Chapter 22 Fin
Chapter 22
Fin
“Fin?”
Busted.
I get a little twinge in my gut as Mila pauses at the other side of the tiny kitchen, her head tilted like she’s an inquisitive terrier. An adorably sleep-mussed terrier, dressed in the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt I was wearing this morning. I love the sight of her in it, and I just know I’m staring at her like a man starved.
Not that she’d admit it, but she’s eyeing me just the same. She might complain about my lack of shirt wearing, but she fucking loves it so much, she deprived me of that one.
“What can I do for you, gorgeous?” I turn to face her, leaning my hip against the countertop.
“I was going to ask you what you’ve done with all my underwear, but ... What are you doing?” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“Your underwear is missing?” I tap the spatula to my side as my gaze falls over her. “So what are you wearing under my shirt?”
Pursing her lips, she sends me a look that says: mind your own business.
“I was making pancakes. Trying, at least. But the fuckers won’t stay up,” I mutter, hitting attempt number five with the spatula. I’m unsurprised when it improves its appearance.
We barely moved from the suite yesterday. Hell, the bedroom! We fooled around and fucked, taking naps in between. We’d wake glued together, Mila spread across my chest. One trail of her fingers, one slide of her foot along my calf, and we’d be off again.
Or maybe we’d wake spooning. Mila is the best little spoon. And you know what they say about spooning. It usually leads to forking; I can confirm.
We paused only to eat and walk along the beach at sunset, followed by a midnight skinny-dip in the pool. Mila is so fucking beautiful, but wet and glistening in the moonlight? I barely survived that round.
“Fin?”
“Sorry, what was that?”
I watch as she steps up to the small breakfast area, her legs lithe and her dainty toes painted pink.
“Why are you making pancakes?” she asks, waving her hand over the food laid out.
I want to fuck her. Right here, in the kitchen. Bend her over the countertop, turn her ass pink with the spatula. Cover her tits in chocolate sauce and lick her clean.
She’d taste better than the crap on this skillet, anyway.
“Pancakes were supposed to be the centerpiece. The pièce de résistance,” I complain, indicating the space in the middle of a round platter left for said pancakes. The perfectly spherical space is as hollow as my attempt to impress her, but surrounded by artfully piled berries, papaya, mango, and banana, along with tiny containers of chocolate chips, tiny pouring pots of dulce de leche, two kinds of chocolate sauce, and other fucking bits of breakfast perfection.
“But aren’t these pancakes?” she asks, pointing to the tiny puffs in one corner of the platter.
“Those are poffertjes ,” I mutter, waving the spatula vaguely while briefly considering taking the credit for it all. “Dutch pancakes. That shit is all from the kitchen.”
“The churros? Waffles too?” She sounds confused.
“Yeah, they made those. I had them put the platter together and send the ingredients for pancakes,” I say, gesturing behind me with the spatula, only now realizing what a mess I’ve made. The soles of my feet are gritty with sugar, and the countertops are covered in flour and steel mixing bowls, whisks, and other stuff I don’t know the fucking names for. “I guess the chef must’ve realized I’d be shit at it when they sent so many fucking bowls.” Along with a recipe and step-by-step instructions that a toddler could probably follow. Yet I still got it wrong.
“You made breakfast,” she says, a tremulous smile playing across her lips.
I mean, technically, it’s not even brunch. We’ve mostly skipped food in favor of devouring each other. I wanted to do something nice for her, find some other way to make her eyes roll back in her head. As much as I enjoy fucking her, I wanted to show her I can be more. Do more. Hell, I wanted to woo her, so I thought I could best a not-gay fucking pastry chef? Talk about desperation.
“Go on, yuck it up.” I toss the spatula into the sink behind me. “Some fucking breakfast. I can’t even—” My words cut off as I turn back and feel her arms wrap around my waist and her face press into my chest.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For ruining breakfast?”
“For even thinking about making me breakfast.”
“Right,” I mutter. Some idea this was. I should’ve gotten the kitchen crew to make it all and just be done with it.
“Shut up,” she says, tightening her grip. I feel her smile against my skin, and the sunshine peeks out from behind my gray mood.
“Fine,” I mutter, submitting to my failure. I guess I can stand anything as long as she’s touching me.
“You know, the last person to make me breakfast was Baba. And I was probably eleven or twelve.”
“Yeah?”
“I bet you have a private chef who feeds you.”
“I’m a protein-shake man.” I mean, I do, for dinners and stuff. I obviously haven’t picked up any of his skill.
“Thank you for doing this. For looking after me. It feels ... nice.”
I feel the loss of her heat as she pulls away, her gaze averted.
“In this case, I’ll take nice .”
“Oh, will you now?” she replies pertly.
“Yeah.” I flick a lock of her hair over her shoulder, then press my lips to her forehead so she can’t read the rest on my face. I want to look after you so damned well—and for the rest of your days.
“Time to dish up those pan crepes,” she says brightly as I pull away. “I’m so hungry, my bum is eating my knickers.”
My chuckle sounds kind of filthy.
“Yes, okay. It would be eating my knickers if I could find my knickers. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”
“Do I know anything about your panties?” I repeat pensively, rubbing my hand across my jawline. “I know I like to see them ’round your ankles. I also like to see them licked to transparency and sticking to your pussy.”
“Stop that!”
I catch the dish towel she throws at my head. “They also looked pretty good stretched to one side while I—”
“La-la-la-la!” she sings loudly, pressing her hands over her ears. “No distracting me from my meal,” she says, waltzing around me to gather a few of my sad fucking pan crepes, as she called them—more like pan craps—from the plate next to the stovetop. “I’m so starving.”
“Me too,” I rasp, sliding my hands around her. My palms gravitate to her tits. “I just can’t seem to get my fill of you.” I can’t touch enough, can’t fuck her enough, can’t make her laugh enough to my satisfaction. But I intend on making it my life’s work. If I can.
“Sex maniac,” she says, laughingly pulling away.
Mila maniac, more like. And I do love her exasperation.
“You’ve gone to all this trouble to feed me,” she adds, dropping the sad offerings to the middle of the laden platter. They look so out of place. “So feed me.”
I adjust my crotch, my thoughts instantly X rated.
“Not that.” Her gaze drops pointedly.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You didn’t need to. Pervert,” she adds as an apparent afterthought. Or maybe a compliment.
“You weren’t complaining about my perversions this morning.” God, I love this. Banter. I’ve never had a relationship with a woman I could have this kind of fun with. She dishes it as well as she takes it. And my God, she takes it so well. It’s like being with the guys—and Evie—only better, because I don’t want to fuck my name into any of them.
“Shall we eat on the patio?” she says, picking up the napkins, side plates, and silverware that arrived with the platter.
“Sounds good.” I lift the platter. Because I’d follow that ass, that woman , anywhere.
“You like what you see?” I give a comic waggle of my brows as I catch Mila eyeing me from across the table.
“I was just thinking you look like you should be lounging on a yacht on the C?te d’Azur. Well, except for your hair.”
“Which makes me look like I should be on a prison ship?”
“I bet you’d be really popular on a prison ship,” she says with a snicker.
“I’d prefer Portofino.”
“To a prison ship? Who wouldn’t?”
“I’d prefer Portofino to the C?te.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows lift. “Of course you do.”
Shit. She didn’t like that. So maybe I won’t offer to take her with me next time. At least, not yet, as I watch her use her fork to move pieces of pancake around her plate a little more.
“You don’t have to eat it.”
Her gaze lifts.
“No need to fake a dolphin sighting so you can drop it into the potted palm behind you.”
“I wasn’t going to,” she says with a frown.
“But I wouldn’t blame you. They’re fucking awful.”
“They’re not that bad,” she murmurs, moving her attention back to her plate. “Eggs,” she adds curiously.
“What about them?”
“How many did you add to the batter?”
I already know where I went wrong. I just wasn’t looking to broadcast it.
“Well, there were eggs mentioned in the recipe, but I dropped them.”
“You dropped the eggs,” she repeats, amused.
“That might be an understatement. There was egg and shell and goop everywhere,” I say, miming an explosion. “That shit was in the cabinets, all over the floor, on my T-shirt, and in my hair. It was everywhere .”
“Sounds to me like just another excuse for not wearing a shirt.”
“Do you know how hard it is to clean up cracked eggs?”
“Yes. Everyone over the age of five knows how messy a cracked egg is.” She begins to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“The fact that you only found that out today,” she says, sliding those awful fucking sunglasses from her head. Folding them, she places them on the table. Next time I’ll find a better hiding place than behind a throw pillow. Maybe she’ll let me take her to buy new ones sometime in the not-too-distant future. Maybe we could take in an afternoon of shopping in Covent Garden. Or better still, spend a weekend in Paris. We could take a stroll through Saint-Germain-des-Prés, book one or two private boutique appointments, where I could spoil her a little. Mila could try on some clothes, maybe even a little lingerie, while I sit back and drink champagne.
I’ll shower her with gifts, if only to let her throw them back at me.
“Now I’m going to turn that question back at you,” she says, reaching for her glass of juice. “What’s making you happy?”
“That’s easy. You.” And the way you’d react if I told you I was thinking of showing you the world. Making you my world.
“So, tell me, if you don’t cook, how do you eat? My guess is you don’t subsist on toast and noodles.”
“I like toast, and I like noodles,” I say, shoving a lump of bacon into my mouth. It’s cold yet still crispy and delicious.
“But do you make them yourself, or do you have a chef?”
Because that didn’t sound like an accusation.
“Don’t be embarrassed. You can say!”
“He’s part time,” I admit. No need to mention the rest of the crew. The housekeeper, the groundskeeper, and the gardening teams at my place in Florence. The cleaning service, my personal assistant, my personal shopper, and so on.
“And the rest of the time?”
“Eat out, I guess.”
She frowns, but it doesn’t last. “Well, thank you for going to the trouble to cook for me. I appreciate it.”
Sunshine fills my chest. And more bacon fills my mouth. “Can’t fault my enthusiasm,” I say around it.
“Ten out of ten for effort.”
“You know I always try my best,” I kind of drawl, unable to help myself.
“Do you remember when you said you were always a groomsman and never a groom?”
“I kinda tempted fate with that one, didn’t I?” I offer happily.
“Why do you say yes?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious. “To being a groomsman so often? Do you just really like wedding cake?” The latter she adds flippantly.
I’m such a good groomsman, I’d be an asset to her business. I almost said as much when she was soaking in the tub. And not for my experience either. Married to me, her profile would hit all the news channels. But that would be a worry in itself right now. So I kept it to myself.
“Sometimes it’s just good for business,” I admit instead. “A big part of my job is building relationships. I get to know our clients pretty well. I’ve even been instrumental in getting one or two of them together. When they ask me to take part in their wedding plans, I feel like I can’t say no.”
“So, they become your friends?”
I give my head a shake. “More like acquaintances. My friends are Oliver and Matt, and Evie. And, of course, my beautiful new wife.”
“Don’t,” she says softly.
“It’s what you are,” I remind her just as softly.
“I thought we were making do with friends .”
“And I thought you said I’d be bad for your blood pressure. When, clearly, I’m so good for it.”
“How’d you make that out?”
“All those feel-good endorphins I induce.” I give a playful leer.
“And all the cortisol and stress hormones you induce the rest of the time.”
“You know what the answer to that is. More sex.”
“You’re sure sex isn’t why you like being a groomsman?” Her words are lighthearted, but I feel the barb in them. “Weddings are a hotbed of hookups—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, it’s bound to happen, isn’t it? The combination of so many single people all in one space, flowing wine, champagne, and pheromones. There’s love in the air and lust—not murder—on the dance floor as the single ladies congregate and get their flirt on. Honestly,” she adds, sliding her hair behind her ears, “David Attenborough should narrate a documentary about the mating rituals demonstrated at weddings.”
“I guess the reason I like weddings is that I like seeing people happy. Being in love.”
“Even when love isn’t something you’re looking for, yourself.”
“I never said that.” My answer sounds a little sharp, and Mila looks slightly taken aback.
“Sorry, that’s right. You said you’d loved once. I guess I just assumed once was enough.”
“I never closed myself off to the possibility of it.” Maybe I just took care not to find it.
“Well, I suppose weddings are as good a place as any to look for love. Or whatever,” she adds.
“Two things,” I say, making a peace sign with my fingers as I lean in, covering her hand with mine. “One, I found you at a wedding. At two weddings.” As Mila makes to pull away, I tighten my hold. “And two, you shouldn’t believe everything you read about me.”
“What about when the words come from your best friends’ mouths?”
“Sometimes people only see what they want to see.”
“Not that it matters.”
“It shouldn’t.” I lean back in my chair again. “But getting back to the topic of food, there’s this place in Chelsea that does the most amazing breakfasts. We should go when we get back. Maybe Sunday?”
She shakes her head.
“Or we could do dinner instead.”
“No. No breakfasts or dinners.” Her tone is soft, her delivery careful.
“Are you breaking up with me already?”
“Fin, be serious.”
“Okay.” But I’m as serious as the fist currently crushing my heart. “Look, I know you don’t want anyone to know we’re married, and I get that. But we’ve had fun, haven’t we? We’ve gotten on well. Wouldn’t you like to see where this goes?”
Before the words are out of my mouth, she’s shaking her head. “That’s not what we agreed.”
“Will being my friend also be a risk to your business profile?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
I might be “ one of London’s most popular bachelors ,” but I recognize a brush-off when I hear one.
“Plans change, Mila.” Sometimes, people even fall in love.
“Well, my plans haven’t changed.”
She looks so sad, I change tack, forcing a smile, when what I want to do is throw my arms around her.
“I really like you, Mila.” Understatement of the fucking year. “I think it would be a mistake not to get to know each other better. It doesn’t have to be all about sex.” Or only about sex. “And we don’t have to do this publicly.”
She pauses for a moment, blinking as though absorbing my words.
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
Just ... fuck that noise. We’re fucking married, and as crazy as it sounds, it’s going to stay that way if I have anything to do with it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, studying her plate again.
My heart isn’t breaking, and I’m not hurt. Or not exactly. I expected her reaction. I guess I just hoped for better. Maybe it was too soon to bring this up, but I thought ...
Fucking pancakes. It was just meant to be breakfast—maybe even a breakfast fueled by jealousy—but I see it for what it is now. Breakfast is the least of what I want to bring to her life. I want to shower her in riches, shower her in my love. Walk alongside her in life and share her load. Carry it when she’ll let me. Scoop her up into my arms when she won’t.
I’m undeterred. I have no choice in the matter, not with feelings this real.
“Don’t you feel that spark between us? The connection?”
“It’s just a holiday romance.” Her eyes lift to mine, almost pleading for understanding. “We can’t trust what we feel in this setting.”
“Maybe you can’t.”
“When the holiday comes to an end, so will this,” she says quietly. “It has to.”
“Why? Tell me why it has to be that way.” Hooking my foot around the empty chair between us, I pull it out and lift my feet onto it. Spell it out for me, love. Is it me you don’t trust, or just yourself?
“I’ve got a lot to deal with when I get back. A lot to think about.”
“I know.”
“I have to find a new flat, and I have my business to concentrate on—”
“I can help,” I persist. Pressing my elbows to the arms of the chair, I steeple my fingers. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
“I’m going to be busy. So busy,” she says, disregarding that. As she probably should.
“Let me be your friend. I can be a good friend. Whatever else they say, Oliver and Evie can vouch for that.”
“But I won’t, and friendship is a two-way street.”
“I’m kind of low maintenance. No need to worry about upsetting me.”
She tips forward suddenly, pressing her hands to her face. “Look,” she says, red cheeked and wild haired, when she emerges again. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to navigate a friendship with someone who knows how my body works. Or even a situationship—a friends with benefits deal—which is what I assume you’re really talking about.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because you’re almost forty years old and you’ve never had a long-term relationship, as far as I can make out. You’re a regular feature in every gossip column in London. The women by your side change as often as the weather does! I can’t do it—I can’t take a risk on a relationship or even a friendship with you.”
“Well, thanks for your honesty,” I grate out. This one isn’t an arrow but an axe that lands hard. And also, with respect, fuck that noise. This isn’t about before. This is about now.
“I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear, but I don’t have space in my life for a friend, benefits or not. I’ve just gotten out of a relationship that I’m coming to realize robbed me of my self-esteem. Made me feel less than me.”
“You’re fucking amazing,” I mutter begrudgingly. Not because I don’t want her to know it, but way to go, calling me an aging playboy! And maybe I am—maybe I have been—but I only want to be hers. Her husband, her lover. Her fucking everything.
“I’m so grateful to you, Fin.”
I feel my expression twist. Thanks for the memories?
“You’ve taught me so much. Shown me parts of myself I didn’t know I possessed.”
I groan and drop my head back, like a truculent teen. “Stop. Just stop trying to flatter me.” She’ll be back to calling me nice next.
“If I was trying to flatter you, I would’ve paid your cock a compliment.”
“And what would you have said?” I know, I know. I can’t seem to fucking help myself. Not with her.
“Probably that it’s pretty.”
I fold my arms and slide her an insightful look. “My cock is not pretty, Mila.”
“It’s pretty huge.” She bites the corner of her mouth as though to countermand a smile. “In fact, sometimes I find myself thinking it must be so heavy.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, all pink cheeked and adorable, her dark hair alive in the scant breeze. “Yes. And I think you should let me help. I could ... I could hold it for you?”
“If I let you hold it, what would you do with it?” My gaze lingers speculatively where she toys with the button of my shirt. No panties. Not for the rest of the holiday.
One-handed, she flicks the button open. Then another.
“I think it’s more a question of ... where I would hold it,” she whispers, her cheeks gloriously pink as she trails a finger between some stellar cleavage. The feet of her chair scrape against the sandstone tiles as she stands. “Would you like to come with me and find out?”
I know I’m being played—being distracted, like a kid with the promise of a shiny toy. But I do so like it when Mila is shiny and slick.
I push my own chair back, feeling the brush of her gaze over my chest as I stand. It seems we’re both suckers for that part of the other.
“You know,” I begin, unable to stop myself from trying one more time. For now. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. It could be just as good as it is right now. Just without the sunshine.”
“We’re married, Fin. And we shouldn’t be. Isn’t that complication enough?”
The answer is no. Being married to her isn’t nearly enough. I want her heart, and I won’t be satisfied until it’s love that binds us.