10. BAILEY
Chapter ten
BAILEY
By the time I step out of the bathroom in my rehearsal-dinner dress, I have given myself a very reasonable pep talk.
This is a family event. Finn is my friend. There are two beds in this room.
The fact that he is sitting six feet away from them, dressed in a charcoal suit with his shirt open at the throat while he scrolls through his phone, is not relevant.
He looks up when the bathroom door opens.
For once, Finn O’Malley does not immediately say something.
His gaze moves over me, not fast enough to be casual and not slow enough to be rude.
I feel every inch of it anyway. The dress is dark green, simple, fitted through the waist, soft around my hips, the kind of thing I bought because it felt elegant in the store, and I am now regretting it because Finn is looking at me like elegant might not have been the safest choice.
“Don’t,” I say.
His eyes come back to mine. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was deciding how much honesty this friendship can survive.”
My pulse makes a very poor decision.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.” He stands, buttoning his jacket. “You look beautiful, Bailey.”
Simple.
No joke tucked behind it. No exaggerated hand-over-heart routine to make me roll my eyes.
Just Finn, standing in our hotel room, telling me I look beautiful, like he means it.
I look down and reach for my clutch. “Thank you.”
His mouth curves, but he lets me have the moment without crowding it.
The rehearsal dinner is downstairs in one of the hotel’s private dining rooms, because Aunt Diane has never met a casual gathering she couldn’t polish into submission.
There are candles on every table, small arrangements of blush pink roses and greenery, and place cards written in looping calligraphy.
Finn pauses just outside the entrance. “Last chance.”
I glance at him. “For what?”
“You tell me.”
I know what he’s asking. Do you still want me here? Do you need space? What are the lines?
He doesn’t say any of that out loud. He doesn’t make me explain myself in the hallway with wedding guests walking past us.
He just waits.
My grip tightens around my clutch for half a second, then loosens. “Backup. Not rescue.”
“Got it.”
“No weird possessive routine.”
“I left my caveman club upstairs.”
I give him a look.
“Sorry,” he says. “No weird possessive routine.”
“And if Evan says something annoying?”
“I’ll follow your lead.”
I study him for a beat. “You’re being very agreeable.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
That helps.
A little.
We step into the room, and my mother sees us almost immediately.
“Bailey.” Her smile brightens as she crosses toward us, my dad trailing behind her, quieter as always, assessing without being obvious about it.
“Hi, Mom.” I hug her, breathing in her familiar perfume and the faint scent of hairspray. “Dad.”
My dad squeezes my shoulder. “You made it.”
“Barely. Traffic was terrible.”
“San Francisco,” he says, like that explains several categories of human suffering.
My mother’s attention shifts to Finn with polite interest and very obvious curiosity.
“This is Finn O’Malley,” I say. “Finn, my parents, Laura, and Michael Sutton.”
Finn offers his hand to my mother first. “Mrs. Sutton. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Laura, please,” she says, and I can already see her softening because Finn’s smile is calibrated for mothers, donors, fans, and possibly small woodland animals.
Then he shakes my dad’s hand. My dad gives him the standard father handshake, firm enough to communicate several things at once.
Finn doesn’t flinch.
“Mr. Sutton.”
“Michael,” my dad says. “You play for Santa Rosa, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
My dad nods once. “Good game last week.”
Finn’s expression shifts into something more genuinely pleased. “You watched?”
“I watch when Bailey tells me the team’s worth watching.”
I look at my father. “I said they were fun.”
“You said they were fast.”
“That too.”
Finn glances at me, then back to my dad. “Fast is better. Fun gets us in trouble.”
My dad almost smiles, and that is basically a glowing endorsement.
My mother touches my arm. “You look lovely, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
“And Finn, we’re so glad you could come. Bailey didn’t mention she was bringing anyone until very recently.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Because it was very recently.”
Finn doesn’t make a joke about it. He doesn’t mention hotel rooms, ex-boyfriends, or the group interrogation at Redwood Taproom.
He simply says, “I’m glad she asked me.”
My mother looks between us with the kind of interest that makes me wish the floor would open slightly. Not enough to cause structural damage. Just enough to swallow me.
Before she can ask anything else, Aunt Diane appears as if she’s been tracking the conversation from three tables away.
“Bailey, you’re here.” She air-kisses both my cheeks, then looks Finn up and down with decisive approval. “And you brought a guest.”
“I did.”
“Finn O’Malley,” he says, offering his hand.
Aunt Diane takes it. “Diane Clarke. Lily’s mother. We’re delighted to have you.”
“Thank you for including me.”
“The more the merrier, as long as they RSVP on time.”
I close my eyes briefly.
Finn’s voice stays perfectly pleasant. “I respect a well-managed guest list.”
Aunt Diane stills, then smiles.
Oh, no.
He found her weak spot.
Within ten minutes, Finn has charmed my mother, earned cautious approval from my father, complimented Aunt Diane’s timing schedule without sounding sarcastic, and remembered that Lily is the bride before she even reaches us.
When my cousin hugs me, flushed and pretty and visibly overwhelmed, Finn keeps his congratulations short and warm.
“You look happy,” he says.
Lily’s smile softens. “I am. Tired, but happy.”
“Seems like the right order.”
She laughs, and I relax a little.
He is good at this.
Not in the slick way Evan was good at rooms. Evan performed competently, like everyone else should be grateful to stand near it. Finn makes people comfortable without making the moment about himself.
I am trying to relax and enjoy myself, then Evan walks in.
I know before I fully turn because my mother’s expression changes by a fraction. The room doesn’t stop. No one gasps. The candles keep flickering, the servers keep moving, and my cousin’s rehearsal dinner remains exactly what it was.
But my body knows, and I hate it.
Evan Whitaker looks the same. Navy suit, clean shave, expensive watch, hair neatly styled, expression composed. Polished in the way he always was. Like he had read the room before entering and already decided what version of himself it deserved.
He spots me near the bar and smiles.
“Bailey,” he says as he approaches. “It’s good to see you.”
“Evan.” I keep my voice even. “You too.”
His gaze flicks to Finn. Quick. Measuring. Then back to me.
“And you brought someone.”
I should answer.
But for one second, old habit tugs at me. The instinct to smooth the air, make everyone comfortable, and explain before anyone asks too much.
Finn doesn’t step in front of me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t puff up or change his voice.
He simply turns slightly, giving me room to answer while making it clear I’m not standing alone.
That helps more than it should.
“This is Finn,” I say. “A friend.”
Finn offers his hand. “Finn O’Malley.”
“Evan Whitaker.”
They shake.
Finn’s smile is easy. Evan’s is polite.
The room gets quieter only in my head.
“O’Malley,” Evan says. “Hockey player, right?”
“Right.”
“Santa Rosa?”
“Yeah.”
Evan nods. “Bailey always did gravitate toward men with demanding careers.”
There it is.
Not cruel. Not obvious. Just that same polished little comment with a hook under it.
I open my mouth, but Finn beats me by half a second.
“Seems more like they gravitate toward her.”
My eyes flick to him.
His expression stays relaxed. No edge. No challenge.
Just a fact, delivered lightly enough that Evan can’t reasonably object without looking petty.
Evan’s smile holds. “She’s always been capable.”
“She is,” Finn says. “That’s one of the first things people notice.”
Something in me goes still.
Not because the words are dramatic.
Because they aren’t.
Because Finn doesn’t make me sound difficult, or overworked, or impressive despite myself. He says capable like it’s a strength anyone would be lucky to recognize.
Evan glances at me. “You look well.”
“I am.”
“Still at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Long hours, I imagine.”
“They’re manageable.”
Finn lifts his glass slightly. “Which is lucky for the Ravens, since she’s been helping with our foster kids clinic. We’ve got hockey covered. Bailey knows how to make people feel safe without making a production of it.”
I look at him again.
This time, his mouth curves just enough for me to know he remembers me helping Carter when he fell. The ice pack. The way I called him out in the storage room.
Evan doesn’t have the context, but he understands the tone.
It’s not possessive or rude.
It’s worse.
It's familiar.
Evan’s attention sharpens. “Sounds like you two know each other well.”
“Through friends,” I say.
“At first,” Finn adds.
I give him a warning look, and he gives me an innocent one right back. Not too innocent, just enough to irritate me, and somehow, that irritation steadies me more than any dramatic rescue would have.
“How long are you in town?” Evan asks Finn.
“Through Sunday.”
“Nice weekend away, then.”
“Something like that.”
“It will be nice seeing everyone,” I say.
Evan looks at me. “I’m sure.”
There’s nothing wrong with the words. There never is. That was always the maddening part.
Finn must hear something anyway, because he shifts the conversation with almost insulting ease.
“So how do you know Lily’s fiancé?” he asks.
Evan blinks once, caught off guard. “College friend.”
“Good guy?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Then sounds like Lily chose well.”
Simple. Clean. No macho nonsense. No lower-back possessive routine.
Just Finn doing exactly what I asked.