16. BAILEY #2
I leave before I can stand there looking at him any longer.
But on the way to my car, with the cold rink air still on my skin and the sound of kids laughing behind me, I realize Finn is becoming harder to keep in the category where I put him.
Fun. Flirty. Too easy. Too risky.
Tonight, I saw him give Carter exactly what he needed without making a show of it. Then he looked at me, saw I was exhausted, and moved our date to tomorrow like my limits mattered.
I don’t know where he’s taking me, or what he has planned. But despite every sensible warning in my head, I’m excited to find out.
***
By four the next day, I have changed clothes three times.
Which is ridiculous.
This is date one. Not a gala or a wedding, and not a trial where the verdict determines the rest of my life.
Except maybe it does.
I stand in front of my mirror wearing jeans, boots, and a soft blue sweater, then immediately hate how much I want to look good.
Finn told me to wear something warm.
That was it.
Something warm.
No location. No hint. No helpful context. Just a text sent after his practice that said, Picking you up at four. Wear something warm. No heels.
I stared at it for an unreasonable amount of time.
Then I texted back, Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or is this a trust exercise?
He replied, Both. Wear a jacket.
By the time his truck pulls up outside, I have successfully achieved casual. Or close enough. My hair is down. My boots are comfortable. My jacket is warm enough for a mystery date.
I grab my purse and open the door before he can knock.
Finn stands on my porch in dark jeans, a black thermal, and a gray jacket that makes it hard not to remember exactly what’s under it. His hair is still damp from the shower, and there is a faint scrape along his jaw that might be from practice or shaving too fast.
His eyes move over me once, quick and warm, before coming back to my face.
“You look good,” he says.
Simple, but it works anyway.
“Thank you.”
His mouth curves. “No argument?”
“I’m trying something new.”
“Dangerous.”
“I know.”
He nods toward the truck. “Ready?”
“That depends. Are you finally going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
“Finn.”
“It’s date one. Mystery is part of the experience.”
“I’m a nurse. Mystery usually means symptoms someone forgot to mention.”
“That’s romantic.”
“No, but it is accurate.”
He laughs and takes my hand long enough to help me down the porch step, even though I don’t need help. I let him anyway, because his hand is warm and steady, and I’m not in the mood to point it out.
The truck is clean again. Warmer than outside. The seat heater is already on. There’s a folded blanket in the back seat, along with a cooler and a brown paper bag.
I glance at him as he climbs in. “Is that food?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Date food.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“It tells you I’m feeding you.”
We head west out of Redwood Grove, past wet roads, dark trees, and hills that still hold the last of the afternoon light. The November sky is soft gray, clouds layered low but not threatening rain. Finn lets the music play quietly, something easy and familiar. Not too romantic. Not too obvious.
For a while, we talk about safe things like practice, the youth clinic, Carter, and the little boy named Riley who scored the world’s slowest goal and nearly injured himself celebrating.
“He asked Carter if he could be on his team next time,” Finn says, eyes on the road.
I look over. “He did?”
“Yeah.”
“How did Carter handle that?”
“Like someone handed him a live grenade and told him it was a compliment.”
I smile. “Poor kid.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
Finn’s mouth softens. “Yeah.”
The quiet after that isn’t awkward. It’s just quieter.
I look out the window as the trees thicken on either side of the road. “You were good with him.”
“Carter?”
“Yes.”
Finn lifts one shoulder. “He didn’t need me hovering.”
“No. He needed you to trust him.”
His fingers shift on the steering wheel. “Maybe.”
The single word is casual, but his voice isn’t.
I glance at him. “You don’t like compliments.”
“I like compliments.”
“Not real ones.”
His eyes flick to mine. “Are you handing out real compliments now, Sutton?”
“Occasionally, but don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
I look away before my smile gets out of hand.
The road opens eventually, the trees giving way to a long stretch of coastal highway. The ocean appears around the next corner, steel blue under the gray sky, waves breaking white against dark rocks below.
Finn slows and turns into a quiet overlook tucked off the road, mostly empty except for a few cars parked at the far end.
He drives to the other side, where the view opens wide in front of us, and turns the truck around so the back is facing the water.
Ocean, cliffs, clouded sky, and the endless, restless sound of water hitting stone.
I stare through the windshield. “This is date one?”
“This is the first part.”
“There are parts?”
“Don’t panic. None of them requires formal shoes.”
“I wasn’t panicking.”
He parks, turns off the engine, and climbs out. I follow before he can come around. The air is colder out here, damp and sharp with salt. Wind lifts my hair from my shoulders, and I zip my jacket higher.
Finn opens the back of the truck and pulls out the folded blanket.
I stare at the cooler. “You planned a picnic.”
“Tailgate picnic.”
“That’s an important distinction?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Picnic sounds like wicker baskets and ants. Tailgate picnic sounds like I know my strengths.”
I laugh. “And your strengths are?”
“Truck. Food. Good view. Not making you sit in a crowded restaurant after you spent yesterday being needed by half the county.”
I clear my throat. “That was yesterday.”
“You looked exhausted last night,” he says.
“I was exhausted last night.”
“Exactly.” He sets the blanket on the tailgate. “So I figured today should be easy. Food, ocean, no crowd.”
He spreads the blanket across the open tailgate, then adds another folded one along the edge like a cushion. From the cooler, he takes out two containers of soup, wrapped sandwiches, a thermos, and a small box tied with plain string.
I point at it. “Dessert?”
“Maybe.”
“Suspicious.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You cause me to say it a lot.”
He hands me a container. “Tomato basil soup. Grilled cheese.”
I take it from him slowly.
“Did you make this?”
“No. I respect you too much for that.”
“Good answer.”
“Nora’s made it. I reheated it and put it in containers like a capable adult.”
We sit side by side on the tailgate, the blanket under us, the ocean in front of us, soup warming my hands. The wind is cold enough to sting my cheeks, but the food is hot, and Finn is close. I can feel the heat radiating off of him.
For a while, we eat.
Soup. Grilled cheese. Wind off the water. Finn beside me, quiet in a way that doesn’t ask anything from me.
The date feels easier than I expected, maybe because he lets it be exactly what he said it would be.
Food, ocean, no crowd.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed that.
“This is good,” I say after a few minutes.
“The soup or the view?”
“Yes to both.”
His smile appears small and pleased.
I dip the corner of my sandwich into the soup and look back toward the ocean. “I expected something more…”
“Terrifying?”
“Public.”
“Ah.”
“Maybe a bar. Or dinner somewhere you knew everyone.”
“Why?”
I glance at him.
His tone is casual, but the question isn’t.
“Because you’re good with people,” I say.
“That doesn’t mean I always want them around.”
“I guess I thought date one would be more Finn.”
His brows lift. “This is Finn.”
“You know what I mean.”
He sets his soup aside and looks at me. “You thought I’d pick something loud. Easy. Somewhere I could do the charming thing and keep it moving.”
I don’t answer fast enough, and he nods as if that tells him what he needs.
“I can do that,” he says.
“I know.”
“But that’s not why I asked for three dates.”
The ocean rolls below us, constant and loud enough to make the silence feel private.
I look down at my soup. “Why did you?”
“Because I want you to know me when I’m not playing to a room.”
I don’t have an easy answer for that, and he doesn’t seem to expect one.
Instead, he picks up his sandwich again, takes a bite, and goes back to looking at the water like he didn’t just tilt the ground a little under my feet.
“So,” he says after a moment, lighter now, “hospital yesterday.”
I groan. “Smooth transition.”
“I’ve been waiting to ask.”
“About my shift?”
“About what it’s like.”
I glance at him. “You’ve been to hospitals.”
“Only to the ER when I’ve gotten hurt in a game. Not the same.”
“You don’t want to know what it’s like.”
“I do.”
The answer is immediate.
No flirtation in it. No joke.
I study him for a second.
Then I look back at the water because it’s easier. “It depends on the day.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yesterday was long. Not terrible. Just long.”
“What makes long different from terrible?”
I take a slow breath. “Terrible is the stuff everyone understands. Car accidents. Injured kids. Families waiting for news nobody wants to give them. Those days are awful, but they’re clear in a way.”
Finn is quiet beside me, waiting for me to finish.
“Long is different,” I say. “Long is everyone needing a piece of you until there isn’t much left.
Questions. Reassurance. Paperwork. Meds.
People are scared and trying not to be. People are lonely.
People are angry because angry is easier than afraid.
” I turn the soup container in my hands.
“And you understand it, so you give them what you can. Then you go home and realize you never stopped to take a break or eat more than a protein bar all day.”
Finn doesn’t answer right away. I expect him to say something easy. Something kind but general.
Instead, he says, “That sounds exhausting.”
My throat tightens. “It can be.”
“And you still went to the hockey clinic.”
“I said I would.”
“I know.”