10. BAILEY #2
I take a sip of champagne and feel the tension in my shoulders loosen.
A few minutes later, Aunt Diane calls everyone toward the tables. Evan moves off to greet someone else, and Finn waits until he’s gone before looking at me.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Not enough?”
That almost makes me laugh. “No. It was just right.”
His smile is small. “I’ll take that.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
Dinner goes better than I expected.
I was prepared for Evan’s polished comments, my mother’s hopeful curiosity, my father’s quiet assessment, and Finn being too much in every possible direction.
Instead, he is steady.
Not boring. God, no. Finn O’Malley couldn’t be boring if someone handed him Ikea instructions and a sedative.
But he knows when to talk, when to listen, when to charm my mother without overdoing it, and when to answer my dad’s hockey questions like he respects the question instead of performing for the table.
He is charming, yes.
That part is not new.
But tonight, the charm doesn’t feel careless.
It feels perfectly aimed.
Not at me, exactly. Not in a way that makes me feel managed or handled. More like he understands why I asked him to come, and he is doing the job without making me regret it.
Across the table, Evan watches us with that mild, unreadable expression he always wore when he wanted people to think he was above whatever was happening.
It used to work on me.
Tonight, it bothers me less than I expected.
Not because Finn is sitting beside me looking unfairly good in a suit, though that is absolutely not hurting the situation.
But because every time Evan tries to guide the conversation back to something polished and self-important, Finn lets it slide right past him and redirects without effort.
No confrontation.
No performance.
No, look at me rescuing Bailey.
Just a quiet refusal to let Evan set the terms.
When Evan clears his throat across the table and asks Finn if traveling for games makes relationships difficult, my fork pauses against my plate.
Subtle as a paper cut.
Finn doesn’t miss a beat. “Depends on the relationship.”
Evan’s smile stays pleasant. “I suppose it would.”
Finn nods once, easy as ever. “Some people handle demanding schedules better than others.”
There’s nothing sharp in his tone.
Nothing anyone else could point to.
But I hear it.
Evan hears it too.
For a second, I think he might push. Then my dad asks Finn about road games, and Finn turns toward him smoothly, letting Evan’s comment die exactly where it deserves to.
I stare down at my dessert and try not to smile.
After dinner, the room loosens. People stand, drift, hug, collect coats, and make plans for tomorrow. Lily catches me near the doorway and squeezes my hands.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says.
“I’m so glad I get to be here. You look so happy.”
“I am.” Her eyes flick toward Finn, who is a few feet away, laughing at something my dad said. “And your friend is very charming.”
“Yes,” I say. “He’s aware.”
She laughs. “Evan has clearly noticed.”
“That was not the point.”
“No, but it was a perk.”
“Lily.”
“What? I’m getting married tomorrow. Let me enjoy low-stakes drama.”
“It’s not drama.”
She gives me the soft, patient look women give other women when the lie is too obvious.
Thankfully, Aunt Diane calls her away before I have to defend myself.
Finn appears beside me a second later, hands in his pockets, expression casual. “Your parents like me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. It’s already crowded up there.”
I huff a laugh, and his gaze drops to my mouth for half a second.
Barely anything.
Still enough to make the air change.
I look toward the lobby. “We should go upstairs.”
The second the words are out, I regret them.
Finn’s expression doesn’t change.
“Sure,” he says.
No joke. No eyebrow lift. No easy opening for me to roll my eyes and pretend I didn’t hear how that sounded.
Just sure.
We say good night to my parents. My mother hugs me too tightly and tells Finn she’ll see him tomorrow. My father shakes Finn’s hand again and says something about tomorrow’s ceremony time. Finn listens, nods.
Evan is near the bar when we pass.
“Bailey,” he says.
I stop because pretending I didn’t hear him would be childish, and I am saving childish for more deserving situations.
“Evan.”
His eyes move briefly to Finn, then back to me. “It was nice seeing you.”
“You too.”
He smiles. “You seem happy.”
The words move through me strangely, partly because they sound like an observation and partly because they sound like a question. Finn stays quiet beside me, not stepping in, not taking over, leaving the answer where it belongs.
With me.
“I am,” I say.
And the surprising thing is, in that moment, I mean it.
I’m happy.
Not because Evan sees it or because Finn is standing beside me, though that doesn’t hurt. Because for once, I’m not measuring myself against anyone else’s expectations.
Evan’s smile flickers by a fraction. “Good.”
“It is.”
Finn waits until we’re in the hallway before he says anything.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
His eyes move over my face, careful but not pushy.
“I mean it,” I add.
“I know,” he says. “I just wanted to ask.”
We walk toward the elevators side by side, close enough that the back of his hand brushes mine once.
My whole body notices.
The lobby has quieted since check-in, the late-evening crowd softer now. A few wedding guests gather near the bar. The pianist has switched to something slower, quieter, the notes trailing after us as we step into the elevator.
The doors close.
And suddenly there is no family. No Evan. No room full of candles and witnesses.
Just Finn, me, and a mirrored elevator.
And the very clear memory that upstairs, behind one locked door, there are two beds and absolutely not enough space between them.
Finn stands on the other side of the elevator, giving me room.
I stare at the changing floor numbers.
“You were good tonight,” I say.
His eyes come to mine in the reflection. “High praise.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t make it worse.”
“Glad to clear that bar.”
I glance at him directly now. “You made it easier.”
The humor leaves his face slowly.
Not completely. Finn always keeps some of it nearby, like a hand on a railing. But enough that I see the moment settle.
“Bailey,” he says, quieter.
The elevator dings.
Saved by floor seven.
The doors open, and I step out before either of us can do anything reckless, like continue being honest.
Our room is halfway down the hall.
I am aware of every footstep. Every soft hush of carpet under my heels. Every inch of Finn walking beside me, not touching me, not crowding me, somehow making that feel more dangerous than if he did.
Behind one locked door are two beds.
A perfectly reasonable setup.