I hate it.”
He crosses to the ottoman in front of the chair and sits on the edge of it. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Poppy brought me soup,” I say, trying to remember. “But I fell asleep before I ate it.” My eyes flick to his. It’s been a day and a half since I’ve really eaten anything substantial, and even then, it was only a salad at my desk.
He points at me and jumps up. “Come on.” He holds a hand out to me. “I’m buying you breakfast.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
He turns. “You need to eat, Raya.”
I reach for the white chocolate mocha and take another drink, my head starting to clear a bit. I’m keenly aware that Finn is doing Finn things. He’s constantly trying to help, even when no one asks. Most of the time, it’s intrusive.
But sometimes, it’s not.
He pulls out his keys and swings them around his finger, catching them. “You know what I don’t get about you?”
“Tell me.”
“It seems like you don’t let yourself indulge in anything. It’s almost like you don’t have space for fun.”
I chuckle to myself. “Because I don’t. Some of us can’t play a game for a living.”
He drops his hands to his sides. “Ooh, low blow there, Hart—keep the gloves up.”
“I mean, I know you’re a professional and everything, but it’s still a game.” I keep my tone light, needing the levity right now. “It’s not like a nine-to-five job in an office at a desk.”
He whistles. “Yeah, that’s not for me.” Then, after a beat, he says, “So are you coming?”
“Coming where?”
He makes a face. “To breakfast. We’ll go see your sister—I hear she makes the best pancakes.”
I don’t respond.
“You need to eat, I know a great place, and I’m pretty sure your schedule is wide open, so . . .” He motions toward the door, lifting a hand at it to indicate we should go.
I get the sense that this is how he lives his life.
On impulse. He has an impulse and he follows it.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Amazing that his impulses have landed him on a professional hockey team.
For some reason, this makes me wonder how he did end up on a professional hockey team, but I decide not to ask.
“I don’t eat breakfast,” I say.
“Riiiight,” he says. “Because breakfast is fun.” The words taunt. “And Raya Hart doesn’t have time to do anything just for fun.”
“That’s not true,” I say, though I’m pretty sure it is.
“What was the last just for fun thing you did?”
I press my lips together, trying to think of something—anything—that will pass this “fun test,” just so I can prove him wrong.
Finally, I say, “I went to the Comets’ Trick-or-Treat Day and handed out candy for two hours.”
“Did you break out the Morticia dress?”
“No.”
“Bah. Missed opportunity.” He’s still watching me. Is it weird I want to know what he’s thinking? It is. Since when do I care what Finn Holbrook thinks about anything—especially me?
“See, this is why you’re so stressed out all the time.”
“I think I’m stressed out because I have a lot on my plate,” I say.
“And I think you don’t have to fill up your plate like the buffet is closing.”
I frown. I have no idea what that means.
He smirks. “Are we going, or do I have to go get you frozen waffles?”
“I’m pretty sure whatever you’re planning isn’t something I’ll want to do.”
He frowns. “What makes you say that?”
I gesture between us, like it’s obvious. After all, we’re very different.
“You misjudge me, Hart.” He shakes his head. “One of these days you’re going to realize I’m an actual grown-up now.” He holds a hand out toward the door again, and I stare at it like it belongs to an alien.
The comment takes me back to the first time I found him at my door—the day after he and his co-worker walked me home, saving me from making even more mistakes.
Drinking alcohol is not something I do. I don’t like to lose control. But when my entire life imploded in a single day seven years ago, Finn was there.
And he’s here, again, at another pivotal moment.
I hadn’t intended to spill all my secrets to Finn back then. I hadn’t planned to tell anyone that I’d messed up so badly I’d gotten fired. And the fact that I was mourning the engagement of my high school boyfriend? Pathetic.
That next morning, after the drinks and the dance floor and hazy bits I still can’t quite piece together, I woke up in a fog, hungover from two drinks and full of regret.
I was trying to stitch the memories together when Finn showed up at my door with the credit card I’d left behind.
He said he wanted to check on me. Make sure I was okay.
Not sure how ethical it was for the bartender to return a credit card to a patron at her home—but it didn’t take long to realize he had no ill intentions.
“It seemed like you had a terrible day,” he’d said, standing in my doorway. He brought me Advil and Gatorade and made me cinnamon toast, turning my apartment into a hangover recovery zone.
The flirty bartender with a heart of gold.
If I’m honest with myself, I liked him immediately. He was kind and funny, and he made me laugh. But more than that? He was a good guy. The kind who would be nice to have in my life.
Then I remembered the almost kiss. The humiliation. The embarrassment. It all turned to absolute horror when I discovered that Finn was actually a twenty-two-year-old college senior who was heading to Montana for Christmas break.
I’d tried to kiss a college kid. And he’d pushed me away.
Even now, heat floods my body at the memory—not the kind that warms you from the inside, but the kind that breaks you out in a cold sweat.
How embarrassing.
Worse, I never thanked him for being such a stand-up guy that night. After all, he could’ve really taken advantage of the state I was in.
I look at him now. He looks more like Chris Pratt the superhero and less like Chris Pratt in Parks and Rec, but Finn is still kind. Success didn’t steal his personality.
“You’re not going away, are you?” I ask, playing my part.
“Nope.” He wags his eyebrows.
I groan. “Fine. I’m going to go change.” I stand up, waiting for the dizziness or the light-headedness or the nausea but none comes. “Don’t go through my stuff while I’m gone.”
“Totally going to,” he calls after me as I walk upstairs to change into real clothes.
And I have absolutely no doubt that he will.