Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THOMAS
I feel bad telling Finley that I’m thinking about going back to New York. But except for spending time with her, I’m not really vibing here. Elk Lake feels more like a place you come and spend a couple of weeks during the summer. Not a place to live full-time.
I stare at her as she clicks away on her laptop. “So, how about that ride?” I ask.
“You still want to take me driving even though you’re planning on leaving Elk Lake?”
I’m not quite sure what one thing has to do with the other. “Yes,” I tell her. “It’ll give you a chance to drive in your soon-to-be car.”
That seems to be the right thing to say. “I still want to go on a drive,” she says while standing up. She moves the basket of pink props at her feet. Then she turns in my direction and walks by me without saying another word.
Once we’re outside, Finley locks the front door, and we proceed to the Mustang. I stop and open the passenger side door for her and wait until she gets in. Then I hurry around and join her.
As soon as I’m buckled, I turn to look at Finley. She’s caressing the tan leather interior like it’s a kitten—a kitten I suddenly wish was me. “What do you think?” I ask her unnecessarily. It’s obvious she loves it.
“It’s perfect,” she tells me reverently. Opening the glove compartment, she looks inside and says, “I’ll keep my sunglasses and snacks in there.”
“What kind of snacks?” Maybe I’ll go ahead and stock it for her.
“I like granola bars, and those little boxes of raisins. Maybe some cookies, too.”
“Do you snack a lot when you’re in a car?” I ask her teasingly.
Without seeming to get the joke, she responds, “How would I know? I’m never in a car.”
“But you imagine yourself snacking in this one,” I prompt.
She shifts in her seat. “I might get hungry. I like to be prepared.”
Finley is the most unpredictable woman I’ve ever met. “Did the girl in the movie keep snacks in her glove box?”
Her complexion turns pink before she answers, “Why would that matter?”
I turn the key and start the car. “I was just wondering.”
We sit for a moment in silence before Finley confesses, “She kept snacks in the glove compartment.” I don’t know why but I find her answer very charming.
“You really like that movie, huh?”
“I’ve seen it one hundred and fourteen times,” she tells me.
My hand is on the gear shift and I’m about to put the car in drive, but her words stop me. “One hundred and fourteen times is a lot.”
“I suppose it depends on what you’re comparing it to.” I can almost see the hamster wheel turning in her brain before she adds, “I find repetition comforting.”
“Like how you’re always petting your sweaters?” I ask.
She turns to me with a look of alarm. “Excuse me?”
I shrug. “I just assumed you liked soft things. And you know, touching them brings you joy.”
Finley looks like she wants to cry again. But instead of doing that, she side-eyes me like she’s trying to decide if she can trust me. “I do like soft things.” Then she asks, “Is your sweater cashmere?”
“It is.” The hand that was previously on her lap seemingly lifts of its own accord. “Would you like to touch it?” I ask her.
She shakes her head in such a way I can tell she’s fighting a nod. Reaching out, I gently take her hand in mine. Then I slowly move it in the direction of my chest. I make sure to give her plenty of time to pull it back if she wants to. She doesn’t.
Once her hand meets its target, Finley closes her eyes and exhales like she’s experiencing pure bliss. Which I’m pretty sure I’m feeling as well. “May I rub it?” she asks so quietly I wonder if I imagined it.
I grunt in affirmation in case the inquiry was real. Then I sit in anticipation while I wait for her hand to move. When it finally does, I release a groan of pleasure. Who knew having a woman touch your sweater could be such an erotic experience?
“Was it expensive?”
“My sweater?”
“Yes,” she says on a breathy exhale.
“It was a gift from my mother,” I tell her. “So, I’m guessing it wasn’t cheap.”
“Do you know what brand it is?”
“I don’t think I’ve noticed. But I can look and text it to you if you want.”
“I would appreciate that.” She hesitantly pulls her hand away from me and rests it back on her lap.
“Do you want to buy one for someone?”
Her chin bobs up and down. “I do.”
“For your dad?”
Her profile makes her look like an elfin sprite. Her lips are lush, her eyelashes are long, and her nose has a slight upturn. Her head moves from side to side, but she doesn’t look at me. All she says is, “No.”
“Do you have a gentleman friend?” I ask with more than a tinge of jealousy. I don’t know why I assumed Finley was single, because she might not be.
“I want to buy one for myself,” she eventually says.
“I could loan you mine,” I tell her, “but it would be big on you.” The thought of Finley wearing my sweater fills me with a feeling of protectiveness. I like the sensation so much I’m about to take it off and hand it to her.
“I want to fill it with quilt batting and turn it into a pillow.”
“A pillow?”
Her chin lifts and falls. “I’d keep it in bed with me and cuddle it.”
That is probably the sexiest thing any woman has ever said to me.
The vision of cuddling with Finley fills me with such contentment, it’s all I can do not to turn to her and beg her to date me for real.
The problem is that while I want to get closer to her, that would complicate my life more than it already is.
I’ve got to figure out my work situation before I let myself form personal connections, like having a girlfriend. If I can’t have a happy working environment, there’s no way I can stay in this town. I’m afraid that as long as Constance is my boss, I can’t see myself being fully happy here.
I crack my window, hoping a blast of cold air will help me regain my senses. Putting the car into drive, I creep out of the parallel parking space I currently inhabit. “Where would you like to drive?” I ask Finley.
“How about around the lake?”
Heading in that direction, I ask, “Do you spend a lot of time there in the summer?”
“No.”
I wonder why we’re going there then. I tell her, “I spend as much time on the beach as I can,”
“In New York?”
“The Hamptons. My parents have a summer place there that we all use as an escape from the city.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t sound pleased.
Looking for a little more insight, I ask, “Why don’t you spend time at the lake?”
Finley waits so long to answer, it’s clear she doesn’t want to. She finally tells me, “I don’t like sand.”
“Really?” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.
“Not everyone likes sand, Thomas.” She sounds like a stern schoolteacher.
“Of course not,” I tell her. “I just happen to love it. I love the feeling of it between my toes when I walk on the beach. I like how it holds both heat and cold. I like how crabs dig under it and make their homes.” I could go on and on, but I don’t.
In my periphery, I notice Finley’s posture straighten into a stiff line. “How nice for you.”
For some reason that causes me to laugh.
“Are you making fun of me?” She sounds mad.
“Not at all,” I tell her. “Like you said, not everyone likes the same things.”
“Then why are you laughing at me?”
“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.”
“I’m not laughing, Thomas.” She says this so seriously, I know I’ve hurt her feelings. I just don’t know how.
“I’m laughing at the fact that I pre-judged you,” I tell her. “I guess I assumed you liked the same things I do.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” She inexplicably asks, “Do you like applesauce?”
“Not particularly,” I tell her. “I do like apples though.”
“I love applesauce.” She says this like she’s professing her feelings for more than pureed fruit.
“Good for you,” I say while taking a right turn that leads us toward Elk Lake. As we near the road that wraps around the body of water, I ask, “Would you prefer I turn around and we drive through the woods?”
“No, thank you. Even though I don’t like sand, I like looking at the lake. It’s peaceful.”
I’m so caught up in the oddness of this conversation I nearly run through a stop sign. As such, I wind up pressing the brake a little too hard and we stop with a jolt.
“You really aren’t a very good driver,” Finley announces.
“I haven’t hit anyone yet,” I tell her, like not killing pedestrians is a real accomplishment.
Instead of taking my comment lightheartedly, Finley confesses, “I’m afraid I would. That’s one of the big reasons I haven’t learned how to drive.”
“Most people who drive cars never hit pedestrians,” I say with authority. “I think you’ll be fine.”
She gives me a one-word answer. “Maybe.”
“I won’t be able to take drivers’ ed with you,” I tell her. “Constance is moving my schedule to nights starting next week. Which means I’ll be sleeping during the day.” I pull into a parking space with a great view of the lake.
That statement seems to shake my passenger. She reaches out and touches my arm. Taking a moment to pet the leather of my jacket, she asks, “Why would she do that?”
“She’s doing it because she’s mad I won’t date her. I’ll be working from eight at night until six in the morning. Which means I’ll go to bed at eleven in the morning and sleep until six o’clock at night.” Just the thought of returning to a nocturnal existence makes my skin crawl.
“Can she do that?” Finley seems as disturbed as I am.
“She can pretty much do anything she wants.”
“Yes, but we still have to finish the calendar for your parents.”
“I can do tomorrow’s session,” I tell her, “but would there be any way you could stay late for the other sessions? Either that, or maybe we can schedule them for my days off?”
“I guess.” She sounds disappointed.
I’m disappointed, too. I like spending time with Finley and with us being on opposite schedules that’s going to be hard to do.
We sit silently and watch the sunset. As the orange ball sinks into the lake, I ask, “Would you like to have supper with me tonight?”
My passenger is quiet for long enough, I’m convinced she’s going to say no. But then she opens her mouth and surprises me.