Chapter 2
Chapter Two
I swipe the key card. The little light goes green, and I push the door open, dragging my suitcase behind me. I barely get past the threshold when I see him.
Finn Gallagher is standing in the middle of the cabin with a shirt in his hands, holding it mid-fold. There's a duffel open on the bed closest to the submarine window. Apparently, my mother also couldn’t spring for a room with a balcony.
“No.” I groan, pulling my suitcase in and letting the door slam shut.
“Harper—“
“No.” I can’t seem to say anything else.
It’s irrational, this reaction I’m having to Finn.
I realize that, but can’t do anything to stop it.
I’ve been dreading seeing him since Dahlia told me she was engaged, and now I have to run a wedding under these circumstances?
Is he going to be in this room all the time?
I’m like a cat. I need my territory. Finn just walked in, squatted, and peed all over it.
And the thing is, I have nobody to be angry with.
If this were because of the cruise line, I’d be furious, but it's Mom and Dahlia.
They didn't do this to hurt me. Despite being a little blasé about the budget until recently, I understand things feeling tight at the last minute.
I get not wanting to pay for an extra room.
But Finn?
“Well, damn, Perry. I thought you’d be a little glad to see me.” Finn’s bare, tanned back is to me, and I allow myself to sneak a small peek at his physique. He’s filled out since I last saw him, but not in a bad way. He looks strong. Like he puts his body to good use.
We were inseparable once. Finn, Theo, Dahlia, and me. The three houses on Larkspur. Popsicles and bike ramps, lemonade stands, throwing sticks and skipping rocks at the creek behind Theo’s house. If you’d asked me then, Finn would’ve been listed as my best friend, right next to Dahlia.
But that was before high school. Before Dad’s arrest.
Finn clears his throat, and it’s then that I realize my face is visible in the corner of the mirror above the desk. Our gazes meet, and I drop my eyes, my cheeks flaming. No problem, he just witnessed me inspecting his entire backside. Easy recovery from that one.
“Want me to find a couch to sleep on?” he says with an audible smirk.
I shoot him a look, not sure if that comment is coming from whatever he read in my expression or an actual place of compassion. Regardless, he and I both know how Dahlia would react to me making the best man homeless.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “No. It's fine. I've slept in worse conditions.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Hard to believe. Considering that reaction.” Finn points to my folded arms and hunched shoulders.
“I once did a corporate retreat in a yurt.” I drop my hands. “Show me the room, Gallagher.”
The tour takes four seconds because the cabin is the size of a generous parking space. There’s the bed he claimed and a second twin along the inside wall, close enough that if we both reach out in the night, our hands will meet in the six inches of international waters between them.
There’s a desk the width of a laptop, a small closet, and a bathroom you access by a strip of floor so narrow that when I step toward it, and he steps out of it at the same time, we do a full-body splashdown in the doorway.
His chest to my shoulder, my hip to his thigh.
Warmth coming off him like a radiant heater.
We freeze, then both overcorrect, and I end up tripping backward, nearly taking out the goosehead lamp attached to the wall paneling.
Finn’s eyes are dark behind his lashes. His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t say anything. Just stalks past me to his bed.
“Thanks for the tour,” I say.
“No prob.” He doesn’t turn around.
I force myself to drag in a full breath before walking closer to retrieve my suitcase. I yank it onto the second bed and unzip it, realizing that Past Harper, who packed for a week of rooming alone or with a cousin who has seen me in a retainer, packed accordingly.
Two tank tops. The gray sweats with the bleach stain. A pair of shorts I would not describe as flattering. No robe. No matching anything. Nothing a person wears when there is a Finn Gallagher sleeping across six inches of carpet.
I take the least faded tank top, the gray sweats, and my toiletry bag into the bathroom. The last thing I want is another rendezvous in the Hobbit door, so I change, wash my face, and brush my teeth. When I come out, Finn's—
I almost miss the step down to the floor. Finn’s standing by his bed in his boxer briefs, looking at some tri-fold pamphlet. The fabric is tight on his hips, leaving very little to the imagination.
Cursing him out in my head, yet painfully aware of the mirror situation in this room, I keep my head down and round my bed.
I pull my book from my backpack, flop onto the bed, open said book, and focus very hard on the sentences blurring in front of me.
I’m sure they’re excellent words, but I couldn’t tell you a single one of them, because in the amber lamplight Finn is bending over to push his suitcase under his bed.
The long line of his back takes up all of my peripheral vision, and I’m fifteen again, staring at him through my bedroom window.
He knew I could see him in there—Dahlia joked about it plenty of times—but he never shut his curtains.
Even when he had Melanie Fisher over the night after he first kissed me by the creek.
I break out into a cold sweat, my throat so thick I think I might choke. Or sound like I’m choking, which might be worse under these circumstances.
Finn stands, blowing out a breath. “Want me to do yours?” He turns, his crotch directly in front of my face.
I burn a hole through the page of my book, trying to make sense of that question. Want me to do—? It takes me a second, but I finally connect the dots and realize he’s talking about my suitcase.
“I haven’t unpacked yet,” I mumble. “I’ll do it in the morning.”
Finn doesn’t move, and finally, I can’t help myself. I snap my head toward him, gesturing at his very obvious bulge. “Can you please do something with this?”
His eyes widen, and before I can replay my words in my head, he says, “Yeah, I can do a lot with—”
I make a gagging noise and slam my book to the mattress. “Finn, we’re sharing a room. The least you could do is put on some clothes.”
He blows out a puff of air, shifting on his feet. “That’s what I did!”
“Excuse me?” I glare at him.
He laughs, looking down. “I usually don’t— I thought this was considerate.”
“You usually don’t what?”
“I sleep naked. Have since college. But it's your room too, so—” A shrug that moves those broad shoulders again. “I kept these on. You're welcome. Just tell me if you'd rather I do what I do at home, and I'll—”
I groan and pull my legs up, tearing down the bed covers so I can slide underneath them. I turn away from him, curling into the bed. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Goodnight.”
I close my eyes, but my head is spinning so fast, it feels like I’m staring directly into the sun.
“You wear sweatpants to bed?”
“No, Finn,” I snap. “I didn’t bring pajamas because I wasn’t planning on having a male roommate.”
“You sleep in pajamas at home?”
“It’s none of your business what I sleep in at home.”
He makes a small noise and pads toward the bathroom. It’s almost a laugh, but a little too judgmental to be good-natured.
Annoyance flares. “What?”
Finn turns back to look at me but doesn’t answer.
I swallow. Hard. “That noise. What’s that supposed to mean?”
He wets his lips. “I don’t know. You’ve changed.”
“Obviously.”
“You were never this serious, and you only used to wear—”
“Oookay.” I drop back to the pillow, making a show of pulling the covers up to my forehead.
You were never this serious? How was he going to stand there and pretend he knows anything about me after the age of sixteen?
I was pretty damn serious when my dad was put in the back of a police car.
Pretty serious for the next two years when my mom could barely get out of bed.
Finn sighs. “Night, Perr—”
“Stop calling me Perry. You know I hate it. If you’re going to assault my eyeballs, at least give me that.”
He’s still for a moment. “Got it. Night, Harper.” Then there’s the sound of his steps, and the bathroom door clicks closed.