18. BAILEY
Chapter eighteen
BAILEY
Date two starts with Finn telling me to trust him, which should annoy me more than it does.
“I’m serious,” he says, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console like he isn’t currently driving me somewhere undisclosed in West County with a half-smile that makes him look entirely too pleased with himself. “Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You asked if you needed hiking shoes, a swimsuit, or emergency identification.”
“That was a practical question.”
“You asked if we were crossing state lines.”
“You were being evasive.”
“I said wear comfortable clothes and bring a swimsuit.”
“That could mean anything.”
“True.”
He says it so easily that I look out the window before he can see my reaction.
The road winds through wet trees and late-November green. The heater hums low, music plays quietly, and there’s coffee waiting in the cup holder because date two apparently requires fuel.
“Almost there,” he says.
I glance at him. “That sounds ominous.”
He turns off the main road into Freestone, and recognition tugs at the edge of my memory. Small roads. Trees. A few buildings tucked into the quiet.
Then I see the sign for the spa.
I blink. “Finn.”
He parks. “Yes?”
“Enzyme baths?”
“You mentioned them.”
“I did?”
“After the wedding, when we were talking about long shifts. You said your shoulders sometimes feel like they’re trying to resign from your body.”
“I said that?”
“Pretty sure.”
“That sounds like me.”
“So I looked it up.”
I stare at him.
For half a second, he looks almost nervous. “If this is weird, we can bail. I have a backup.”
“You have a backup?”
“I’m a professional athlete. I believe in having a plan B.”
“What’s the backup?”
“Bakery and a walk where you pretend you’re not cold.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and his shoulders ease.
“No,” I say, looking back toward the spa. “This is good. I’ve always wanted to try it.”
His smile turns slow and warm. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The building is quiet, warm, and scented with cedar. A woman at the desk greets us, and Finn gives his name like he has no idea he’s currently ruining the convenient version of him I’ve been trying to believe.
Apparently, he didn’t bring me here to impress me. He brought me here because he noticed.
We’re shown to separate changing rooms, which is a mercy because the second I’m alone, I stare at myself in the mirror and try not to overthink a man who remembers throwaway comments about my shoulders and turns them into an afternoon in Freestone.
I change into my swimsuit and the robe they gave me, tying it securely because dignity matters when you’re about to be buried in warm cedar-scented goop with a hockey player who already knows exactly what you look like without a robe.
When I step out, Finn is waiting near the hallway in his own robe, hair slightly damp, expression far too amused for a man wearing spa slippers.
I stop.
He looks down at himself, then back at me. “Say one word.”
I press my lips together. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought several things.”
“But I showed restraint.”
His laugh is quiet, and the sound loosens the tension between us.
The enzyme bath itself is strange at first. Warm.
Soft. Deeply unexpected. We’re settled side by side, covered up to the shoulders in fragrant cedar shavings and heat that seeps into my tired muscles almost immediately.
It isn’t water, which my brain takes several seconds to accept.
It’s earthy and soothing, and after the first minute, my body stops being skeptical and decides Finn may have accidentally become a genius.
He turns his head toward me. He looks ridiculous, but unfortunately, not ridiculous enough to make him less attractive.
His mouth curves. “You’re trying not to laugh.”
“I’m trying to respect the tranquil healing environment.”
“How’s that going?”
“Poorly.”
For a while, neither of us says much. The room is quiet except for low spa music and the attendant checking once to make sure we’re comfortable.
Finn doesn’t fill the silence. He doesn’t turn the whole thing into a bit.
He lets me rest, and maybe that should be less intimate than a kiss, but it isn’t.
Not with him beside me.
Not with the steady awareness of his body so close.
Eventually, I open my eyes. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m trying very hard to take the peaceful atmosphere seriously. Also, I don’t want to be too loud and get us kicked out.”
I smile and close my eyes again.
It should feel strange. Maybe even awkward. But it doesn’t. He’s still Finn, still quick with a comment, still too pleased when he makes me smile, but he didn’t plan a date that made him look good.
He planned one that made me feel good.
After the bath, we sit in a quiet garden area with tea and blankets. The air outside is cool against my warm skin, and for a few minutes, I sit wrapped in a robe, holding a ceramic cup and feeling like a boneless puddle.
Finn sits beside me, legs stretched out, hair mussed, looking entirely too comfortable in a spa garden for someone who spends his life getting slammed into boards.
“What?” he asks.
I glance at him. “I’m trying to decide whether this is your usual date strategy.”
His brows lift. “Being buried in cedar?”
“Being thoughtful.”
The word comes out before I can stop it.
His expression shifts.
I tighten my fingers around the cup. “I mean, you know. This is different.”
“From what?”
“From what I expected.”
He nods slowly, looking out toward the wet greenery instead of pushing me to say more. “Good different?”
I should tease him. It would be easier.
Instead, I look at him and say, “Yes.”
His gaze comes back to mine.
The quiet between us changes. His knee is close beneath the blanket, not touching, but close enough that I know exactly how little space is there.
Finn’s mouth softens. “I’m glad.”
For a second, neither of us moves, but I see the moment his gaze drops to my mouth and his hand shifts like he’s thinking about reaching for me. Then he waits, giving me the choice, so I make it. I lean in first, just enough for his eyes to darken.
Then he kisses me.
It’s gentle. Almost careful. Just the warm press of his mouth against mine, soft enough that I could pretend it’s only sweet if my whole body didn’t remember exactly what he can do when he stops being careful.
When he pulls back, his eyes stay on mine.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod, even though okay feels wildly inadequate.
“Yes.”
By the time we leave Freestone, I’m warm, loose, and dangerously happy.
Dinner is at a small restaurant in Occidental, the kind of place with low lighting, old wood floors, good bread, and windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside.
Finn asks what I want before suggesting appetizers.
He doesn’t assume. Doesn’t take over. Doesn’t act like paying means directing the entire evening.
We share roasted mushrooms, short ribs, and something with squash and browned butter that makes me close my eyes for half a second.
Finn catches it.
“That good?”
“Don’t talk to me. I’m having a moment.”
“Should I be jealous of the squash?”
“Probably.”
The conversation is easy. Hockey travel. Hospital stories. His teammates. My family. The way my mother has texted me three times since the wedding to ask if Finn is coming to anything soon, which I regret telling him immediately, because he looks far too pleased.
After dinner, I think we’re heading home.
We’re not.
“One more stop,” Finn says after he opens my truck door.
I look at him. “There’s more?”
“A little.”
“The enzyme baths and dinner weren’t special enough?”
“They were.” He leans down so I can see him through the open window. “But I think you’ll like this last piece, too.”
He takes me through a narrow doorway beside a dark storefront, down a short flight of stairs into a place that feels like a secret cave. Low ceiling. Amber light. Small tables. A trio playing near the corner, soft enough that the room feels private.
“A speakeasy,” I say.
Finn glances over, his smile small. “Thought you might like something quieter than a regular bar.”
I study him for a second, because he’s trying to play this off like it isn’t a big deal. Like he didn’t build the night one careful piece at a time.
“You’re getting dangerously good at planning these dates,” I say.
His smile deepens. “I still have one date left to make my case.”
We find a small table near the back. Finn orders something with whiskey for himself and a gin drink for me after asking what I like.
The singer starts a slower song, and a few couples move into the small open space near the band. Finn looks at me, and I know exactly what he’s thinking before he says a word.
His mouth curves. “Dance with me.”
“There’s barely room.”
“That’s the point.”
“Finn.”
“Bailey.” His voice drops, his eyes staying on mine. “We’ve already done way more than dancing.”
He stands and holds out his hand, and I stare at it for one second longer before I take it.
He leads me into the small space near the band, his hand warm around mine, the room close around us in a way that makes every sensible thought feel harder to hold onto.
The music is slow and soft enough to pull the night tighter around us.
His hand settles at my waist, mine rests against his shoulder, and when I look up, his eyes are on me. “So,” he says, voice low. “Date two?”
“We’re still on it.”
“Early review?”
“Strong. Well planned.”
His mouth curves. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
The song pulls us closer without either of us admitting responsibility. My fingers brush the back of his neck. His thumb shifts at my waist, barely a touch, as he draws me in.
I look down.
He leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “You okay?”
I lift my eyes to his. “Finn.”
“What?”
“If you ask me if I’m okay every time I look at your mouth, we’re never getting through a full conversation again.”
His gaze drops to my lips.