Chapter 5
Five
Chess
I quickly find out that Finn loves seafood. As in, he’ll happily drive to an out-of-the-way roadside restaurant to get his
fix. He takes me to Middendorf’s overlooking the lake for what he promises will be a feast.
We sit on the patio, and soft breezes coming off the water stir my hair. It’s one of those perfect Louisiana fall days when
the temperature is in the low seventies and the sun is shining brightly. I relax with a sigh of contentment.
Finn, on the other hand, is practically twitching with the anticipatory promise of food. “Their thin fried catfish is why
we’re here.” He eyeballs me. “You do like catfish?”
“Can’t comment one way or the other on it,” I tell him. “I don’t remember the last time I had any.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat.” He rubs his hands together like a little boy. “Do you want a white wine?”
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who thinks everyone who has a vagina must drink white wine.” It’s fun to tease
him. He never gives in.
“It’s a pussy, Chess. Save vagina for your OB.” He flashes a quick smile. “And, no. Just so happens that every woman I’ve
taken out orders white wine. Or a club soda with lime.” He frowns, perplexed. “What’s with the club soda thing, anyway?”
“I have no idea.” I look over the menu. “I’m getting a beer.”
“Excellent.” His glee over our impending meal is contagious.
The waitress shows at that moment and practically trips over herself when she sees him. I don’t blame her; a happy Finn is
almost too pretty to take in at once. You have to brace yourself and look at him in stages.
Oblivious of our covetous stares, Finn orders the beers and catfish. “Oh, and some oysters and crawfish. Could you bring it
all at once, please?”
“I hate oysters and crawfish,” I tell him as our waitress leaves.
He gasps and sags in his seat as if weakened. “Sacrilege, Chester.”
“Fried oysters are fine,” I say with a light shrug. “But raw? Nope. Salty snot pellets.”
Finn glances up at the sky. “Lord, she knows not of what she speaks.”
“And crawfish tastes muddy to me.”
“A good muddy,” he counters.
“There is no such thing as good mud.”
“Girl-on-girl mud wrestling.” His expression dares me to argue.
“Guy-on-guy mud wrestling,” I amend.
He salutes me. “Fair enough.”
The waitress soon returns and sets down two icy bottles of beer and our food. The rich scent of fried seafood rises up, and
my mouth actually waters. I take a bite of paper-thin, golden catfish and moan.
“Right?” Finn says with an approving nod.
Crispy and light, it is fried-food mana. “I’m in love,” I tell him.
The corners of his eyes crinkle, and we sit there eyeing each other like happy thieves. “You know what’s weird,” I say in
a low voice, as if by whispering I’ll make the moment last longer.
Maybe he feels the same because he answers just as softly. “What?”
“I’m having more fun on this nondate date than I’ve had on all dates this past year.” Maybe longer.
Finn’s gaze warms. “Me, too.”
Somewhere around the region of my heart, everything gets all tender. I feel like I’m falling, lightheaded and confused. My
fingers curl around the edges of the table just to hold on.
Finn clears his throat and takes a large bite of his fish. “So,” he says around a mouthful. “Dating sucks for you?”
“You saw the horror of the last one.”
“Yeah, that was painful.” Snickering, he bites into a fry. “How is Edward, by the way?”
“His name isn’t Edward. It’s . . .” Fucking hell.
He grins.
“Evan,” I announce with a near shout as I remember. “His name is Evan. And I haven’t talked to him since. Thank God. He told
me he lived for skin.”
“That’s kind of creepy, Chess.”
“I thought so, too.” I take a bite of fish, then swallow it down with cold beer. Heaven. “Sad thing is that wasn’t even my
worst date.”
Finn grabs the Tabasco and dashes some on an oyster. “All right, then. Give me your worst.”
“Only if you tell me yours.”
“I don’t have dates. Only hookups.”
“The lazy man’s date.” I munch on another bite.
“True,” he says with a laugh. “But if you want to hear about them, I’ll tell you.”
“We’re really going to do this?” I ask. “Go full girlfriend mode?”
Finn shrugs lightly. “Hey, if Kevin Costner can paint a woman’s toes in Bull Durham, then you and I can gossip like girlfriends.”
I try not to picture Finn painting my toes. I bet he’d be thorough.
“Worst date I’ve been on . . .” I close my eyes and lift my face to the warm sunlight before looking back at Finn. “It started
out fine. Guy was attractive, witty—”
Finn makes a dubious noise. I ignore it.
“The conversation was flowing, but he kept looking over at the bar. Finally, I glance that way and notice a woman watching us.”
“He was checking out another woman while on a date with you?” Finn snorts and shakes his head. “Dick move.”
“Yeah, if only.” I can laugh about it. Now. “I assumed the same. But dude is horrified at the assumption. No, no, he tells me. It’s totally okay. The woman is his wife.”
“What, like his ex?”
“No, his wife. They liked to watch each other be with other people. Was I into the idea of coming back to their house and letting her watch
us have sex? Because I looked like the type who would be.”
I smile at Finn’s shocked expression.
“Well, that’s . . .” He huffs out a laugh. “Fucked.”
I shrug and sip my beer. “It’s not my kink, but whatever floats their boat. I’d have appreciated a little upfront honesty,
though.”
“You’re not really selling this whole dating thing, Chess.”
“I haven’t even mentioned the guy who came back to my place, locked himself in my bathroom for an hour, and tried to have
a conversation with me through the bathroom door while he was . . . indisposed.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t one of my teammates?” he asks, snickering.
“You’re not really selling hooking up with football players.”
“Not if they play defense,” he says blandly, but then winks. “Those guys are freaky.”
“I’ll make sure to tell them you said that.” I eat a fry. “Okay, your turn.”
Finn sits back, and the sunlight caresses his skin, making the angle of his jaw both sharper and warmer. I find myself wanting
to paint him, capture the way he dominates the space around him without even trying. His presence is immense and effortless.
Compelling.
I haven’t painted since college, but my fingers remember the feel of the brush. A picture is taken in one click and then it’s
over. To paint someone is to linger over them, live in their skin for a while. I miss that intimacy.
My distraction ends when he finally speaks. “Let’s see. Two stick out in my mind. There was the time I got up to use the bathroom—”
“Oh, my God, please tell me you didn’t get all Chatty Kathy with your date while in there.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, that exactly what I was going to say. How did you guess?”
“Right. Sorry. Go on.”
“I thought my . . . er . . . date was out for the count, so I didn’t bother fully closing the door.”
I eye him warily, having no idea where this is going.
“So there I am, taking a piss, when this hand, holding a phone pushes past the crack of the door—”
“No!” I lean in with a gasp.
Finn nods. “Yeah, she was trying to take a picture of me.”
“Peeing?” I plunk back in my seat. “What the hell?”
Finn smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what I said. She claimed she was just curious, and that she wasn’t going
to show anyone.”
“What a freak.”
“Total freak. But that’s not the worst one.”
“I’m almost afraid.”
Finn takes a long drink of his beer as if to brace himself. “There was the chick who started crying during sex.”
“Because you were so bad?” I tease, with mock horror.
“I left myself wide-open for that, didn’t I?
But, no, Chuckles. I’d barely gotten started when she starts sobbing, like full-out snot-fest chest heaves.
” His lips twist. “I was horrified. Was I hurting her? Was she traumatized?” Slowly, he shakes his head.
“Between sobs, she says she just couldn’t believe Finn Mannus was fucking her.
That she had ‘Finn Mannus’s dick in her. ’ And, maybe, could we film it?”
I’m gaping. I don’t know what to say. He’s fidgeting with the edge of his napkin and giving me a pained smile as if he wants
to make a joke out of this, laugh it off, but can’t summon the energy. Why should he? I get that hookups aren’t going to be
the most meaningful encounters. But those women were using him. Blatantly.
“Hey,” he says in a low voice. “I didn’t tell you those stories to get you to feel sorry for me. They’re supposed to be funny.”
I swallow hard. “Do you find them funny?”
He winces, lifting one, broad shoulder. “When I told the guys, yeah. We laughed our asses off. But when you look at me with
those big, pained eyes? It feels . . . shitty.”
With a breath, I shake myself out of it and rest my arms on the table. “You’re not allowed to feel shitty.”
“I’m not, huh?” The easy expression is back, his stiffness fading.
“I forbid it. They are the ones who should feel shitty. I want to hunt them down and slap some sense into them.”
“You’re kind of scary when you’re pissed.” His gaze slides over me in a slow stroke. “Scary hot.”
“I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”
“Oh, yeah, there is.” His expression is sin and promise. “Wonder Woman is scary hot. She can kick your ass, tie you up, and
make you spill the truth. You know, beg for it.”
He says it with such zeal, my breasts grow heavy with the image of him tied to a chair, those firm muscles of his straining
against the ropes. I suck in a breath, let it out nice and slow. “You’re into begging?”
“I’m into hot women who know their minds.” He gives me a cheeky grin. “And Wonder Woman. I’m definitely into her.”
“I used to have this fantasy that Spider-Man wrapped me in his web and had his way with me,” I confess in a stage whisper.