Chapter 3
Theo
Finn’s hands are beautiful. He’s spinning my pen between fingers that shouldn’t be that graceful.
Lean and dexterous. His hands are strong, tanned, inked to hell, and topped with nails neat enough to suggest serious self-care.
There’s a scar across his knuckle and a skull on his middle finger that’s so poorly drawn it could pass for a cartoon bean. And still, somehow, it all fits.
Of course, I’m only staring because I’m assessing the right photo angle. That’s why we’re here past eight on a Monday night, after everyone’s gone. The press release two days ago was the launch of Operation Dummy Pass.
I scoop the printed lists off my desk. On top is the final version of our statement:
Following recent speculation, we wish to provide context around events involving Finn Lennox.
Mr Lennox experienced a breach of privacy when footage of a private encounter was circulated online without his knowledge or consent. At the time of the incident, Mr Lennox was not aware of the identities of the two individuals involved.
The material was recorded without permission and released unlawfully.
In the weeks prior to this event, Mr Lennox was navigating the breakdown of a personal relationship. The emotional fallout from that situation contributed directly to a period of instability and poor decision-making.
‘I am deeply sorry and take full responsibility for my actions. I let down my team, my supporters, and the people who believed in me. I was dealing with something personal, but that is no excuse. I have work to do to earn back the trust I lost. And I will.’
The relationship in question has since been resumed. The decision to move forward together was not made lightly. It reflects mutual accountability, personal growth, and a shared commitment to rebuilding with intention.
No further comments will be made at this time.
That was the first step to create the illusion of our whirlwind workplace romance – the rugby star and the girl who takes his pictures. I almost scoff. Now comes step number two: a cosy-couply picture for social media. My expertise.
I position the ring light. The white-washed brick wall behind us provides perfect contrast. My phone’s camera settings are optimised. Everything’s ready – except for the two leads in this romantic charade.
‘Listen.’ I level the tripod for the last time. ‘This should be simple. Stand next to me and hold my hand.’
He moves slowly, as if he knows how not-simple this is. Then he offers his hand, palm up.
I place mine into his – and we both freeze.
His hand swallows mine whole. Warm and callused. There’s a small thrum under my skin, a warning signal.
It’s just a hand. Just a hand.
‘Christ, this feels weird,’ he says.
‘No argument there. But it’s meant to look natural. Not whatever this is. We look like we’re hostages, desperately holding on to each other until the polis arrive.’
He frowns. ‘Kind of fitting.’
‘Finlay, please relax your shoulders.’
‘They are relaxed, Theodora.’
‘They’re practically touching your ears. And you’re crushing my bones.’ I yank my hand free. The blood rushes back and I still feel the imprint of his grip. I shake it off. ‘Let’s try a close-up instead. Just our hands on the desk. Give me your jumper.’
Finn raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘You want me to strip, just say so.’
‘I need a backdrop, daftie.’
He shrugs it off, slow and unbothered, the black hoodie dragging the white T-shirt across his chest. The cotton pulls over muscle.
Broad shoulders, defined arms, every inch of him cut and hot and completely unfair.
His tattoos catch the light, ink winding down his arm. Veins shift under the skin as he moves.
I shouldn’t be watching this closely.
He hands me the jumper.
A pulse kicks between my legs, immediate and mortifying.
Dammit. What is it about tattooed men in white tees?
I exhale through my nose and smooth the hoodie across the desk surface. ‘Place your hand here, palm down.’
Finn complies and I position my hand over his, fingers barely touching.
‘It’s supposed to look artistic.’ I snap a test shot, check the screen, and grimace. The overhead perspective highlights his knuckle ink in stark detail.
‘Your tattoos are problematic.’
‘You’re only noticing that now?’
‘I mean especially for family-friendly photography purposes.’
The F-U-C-K across the knuckles of his right hand stares back at me in bold black letters. My red polka-dot nails sit absurdly cheerful against it.
‘It stands for Focus, Unity, Courage, and Kindness,’ he says.
‘Aye, right. And Theo stands for Tequila, Handcuffs, Ecstasy, and Orgies.’
He laughs. A full-bodied, head-tipped-back, no-performance laugh rips out of him as if his body couldn’t stop it if it tried. The sound is so deep and rich, I feel it in my chest first, then lower. A tingle I don’t have time for.
His laugh ebbs out slowly, but the sound lingers. So does the heat in the space between us.
He moves closer, only an inch or so. ‘Your hands are small.’
Of course he’d notice my proportion problem. They are small and have always made me feel slightly unfinished. ‘I know, it’s a bit weird. But also irrelevant.’
‘Naw, not weird. I like girls with small hands.’ He pauses and holds my gaze, bold as brass. ‘It makes my dick look bigger.’
What comes out of me isn’t a laugh. It’s a giggle-grunt. Sharp, breathy, undignified. The sound of my guard tripping over itself and face-planting right in front of him.
Deflect, deflect!
‘Judging by the screenshots I saw, that’s not a real issue. So stop swanning about and focus.’ I force myself to breathe calmly and adjust the angle again. ‘Can you tuck your thumb in?’
He grins and shifts his grip without comment. But now our hands lie limp like two dead fish at a market stall.
‘Ugh. This isn’t working.’ I jab at delete with more force than necessary like it’s the phone’s fault. ‘We need something that says, “besotted couple” not “business transaction”.’
‘Isn’t that what this is?’
‘Yes, but it can’t appear that way.’ I pat my phone against my palm a few times. ‘The sponsors need to believe you’re reformed through the power of…my stabilising influence.’
Finn’s mouth quirks. ‘Your stabilising influence. Listen to yourself.’
‘Got a better idea?’
He sinks back, arms folded. ‘Several, but none you’d approve of.’
Don’t blush.
Too late, my traitorous face goes full cherry tomato. ‘Please concentrate, Finn.’
‘I am concentrating. You’re the one overthinking this.’
I glare at him. ‘I’m not overthinking. It just seems that way next to the mess you’re in from chronically underthinking.’
‘Maybe. But I look great in it.’
He’s enjoying this. I can tell by the smug tilt of his mouth. He’s reading me – my flush, my glare, the tiny ways I lose control – and cataloguing every reaction. I don’t know why that’s riling me up so much, but it is.
I press my fingers to my temples. ‘Our hands need to tell a story. This looks like we’ve never touched each other before.’
‘We haven’t.’ There’s a glint in his light blue eyes like he’s about to steal something just to see if I’ll chase him.
‘Fine. New approach,’ I say. ‘We’ll sit on the chair.’
‘It’s too small for both of us.’
‘I’ll perch on your knee, of course. Seriously, does getting hit by human battering rams for a living impair your cognitive abilities this much?’
‘Ouch.’
I hear myself too late. I didn’t mean to sound this bitchy. That’s not who I am. ‘Sorry, Finn. That was uncalled for.’
‘Forgiven. You’re cute when you’re all ruffled and bossy.’
Unhelpful observation: compliments from self-serving numpties still register.
I drag the chair into position. ‘Sit,’ I command, pointing at it like I’m directing a disobedient labrador.
Finn angles his head just enough to make room for doubt but complies, dropping into my office chair with casual grace. His knees splay wide, taking up space in that uniquely male way that screams territorial dominance.
Of course he’s a man spreader. But to be fair, there’s a lot of man to spread in his case.
MacMickin, stop!
‘Now what?’ he asks.
‘Now I sit and we look besotted. It’s what couples do.’ I smooth my skirt. ‘Nothing personal, only a job.’
‘Sure. No one’s enjoying this.’
I position myself on his right thigh, perched at the edge, maintaining maximum distance. Spine locked, shoulders on high alert. I’m technically sitting. Emotionally? Mid-exit.
One of his thighs is enough to serve as an ottoman.
‘You know, you’re surprisingly uncomfortable with physical contact,’ he murmurs from behind.
‘I’m not uncomfortable. I’m professional.’
‘There’s a difference between professional and rigid.’
‘There’s also a difference between relaxed and inappropriate,’ I counter.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks. Yet something about his observation needles me. Am I rigid? Perhaps. But rigid has kept me safe when everything else crumbled.
‘Relax, List Girl.’
I sigh and scoot back, letting my weight settle. His thigh is… Jesus. Solid and unreasonably comfortable. The muscle beneath me tenses, like he’s bracing on instinct. For stability, probably.
Completely normal. Totally fine.
It’s just a leg. A giant, irritatingly perfect leg that feels like it was sculpted for this situation. His thigh’s all heat and muscle, hard and thick. I know the rest of him is also… I mean, I’ve seen the photos. Oh my god. I can’t believe I’m thinking about his…equipment. Here. Now.
The seam of my tights drags in just the wrong spot. I reposition again, but that only makes things worse.
I am never mentioning this to anyone. Ever.
‘Better?’ I ask and my voice sounds a tad wobbly.
‘Getting there.’ His breath strokes the side of my neck. ‘Put your hand on your knee.’
I place my hand on my left knee, palm up. Finn covers it with his own, fingers curling naturally around mine. His thumb rests against my wrist, where my pulse quickens for no reason.
‘Now look at our hands,’ he instructs, voice lower than before.
I do. His large hand, tanned and inked, cradling my smaller one with its red nails. We strike the right note between intimate and protective. Most importantly: convincing.
He moves his thumb, slowly stroking back and forth across the pulse point below my palm. The contact is featherlight, but it sends a jolt up my arm, straight to somewhere I pretend isn’t reacting.
‘What are you doing, Finn?’
‘Making it seem real. That’s the goal, right?’
His thumb continues its path, tracing invisible patterns. This feels intimate in ways it definitely shouldn’t. And I’m beginning to understand how rows of women end up in bed with him. At the same time.
Thank God I’m not one of them.
I lift my phone and take pictures. Click. Click. Hands, framed like a stock image. Romantic intimacy, brought to you by strategic discomfort. I check the preview. Our intertwined hands fill the frame.
‘Got it?’
‘Nearly.’ I take three more shots, then scroll through the photos. They’re perfect. Intimate without being showy. The kind of casual affection that can’t be faked.
Except we just did.
I start to pull away, but he tightens his fingers slightly around my hand.
‘Theo.’
‘What?’
‘Thank you. For doing this.’ His voice is different. No more swagger or deflection.
I tip my chin half a notch, and he’s watching me. His pink hair catches the ring light, bright enough to hurt if I stare too long. But his eyes are serious and grateful. I did not expect that.
‘Don’t worry about it, Finn. That’s my job.’
‘No, it’s not. Your job is social media and being an assistant. This is… I don’t know. A sacrifice?’
The back of my neck burns. ‘I want to keep this job. No, I have to keep this job. It’s all I’ve got, and I didn’t lie when I said that I love it.’
His thumb still strokes across my pulse, and I realise he’s been doing it unconsciously all the time.
‘I think you might work too hard, Theo.’
‘Someone has to keep this place running,’ I retort, trying to regain my composure. ‘Especially when certain rugby players are busy creating international incidents and incriminating headlines.’
He winces. ‘I messed up. I know that.’
I glance up and find him not smirking for once. ‘Yes, you did. But we’ll fix this mess.’ His hand lets go, and I stand up to put distance between us. I rub my palm on my skirt, but the warmth stays exactly where he left it. ‘I…erm…should edit these.’
‘Course.’
I lean against my desk and busy myself with my phone, cropping and filtering. Finn stays quiet in the chair, man spreading away, as I work.
‘What’s the caption?’ he asks.
‘I was thinking… How about “Turns out, even I can’t fuck everything up”?’
‘Aye, sounds like me.’
‘Hashtag secondchance.’
He laughs. ‘You could probably rebrand Satan.’
‘Isn’t that what I’m already doing?’ I busy myself by packing away the ring light. ‘Okay, we stick to the plan. Small doses of public affection. Build the story gradually.’
‘Gradually, huh?’ He gets up and stretches, arms behind his head, his slow, self-satisfied grin built to rile me up. ‘Cool. Just let me know when it gets too much for you. Wouldn’t want you blushing through the whole thing.’
Then he saunters off.
And my face? A raging tomato again.