11. FINN
Chapter eleven
FINN
Bailey unlocks the door, and neither of us moves right away.
I stand beside her in the hotel hallway with my jacket over one arm, my tie loosened, and every ounce of restraint I own reporting for duty.
She pushes the door open. “Handled.”
“Never doubted you.”
The room is dim when we step inside, lit only by the lamp we left on before dinner. Her suitcase sits near the bed by the window. The beds are still made, crisp white sheets turned down neatly by housekeeping while we were downstairs pretending this weekend had simple rules.
Bailey steps farther inside and sets her clutch on the dresser.
I stay near the door for a second longer than necessary, because the room feels different now.
Earlier, it was a problem to solve. A logistical mistake. A check-in issue with a front desk clerk and a sold-out hotel.
Now it’s Bailey looking beautiful, her hair soft around her shoulders, her mouth still holding the shape of the smile she tried to hide in the elevator.
Now it’s me trying very hard not to think about the fact that the evening is over, the witnesses are gone, and there is nothing between us but good intentions and a nightstand.
Good intentions have never felt more fragile.
I clear my throat and nod toward the beds. “I’ll take the one closest to the door.”
Bailey turns. “Why?”
“Because I promised you the one closest to the window.”
Her mouth curves. “Thoughtful.”
“I have moments.”
I loosen my tie because I need something to do with my hands. Bad idea. Her eyes drop to the movement for half a second before she catches herself and looks away.
I see it anyway.
The dress was bad enough downstairs. In public, at least, there were tables and relatives and Evan Whitaker’s polished little comments to keep me busy. Up here, with the room quiet around us, the dress becomes a full-scale threat.
Dark green. Soft fabric. Fitted waist. Bare arms. The kind of simple that does more damage than anything obvious ever could.
Bailey Sutton should come with a warning.
Actually, no.
I had plenty of warning.
I ignored it.
“I’m going to change,” she says, already moving toward her suitcase.
“Good idea.”
She gathers clothes from her bag, then pauses and looks back at me. “You don’t have to stand by the door like you’re waiting for evacuation instructions.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You’re being weird.”
“Respectful and weird can overlap.”
“Finn.”
I lift both hands. “Bathroom. Yours. I’ll stay on this side of the room and act normal.”
“Can you really act normal?”
“I’ll try really hard.”
That gets me the smallest smile before she disappears into the bathroom and closes the door.
I exhale and drag a hand over my mouth.
There are many things a smarter man would not do right now.
A smarter man would not picture Bailey on the other side of that door, unzipping her dress.
A smarter man would not hear the faint rustle of fabric and let his brain fill in every detail he has no business imagining.
A smarter man would sit on his assigned bed, check his phone, and Google something like skin rashes or foot fungus to take his mind off of what’s right behind that door.
I am apparently not that man.
I turn toward the window instead.
City lights stretch beyond the glass, soft and gold against the dark. San Francisco hums below us, all traffic and wet pavement and people moving through lives that don’t involve sharing a hotel room with Bailey Sutton.
I should probably envy them, but I don’t, because I’m the lucky bastard in the room.
I’m also the one with the most to lose if I forget why she trusted me enough to let me stay.
I change fast. Suit off. T-shirt on. Sweatpants low on my hips. I fold my clothes over the chair because my mother didn’t raise me, but hockey travel did, and I know better than to wrinkle a suit before a wedding.
Then I stand by the window again, pretending the city is fascinating.
The bathroom door opens.
I turn before I can talk myself out of it.
Bailey steps out in black leggings and an oversized T-shirt, her hair looser now, her face washed clean of the little bit of makeup she wore downstairs.
The dress was dangerous.
This is worse.
This is softer. More private. The version of her that nobody downstairs gets to see. The version that belongs to late nights and quiet rooms and men who have no business wanting more than they were offered.
My gaze moves once, quick, before I force it back to her face.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Too quick.
But I let it go.
She carefully hangs the green dress in the closet, then crosses to the bed by the window. I take the other one.
There is a nightstand between us.
One lamp. One phone. One tiny notepad.
Not enough.
Also, too much.
Bailey pulls back the covers and sits on the edge of her bed. “You don’t need to offer to sleep in the truck again.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
She looks at me. “You are sleeping in the bed, Finn.”
I try very hard not to enjoy the sound of that sentence.
I sit on my bed and lean back against the headboard. “For the record, I was trying to be decent.”
“I know.”
The answer is quiet enough to make me look at her.
She is sitting with her hands folded loosely in her lap, looking at me like she’s still trying to line up the version of me she expected with the one who showed up tonight.
I’m not sure I want her to figure it out.
“I meant what I said downstairs,” I tell her. “I’m not going to make this harder on you.”
“I know.”
No hesitation.
No joke.
Just trust.
For a second, neither of us says anything. The room fills with the distant sounds of the hotel. A door closing somewhere down the hall. A muffled laugh. The faint rush of water through old pipes.
Bailey looks toward the window. “Thank you for tonight.”
I keep my eyes on her. “You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You handled Evan well.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Bailey notices.
“He’s good at making things sound reasonable,” she says.
“Yeah. I caught that.”
“I used to think I was overreacting.”
The words are simple, but they reach something raw.
I think about Evan’s smooth smile. The way he slipped the knife in under polite conversation. The way he made every comment sound harmless enough that calling him on it would have made Bailey look like the problem.
I hate him a little.
Maybe more than a little.
I keep my voice even. “You weren’t.”
Her eyes come back to mine.
“I didn’t like the way he talked to you,” I say.
“I noticed.”
“I know you can handle him.”
“I can.”
“I’m not saying you can’t.”
“I know that too.”
Good.
Because the last thing Bailey needs is another man deciding what she needs.
I rub one hand over the back of my neck and look toward the foot of the bed. “I wanted to say more.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I glance at her. “Because you asked me not to.”
That lands between us quietly.
Bailey holds my gaze, and I can see the moment she understands exactly what I’m saying.
I wanted to step in, make him feel as small as he tried to make her.
I wanted to put my hand on her lower back and make damn sure he knew she wasn’t standing there alone.
I did none of it.
Because she asked me not to, and she trusted me to follow her lead.
Because, for reasons that are starting to feel less casual by the hour, her trust matters more than my ego.
Bailey’s voice softens. “I appreciated that.”
I nod once because I don’t have a good joke ready, and maybe I don’t want one.
She looks down at the blanket, smoothing one hand over the edge. “You were different tonight.”
I force a small smile. “In a suit?”
“In general.”
I lean toward the nightstand and switch off the lamp.
The room goes dark except for the city light leaking through the curtains.
“Night, Bailey.”
For a second, she doesn’t answer.
Then, quietly, “Good night, Finn.”
I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
The bed is comfortable. The room is quiet. The woman I want is a few feet away, close enough that I can hear the sheets move when she shifts onto her side.
Friends only.
No making it weird.
Separate rooms.
One rule dead. Two are on life support.