Chapter 8
Juliet
His house? We were going to Finn’s house?
I hadn’t meant any of that, about the mansion or the teenage girlfriend. I was lying when I said I hadn’t thought about him. I couldn’t help saying it, though. I had been in this car too long with Finn, and he was right next to me, and I kept inhaling the same scent that I’d smelled in my bed. And he’d told that story about the breakup to Tom Petty, which made me think about him dating someone, anyone. It made me wonder about the words a lot going on, none of it good. I thought you might have to be crazy to break up with a guy like Finn, so I had to paint him as an asshole in my mind. I just had to.
I was already itchy under my skin, anxious about seeing Vicki and Mom, about this weekend. Flustered by Finn. And now I was going to see where he lived.
“Why are we going to your house?” I asked, trying not to let my panic come through in my voice.
He didn’t look at me, kept his eyes on the road. “Because I’ve been away for almost two weeks, and I miss Gary.”
That threw me like a punch to the stomach. “Gary? Who’s Gary? Jesus, Finn—you’re gay?”
He coughed, then regained his composure. “No, I’m not gay. Gary is my dog.”
I put my hand over my mouth.
There was a second of silence from both of us.
“I’m trying not to laugh,” Finn admitted, biting his lip.
I dropped my hand. It was funny. And awkward. And—fuck. “Who names their dog Gary?” I shot out in my own defense.
“I do,” he replied with logic.
“Well, it sounded weird. It sounded like you’re gay.”
He cleared his throat. He really was trying not to laugh. “I’ll admit that. But Gary is my dog, I promise. He’s old, and I’m not away often, so I need to drop in on him. I hired a daily dog sitter, but it isn’t the same. He likely thinks I’ve either abandoned him or I’m dead.”
“I thought you were home all this past week,” I said.
Finn shook his head. “I stayed in Portland. I did plan to come home, but I changed my mind. I like Portland, and the week gave me the chance to take care of some things. Like I said, I don’t get away very often. I’ll just check on my dog and re-pack my bag for the weekend. It won’t take long.”
I watched the scenery go by out the window, the damp brown February landscape. I hadn’t been entirely truthful, either, when I said I knew nothing about Finn. Mom had talked about him plenty over the years, because why wouldn’t she? He was her famous son-in-law.
He was quiet, reclusive. He didn’t socialize much, though he and Alistair were close. When their father was sick, Finn had moved him into his house and taken care of him to the end. It didn’t matter how rich or spoiled you were, that was a shitty thing to happen.
A lot going on, none of it good.
But even to Mom, Finn was a mystery. What did he mean by taking care of things in Portland? If he knew Denver, who else did he know? Why had I spotted a guitar case in the back of the car when I threw my bag in?
Why did I want to know any of this?
Why hadn’t I forgotten about him for thirteen years?
His house was in the countryside, in an enclave of big homes set far apart on acres of uncultivated land. We drove up a long drive with an overhang of huge trees and stopped in front of a covered porch.
I stepped out of the car, stretching and feeling the cold wind sting my cheeks. The silence, except for the calling of far-off birds, was absolute.
Finn hurried up the front steps, unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped back. A dog came out—a mutt with a graying muzzle and soft brown eyes. Gary gazed adoringly at Finn, his tail wagging so hard it made his body twist back and forth. He hobbled as he tried to jump up. I could practically hear the dog’s bones creaking as he did his excited dance.
Finn dropped his sunglasses and knelt on both knees. He hugged Gary without an ounce of reserve, stroking his ears and crooning to him softly. “Hello, good boy. I’m right here. Yes, you’re a good boy. The best boy, aren’t you?” In response, Gary gave a low whine, pressing his face into Finn’s neck.
I stood watching, feeling something big and heavy fill my chest. How was I getting choked up, watching Finn hug his dog?
Finn glanced up at me with a half-apologetic smile. “Go on inside, if you want,” he said. “I’ve been away a while. This will take a minute.”
I did need to use the bathroom, so I nodded and walked past him into the house. It was spacious and clean, with a hall leading to an open-concept living room that looked out behind the house. I took off my sneakers and walked in slowly, taking in the big windows, the deep sofa, the TV, the fireplace, the dark wood floors. A bookshelf stretched from floor to ceiling against one wall. Outside, the clouds were moving in to cover the sun. I had the urge to drop onto that sofa, cover myself with a blanket, and close my eyes.
Shaking my head, I wandered down the hall, past the kitchen—I didn’t bother to pretend I wasn’t staring at everything I passed—and found a bathroom, which had a granite counter and gleaming tiles. When I had finished my business, I looked in the drawers and the medicine cabinet before leaving. Soap, aspirin, an unopened toothbrush—just typical stuff you’d find in a spare bathroom.
Finn was in the kitchen, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with Gary at his feet. He was giving treats to the dog. He looked up at me with a grin. “Find anything interesting?” he asked.
“Just your cocaine stash and your anal lube,” I said.
“Damn, I thought I hid them better. If you want something to eat, help yourself. The kitchen is stocked.” He gestured to the dog. “This is Gary.”
“I guessed.” I lowered a hand to Gary, who sniffed it, then moved over to me, doing his wagging dance, this time slower and with more caution. He gazed up at me with those sad brown eyes.
“He thinks you might have a treat,” Finn said. The dog’s ears swiveled at the sound of that word. Finn extended his hand to me, a treat in his palm.
I took the treat and gave it to Gary, who inhaled it and sat on my foot. I stroked the top of his head.
“He likes you,” Finn said.
I had the feeling that Gary liked everyone who gave him treats, but I said, “I’ve never had a dog.”
“Want one? He’s free.”
I smiled, stroking Gary’s head, then his soft ears. It had only been a few minutes, but I already knew that Finn would die before he gave away this old dog.
Finn stood up. “I’ll just get my stuff.” He paused. “Mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Go ahead.”
After he went upstairs, I searched Finn’s huge fridge and found some fresh pita bread, some cheese, and some orange juice. Finn must pay someone to stock the kitchen. I thought of my sad fridge at home, shared with Amara. I could get used to this.
On the counter next to the fridge was a day planner, sitting open with a stack of unopened mail on top of it. It crossed my mind to read the planner and go through the mail, but even I had boundaries. Besides, I didn’t care about Finn’s dentist appointments or his cell phone bill. I couldn’t have named what I was after, but it wasn’t that.
I finished my snack and put two apples in my bag for later. Finn hadn’t come back, and I could hear the shower running somewhere upstairs. I patted Gary, who was lying on the kitchen floor, looking content, and left the room.
I’d leave the mail untouched, but the rest of the house was fair game. If Finn didn’t want me snooping, he shouldn’t have left me alone.
I had already seen the living room. I found a set of stairs going down to a lower level and followed them to an enormous, finished walk-out with a view behind the house. I stood staring for a long moment, taking it in. This was Finn’s music room.
A multi-level console was set up in the corner, cluttered with a computer, mixing board, and multiple screens. A sofa was pushed against one wall, and there were instruments everywhere—a keyboard, a drum set, microphones, amps, pedals, speakers. There was a beautiful acoustic guitar on a stand, and stowed along a wall were two electric guitars and—I actually gasped out loud—a bass.
I picked it up from its rack and ran my hands over it. It was a Yamaha—not the most expensive bass on the market, but not the cheapest, either. Why did Finn own a bass? Was it a rich-guy thing, to add to his collection of instruments? Rich people bought more houses than they could live in, more cars than they could drive, and more handbags than they could carry. Who knew why they did what they did?
But this bass wasn’t a decoration or a toy. It was a working musician’s bass, not a museum piece. It had been played—a lot.
Finn knew how to play bass. My fucking instrument.
It pissed me off. It made me feel like I had just met someone aside from Neal Watts who spoke my language—except that Finn had never bothered to tell me.
I wanted to hear him play it. I also wanted to kick his ass. I couldn’t tell which impulse was stronger.
I put down the Yamaha and went back upstairs. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, trailing my hand over the dark-wood railing. This house was big, and the effect was spacious, as if the ceilings were higher and the corridors wider than usual. It was spare without being cold. It wasn’t a mansion; it gave the feeling of a place you could become familiar with if you stayed here long enough, rooms you would use.
I remembered that Finn and Alistair’s father had lived here while he was sick. There would be enough room here for a sick family member, for privacy. I passed a guest bedroom, made up neatly, and wondered if that was where Finn’s father had stayed.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar, and the shower had stopped running. I didn’t bother knocking. I just walked in.
Finn was standing next to the bed. He had just pulled on a clean pair of jeans, and he was buckling his belt. He was bare-chested, and his hair was damp. He didn’t look up when I walked in.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re too late to see me naked.”
“You wish.” My vision went a little hazy. I let my gaze travel the small of his back, the line of his spine, his arms flexing as he tugged on the belt. He wasn’t bulky with muscle, but he was lean and trim, graceful for a man, made for action. I stared at his stomach, the hair curling damply at the back of his neck, his wrists. His fucking wrists. They looked strong and capable. Why was I thinking about his wrists?
“Enjoying the view?” He picked up a clean T-shirt from the bed, still without looking at me.
“You have a nice ass,” I said.
“And yet you sound mad about it,” he commented.
I narrowed my eyes, even though he wasn’t looking. “Do you play the Yamaha downstairs, or is it just for show?”
Finn pulled the shirt over his head and finally turned toward me. He looked like he was considering an argument, and then he shrugged instead. “I play.”
“Are you any good?”
“Good enough to play alone in my basement. Not as good as you.”
“Obviously.” I said this with so much scorn that it made him grin.
Without thinking, I grabbed his left hand and pulled it toward me, inspecting his fingertips for calluses. He had exactly the right ones.
Our gazes caught. Were his eyes blue or gray? It depended on the light and on what color he was wearing. What was I doing, thinking about this?
Finn detached his hand from mine and picked up a zip-up hoodie from the bed. “You’ve snooped through my bathroom and my music room. Do you want to ransack anywhere else before we go?”
I had the feeling that my snooping hadn’t surprised him, that he’d predicted it. That maybe he’d planned it. That my inspection was the reason we’d come here in the first place.
I looked around his bedroom. “So this is where you bring your groupies?”
That got a laugh out of him—a real one, unrehearsed, tumbling out of him in surprise. His voice was musical when he laughed. In the hype all of those years ago, no one had given Finn any credit for his rich, whiskey-toned voice, a God-given instrument made for singing. I could picture him sitting in his music room, making music, recording it. That was obviously what that room downstairs was for.
What did that music sound like? I wanted to know.
“Behold,” Finn said, making a sweeping gesture toward his bed. “The pile of money I sleep on.”
It was a queen-sized bed, neatly made. This bedroom had hardwood floors, a rustic dresser with a mirror, a large window with neat blinds, double doors to a closet, a door to an en suite. It had been cleaned, dusted, and tidied, most likely by a maid service, because Finn could afford one. There was nothing about it that said den of sin.
I had the urge to pull him down onto that bed and mess it up, make him forget every woman he’d ever had in it. But, standing in this room, I didn’t think there had been very many. Finn wouldn’t indulge when his sick father was down the hall.
Then again, his father had died three years ago. Plenty of time to get back in the game, so to speak. He was rich and—I could admit it—fucking gorgeous. Finn could have anyone he wanted.
My gut said he wasn’t a player. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. I had fooled myself before, plenty of times.
“Satisfied?” Finn asked when I had taken in every aspect of the room.
“Not even close,” I shot back without thinking. “Not ever.”
He stepped close to me. I stared at the hollow at the base of his neck as my pulse pounded in my ears. He smelled like soap, warm skin, and the clean clothes he was wearing.
He raised his hands and cupped my jaw. His fingers were gentle, his palms warm. One thumb moved over my cheekbone. I blinked hard, held my breath, and didn’t raise my eyes.
“Juliet,” he said in that whiskey voice, low enough just for me. “I look at you and I wonder what’s going on…” He lifted one hand and trailed his thumb in a line down my forehead, lightly tracing the skin. “Here. I can see so much happening. You think so fucking hard.” He paused, tracing my temple. “One day, you’ll tell me some of it. You’ll trust me that much.”
We were silent, breathing each other in. I could feel the heat of him, hear the hush of his quiet exhale. I watched the beat of his pulse in his neck and remembered how my hands had moved over his stomach of their own volition, how my fingers had slid half an inch behind his belt, unable to let go. As if Finn Wiley was something to hold on to. And now he was touching me as if he wanted to hold on, too.
Slowly, he dropped his hands. Cool air pressed against my flushed skin. Time started moving again.
“We should go,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.
“Yeah,” I said. “We should go.”