Chapter 9 #3
“Then tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead, I’m waiting.”
I look down at the coffee table I’m standing in front of. Cheese platter, baguette rounds, a plate of cured meats, a bowl
of wasabi peas and roasted almonds are arranged just so. And a couple of Abita beers are chilling in an ice bucket. My cheeks
heat.
At home, I often make myself a little happy hour for one—or two, when James sticks around. Life is short, and I like to enjoy
the small things as well as the big events. But this spread isn’t for me. It’s for Finn.
He’s been gone for over a week and is due to arrive home at any time. What will he think of this? Is it too much? Girlfriend
territory? I don’t know. All I know is that I want him to be happy coming home. I want to do things to show my appreciation.
But maybe he won’t like this. Maybe it will freak him out and make him think I’m angling for something else.
Panic has my chest growing hot and tight. Shit. “I gotta go,” I tell James. “I’ll text you later.”
“I knew it! He just get home?”
I ignore the teasing lilt in his voice. “No. Girl issues.”
It’s our long-established code for me admitting I have to use the bathroom. And nothing will get rid of James faster.
As soon as I hang up with him, I reach down to clear the table. But the lock on the front door turns. Before I can move, Finn
walks in.
There’s no more panic about cheese trays and beer, because he sees me and smiles. And damn if it doesn’t light me up like
one of those old-fashioned pinball machines. I’m grinning back so hard my cheeks hurt, while those little zings of giddy pleasure
bounce around in my chest.
He’s wearing gray track pants and a black Henley, which should make him look like a slob. He doesn’t. Those clothes hug that
hard, fit body of his, showcasing every ripple, every bulge. I envy those clothes.
Finn tosses his gear bag onto the floor, never taking his eyes off me. “Honey, I’m home.” He says it like a joke, but his
voice is thick and rough.
Exhaustion? Or something more? I can’t think. I should say something witty or light, but the only thing that comes out is,
“Hey.”
Finn’s smile only grows. He heads straight for me, as if I’m the happy end of a very long day. And I can only stand there,
shifting my weight on my feet, my fingers curling at my sides with the repressed need to grab him.
Before I can say a word, he’s sweeping me up in a big bear hug, my nose pressed in the small space between his hard pecs.
The scent of clean cotton, warm skin, and potent as hell male pheromones washes over me like a sigh.
Finn’s voice rumbles in his chest and warms the crown of my head. “I’ve missed you.”
The simple declaration slides through my defenses with such ease, I don’t have time to brace myself. I close my eyes and give him a gentle squeeze, unable to form words, because I am not a sentimental girl. I don’t know how to say sweet things.
Maybe Finn senses that. Or maybe he’s just tired of hugging me. Either way, he sets me back on my feet. “How’ve you been settling
in? Is your wrist still hurting?” He peers at my face as if trying to make sure I’m okay.
When he’s away from me, I forget how blue his eyes are. Azure blue. I’m a fan of brown eyes. Yet here I am, staring up at
his eyes like I’ve never seen the color blue before.
And, holy hell, I don’t recognize this moony person I’ve become.
I take a step back and get some much-needed space. “I’m fine. The swelling has gone down, and the pain is nearly gone.”
He nods, but then glances behind me, catching sight of the food. Surprise registers first. His big body gives a little jerk.
Then he blinks, as if trying to clear his sight.
I grow uncomfortably warm, my arms twitching with the desire to swipe the table clear.
But then his gaze meets mine. “You did miss me.”
The heat inside me grows. “What a thing to say. Of course I did.” That soft expression of his expects too much.
“I should probably warn you . . .” I gesture toward my damn cheese tray. “I like to do this in the evenings.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “You think I’m going to complain?”
I shove my hands into my back jeans pockets. “James says it’s very 1950s domestic.”
Finn chuckles.
“But this is the only thing I do that can be considered domestic,” I warn. “So don’t expect me to greet you with dinners or—”
“Cocktails?” Finn supplies, pulling a beer out of the ice bucket. Fuck.
“Yeah . . .”
He laughs again, and then swoops in, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Relax, Chester. I’m not expecting anything. I won’t be asking you to fetch my slippers. Although, if you want to . . .” He wags his brows. “I won’t try to stop you.”
“Asshat.” I give his arm a slap. It’s like warm granite.
With an expansive sigh of contentment, Finn plops onto the couch, twists the top off his beer and takes a long drink. He sighs
again and rests his head against the back of the couch. His lids lower like a relaxed cat’s. “Gotta admit,” he says in a near
purr. “Coming home has never been this good.”
“Glad I could—” I yelp as he takes hold of my good wrist and tugs me onto the couch with him. “Easy there, Superman.”
Finn cuddles me up next to him, draping his arm over my shoulders. “Sorry. But you were standing there all twitchy and shifty
like you’d been caught stealing or something.”
The laughter in his voice is unmistakable. I elbow him, trying to ignore that his fingers have threaded through my hair, lightly
stroking the strands.
“You colored your hair again,” he murmurs, playing with the tips that now have glints of teal, gold, green, and magenta throughout
the black.
A shiver of pure pleasure goes through me. His body is warm and solid, and I’d like nothing better than to rest against it
without care.
“It’s called an oil slick effect.” Why am I telling him this? He doesn’t care about color techniques.
But he lifts a whole section and slowly lets it sift through his fingers. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”
It feels good. Too good. And wrong. I don’t cuddle with James. I’ve never wanted to. I don’t cuddle with anyone. Ever.
What we’re doing here is dangerous. It would be so easy to turn my head and nuzzle the heated hollow of his throat, to lick
a path up to the curve of his jaw and the soft turn of his lower lip. It would be as easy as taking a breath.
I’m living with him now. Hitting on my host is a definite faux pas. And stupid. I edge away, causing Finn to frown slightly.
“Hey, Chess?”
I don’t like the quiet, serious tone of his voice. “Yes?”
“When are we—?”
The doorbell rings. We both flinch as if snapping out of a daze, and then Finn glares at the door. “Who the hell?”
“You don’t get random visitors?” I tease, rising.
Finn sits forward on the couch. “They have to get past the doorman. My assistant Charlie has clearance, but I happen to know
he’s hanging out with Rolondo and Gruben right now.”
The bell rings again.
“I’ll get it,” I tell him. “You have your beer. Dear.”
He smirks at that, but stands. “No, way. I don’t know who the hell got past security. I’m answering the door.”
We both go, bickering along the way. Which is ridiculous, but I can’t seem to let it go; I have this weird sense that Finn
shouldn’t answer the door.
But he does, swinging it open as if he’ll gladly pummel anyone who’s here with ill intent. That all changes when he sees the
woman standing in the hall.
At his side, I halt, my skin prickling in shock. Because the woman is stunning.
White-blond, silky hair, ice-blue eyes, tanned skin, and the kind of bone structure artists commit to marble. It’s my job
to photograph women like her. Though I’ve never worked with this woman, I know who she is immediately. Britt Larson, a supermodel
whose face currently graces the cover of Vogue.
She and Finn stare at each other as if nothing else exists.
It drops the bottom out of me. These two are golden people, the kind of pairing that media and fans alike eat up and sigh
over.
“Britt.” Finn’s voice is a rasp.
She leans toward him, but stops, her gaze falling on me.
The back of my neck tightens. Finn flinches as if he’s forgotten I was there. I don’t blame him. If I liked women that way, I might have forgotten, too.
“Britt, this is Chess. Chess, Britt.” It sounds like he’s chewing on nails.
She gives me the barest of nods. “Hello.”
“Chess is a photographer,” Finn says, as if explaining something.
Britt’s features tighten a fraction. I’m small-time, and she knows it. “Yes. The calendar photographer. I’ve heard. Must have
been a big deal getting to shoot you and your team.”
Nice. I could say something snide, but it isn’t worth it. Finn looks as if he’d rather the floor swallow him whole. He still hasn’t
moved back from the door or offered to let Britt in. She stands there awkwardly, clearly at a loss, and clearly expecting
more.
“I was hoping we could talk,” she says then, with another glance in my direction.
Finn straightens as if coming out of a fog. “Ah . . . yeah.”
His neck is so stiff, I wonder if he’s actively trying not to look my way. Enough is enough.
“I’m just headed out,” I announce, grabbing my purse and keys, both thankfully sitting on the hall console. Then I remember
my phone. “Let me just get my phone . . .”
I jog to the kitchen, my temples throbbing.
Finn and Britt haven’t moved from their spots by the door. But Finn frowns my way. “You don’t have to—” He shuts his mouth
abruptly, then grimaces. “Thanks, Chess.”
The apology in his eyes irks. The hell if I’ll let him see that. I give Britt what I hope is a pleasant smile. “Nice to meet
you.”
“Same,” she says with about as much sincerity.
She’s going to eat my cheese.
I hate her.
I leave without looking back.