Chapter 10
Ten
Finn
My feet seem to have grown roots. I can’t make them move. My body is one dull throb of old pain and new shock. Dimly, I take
note of Chess walking out, her dark, glossy hair swaying like an agitated flag down her back.
Don’t go.
I want to call her back. It would be easier that way. I could shut the door on Britt’s face and tuck Chess back against my
side. But that’s the coward’s way out.
Britt makes a small sound, and I snap out of my fog. My parents taught me better than this.
“Come in.” I step back to let her pass.
She leaves a trail of expensive and too-flowery perfume. That scent stuck to my skin and gave me a headache when I’d fucked
her.
Not something I want to think about.
I follow her into the living room and watch her as she strolls around, taking in the space. When Chess had done the same,
I’d been filled with a strange need for her to be pleased, to like my place. With Britt, I just want her to spit out why the
hell she is here.
Britt stares down at the coffee table with the appetizers Chess set up so prettily, and I am hit with a sense of wrongness
that she’s here and that Chess is out there somewhere.
I have never had anyone welcome me home before. Never knew I needed it until I walked in the door and saw Chess standing there, so fucking pretty in her casual jeans and black V-neck top. So adorably nervous and prickly about doing something nice for me.
Maybe it’s true that she always has a little personal happy hour, but she clearly had included me in her plans tonight. That
makes all the difference.
“You’re living with the calendar photographer?” Britt asks.
Seems like a petty distinction, calling her a calendar photographer when she’s more than that, but I let it slide. “Chess
is staying with me, yes.” It’s none of Britt’s business, but I’m not trying to hide anything.
Britt nibbles on her bottom lip.
“How do you know who she is, anyway?” I ask.
“They are showing pictures of you two. At an aquarium. Food shopping together.” Her smooth brow barely wrinkles. “They’ve
been taking pictures of her coming in and out of your building all week.”
Great. Chess will love that.
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
Britt shakes her head as if I’m naive. “I envy your ability to tune out the press. They’re everywhere, Finn.” Her lashes sweep
low. “They photographed us once, too.”
Annoyance skitters up my spine and claws my neck. “They took photos of everyone at that party. It was fashion week.”
Fact: football players troll fashion shows and parties for models, not because they like clothes. When you’re a rookie and
you get invitations to hang out with the most beautiful women in the world, you go. Hell, you’re ecstatic.
Models, actresses, pop stars, they love us. We’re fit, rich, and most of us aren’t looking for complicated. Is it a shallow
setup? Sure. But as long as no one gets hurt, why should it matter?
Only, sometimes, people do get hurt. “Why are you here, Britt?”
She lowers herself onto the edge of the couch, picks up a piece of cheese, frowns at it and drops it back down.
I almost snap at her not to touch anything; that’s Chess’s meal.
But then Britt gives a little sigh. “I don’t know.
I saw the pictures and thought of you. You’re getting on with your life. ”
Is that what this is? Some guilt trip? Worse thing is I don’t know if I should feel guilty or not. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No. Yes.” She shakes her head, the simple movement stunning on her.
I’d been so blindsided by this woman’s looks when we met that I’d turned stupid.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”
And just like that, I do feel guilty. “It’s all right, Britt.”
She utters a half sob, half laugh. When she looks up, her eyes are wide and a little hesitant. “Your mother has been calling
me.”
She couldn’t have shocked me more if she’d slapped my face. “What?”
Seriously. The fuck?
Britt’s chin lifts a touch. “She invited me to your house for Thanksgiving . . .” Her nose wrinkles. “No, that wasn’t what
she called it.”
“Thanksmas,” I get out through clenched teeth. Blood rushes in my ears. I am going to kill my mother. I don’t care if it’s
a crime. I don’t care if my dad kills me in retaliation. The woman has gone too far.
“Right, that’s it.”
“Britt.” My voice is hard. I can’t control it. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”
Her mouth falls open, her eyes welling as if she’ll soon cry.
“My mother means well,” I press on. “But this isn’t the right thing for either of us.” It sure as shit isn’t what I want or
need.
Britt staggers to her feet. I reach out to steady her, but she shakes me off. “I thought . . .” She takes a breath. “I thought
maybe she was speaking for you.”
“No,” I say, trying to soften my tone because she’s a victim of Mom’s meddling, too. “I’m sorry.”
“It is because of the photographer?”
“Chess,” I remind her.
“Chess. Is it because of her?”
“No.” It’s the honest truth. Chess has nothing to do with why I don’t want Britt celebrating holidays with me. “I just can’t . . .”
Fucking hell, what do I say that doesn’t make me sound like a complete dick?
“I understand,” Britt says, saving us both. She takes a breath and stands straight. “I do. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable? God, there’s so much uncomfortable between us, I feel like I’m choking. I rub the back of my neck. “No. I’m sorry if I was
abrupt. I’m no good at this.”
Her smile is wry and bittersweet. “Well, who would be?” She moves toward the front hall, and I hustle to open the door for
her. Britt pauses and looks up at me. “Take care, Finn.”
I can barely look at her anymore. It’s wrong of me, I know. But feelings rarely listen to reason. “Goodbye, Britt.”
I close the door and lean against it, wanting Chess back here more than my next breath. But she’ll probably ask questions.
And I don’t know if I have it in me to give her the answers.
Chess
One of my favorite things about the French Quarter is that you can always find a bar, no matter what time it is. And not some
dank, gloomy dive—although there are plenty of those, but ones with high, pressed tin ceilings, walls of windows, and cute
mixologists like my new friend Nate here who kindly slides a perfect Sazerac in front of me.
I take a cool sip and listen to Ella Fitzgerald muse about being bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It’s almost enough to
soothe the weary soul.
“That’s an awfully big sigh,” Nate observes as he wipes his spotless mahogany bar.
I’m no longer a fan of nosy Nate.
“I wasn’t aware I sighed.” I take another sip of my drink. Good man, Nate, despite being nosy.
“Practically blew back my hair,” he jokes. I eye Nate’s shaved head, and he laughs.
“I need a short-term place to live.” Sadness swamps my chest. I don’t want to find a new place. Which just proves I really
need to find one.
“You just moved here?” Nate asks.
“No. My place burned down.”
“Man, that sucks.”
I think of Finn running into the ER to find me, the way he brought me home and made me feel like it was my home too, for as
long as I needed it. Then I think of Finn up there right now with Britt, and the way he looked at her. They have a history,
and it clearly isn’t a simple one.
My cocktail chokes me going down, a sticky sweet burn on my tongue. “Yeah.”
Nate moves closer, until he’s standing opposite of me. “I can keep an ear out for you, if you want to give me your number.”
I stare up at Nate with his shaved head, gauge in his ears, and cute suspenders over his shoulders. There’s interest in his
eyes.
“You want my number?”
The interest turns to heat. “I’m great at consoling.”
I bet he is.
Finn is better.
Finn is in his apartment with a supermodel.
I hand Nate my phone, and he punches in his number. Not even a glimmer of anticipation in my belly.
“So,” he says, happier now. “You want another drink, pretty little lady?”
Pretty little lady? I’m regretting my decision more and more. “Another drink and I’ll be buzzed. Better give me a menu.”
“Let’s get you fed, then.” Nate grins. I know he thinks I’m lingering because of him, but I can’t return to Finn’s anytime soon. Short of walking around, I have nowhere else to go, which utterly sucks.
I eat my dinner and chat with Nate and a few patrons who sit down at the bar until my butt is numb and I’m fairly certain
I’m leading Nate to a very wrong conclusion.
When he’s occupied, I leave some money on the bar and slip out into the fading light. And then I do walk around, until it’s
dark and I can’t stall anymore.
At Finn’s place, I turn the lock to his front door as quietly as I can.
Please don’t let me hear them. Please let them be in his bedroom. God, the horrible prospect of seeing them makes me pause, my heart thundering in my chest like cannon fire.
Like a thief, I creep in. The living room is dark, and I heave a sigh of relief as I ease my way toward my bedroom.
“What are you doing?” Finn asks from behind me.
With a stifled yelp, I pivot and press a hand to my heart. “Jesus, sneaky much?”
Finn raises a brow and gives me a pointed look.
“I was trying not to disturb you.” It’s only now that I notice the TV is on, pressed to Pause on one of his games. Finn is
in sweats and an old Nike T with the words Just Do It splashed across his broad chest.
“I’m disturbed that you’re tiptoeing around like some cartoon villain,” he says with an eye roll and then heads for the couch,
a sports drink clutched in one hand.
Setting my purse down on the side table, I follow him. “I wasn’t tiptoeing. I was being quiet.”
Finn snorts and plops on the couch before peering up at me as if I’m full of it.
Which I am.
“You’ve been gone awhile.” It sounds like an accusation.
“You had company.” Shit, that sounds like one, too.
Finn turns back to the screen. “Not anymore.”
There’s a tone in his voice that gives me pause. Sorrow or bitterness, it’s hard to tell.