Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FINN
I don’t know when this thing between Genevieve and me became just sex, but that’s what it feels like now.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy it.
I fucking love every second of it.
But I don’t want her to think that’s all I care about. Don’t want to lose sight of what makes us… us .
Which is why I’m standing in her kitchen on a Friday night, tasting the sauce of the Indian butter chicken and stirring the turmeric rice I made.The scent of warm spices clings to the air — cumin, coriander, ginger. It’s nothing fancy, but she loves Indian food, so I wanted to surprise her with dinner after a long week of work.
The faint sound of a car door shutting outside sends a ripple of anticipation through me. I cover the pans and turn off the heat, my pulse kicking up in a way that makes no sense.
I see Genevieve every damn day. I’ve touched every inch of her skin. Memorized the sounds she makes when she’s falling apart beneath me. Yet as the front door opens and she steps inside, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time.
She doesn’t acknowledge me right away, too busy toeing off her shoes and rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking off the weight of the day. Her dress clings to her in a way that makes my throat go dry, the soft fabric draping over curves I’ve had beneath me, on top of me, wrapped around me.
It doesn’t make sense, this hunger that coils deep inside me. I should’ve been satisfied by now. I shouldn’t feel like it’s getting worse. More desperate. More ravenous.
When Genevieve finally looks up and notices the dining room table is set, a far cry from our typical routine of eating on the couch or at the kitchen island, surprise flickers across her face, followed by a cautious, almost uncertain look.
“What’s going on, Finn?”
I shrug. “I figured I’d give you the night off from cooking.”
“You cooked?” Her eyes sweep over the table, taking in the details — the candles, the plates, the flowers I grabbed on my way over.
“Butter chicken with turmeric rice.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine, and I can see the thoughts forming behind those deep, gray eyes. This isn’t how we do things. This isn’t part of the arrangement. This feels like something more.
She doesn’t say it, though. Just offers a small smile and steps closer. “I thought you hated to cook.”
“It’s not my favorite thing to do,” I confirm, pouring some Cabernet Sauvignon into two glasses, handing her one. “But you’re worth it.”
My confession hangs heavy in the air, but before either of us can over examine it, she clears her throat.
“Do you need help with anything?”
“I have it all under control,” I tell her, pulling a chair out for her. “You just relax while I plate everything.”
She eyes me skeptically, but eventually sits down.
Once she’s situated, I make my way back to the kitchen, carefully plating the rice and chicken before adding the small bowl of tomato and cucumber salad I’d prepared. Then I return to the table and set the plates down, the scent of butter chicken and warm spices filling the air as I take my seat across from her.
I know I did a damn good job. Dylan even said so when she tasted the sauce for me earlier after I begged her to come over and help. But now, as Genevieve picks up her fork, my palms are suddenly clammy.
I watch as she scoops up some rice, dragging it through the rich, red sauce before finally bringing it to her lips.
This is ridiculous. I’ve known this woman forever. Have seen her devour greasy diner burgers and sugary fair food. Have watched her close her eyes in bliss after the first sip of her morning coffee.
I tell myself I’m just curious to see if she actually likes it. That’s all.
But the moment her lips close around the fork, it feels like I’m waiting for the results of a test that could decide my future. I don’t know why this moment feels so goddamn important. Why her approval, her enjoyment, means more to me than it should.
Finally, she lifts her gaze to mine, a small smile playing on the corner of her mouth.
“This is really good, Finn,” she says, her voice soft with something I can’t quite place.
And damn, it feels like I just won something.
Something big.
Something that should scare the hell out of me.
But when she takes another bite, her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure, the only thing I can think is that I want to see that look on her face again. And not just when she’s eating my food.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say in the hopes of thinking about something other than Genevieve’s pleasure-filled moans. “I can’t take full credit, though. I did have some help.” I take a bite of chicken, savoring the combination of spices.
“Dylan?” she arches a brow.
“Who else?” I reach for my wine and swirl it around in the glass before bringing it up to my mouth, the robust Cabernet the perfect complement to the spice. “But she made me do everything myself. She just offered me some…guidance.”
“Well…,” Genevieve begins, dabbing at her mouth. Then she lifts her wine glass. “Here’s to Dylan’s guidance.”
I clink my glass with hers, holding her gaze for several long moments, something shifting between us. Before it can build into something more, Genevieve tears her gaze from mine, refocusing her attention on her food.
“One thing’s for certain. You’ll make some woman very happy one day if you keep cooking like this.”
I shouldn’t be surprised by her remark. This is classic Genevieve. Whenever things get too serious or scary, she deflects. Puts up her walls.
A part of me wants to tell her she’s the only woman I want to make happy. That I’m not doing this because it’ll be good practice for a future relationship.
In truth, I’m not sure why I’m doing this.
Or maybe I don’t want to admit why I’m doing this.
“Whatever happened to that girl?” she asks, swirling a piece of chicken through the sauce.
“What girl?” I frown, caught off guard.
“The girl you brought to my wedding? Hazel, or something?”
It takes me a second to place the name, but I eventually remember the woman she’s talking about.
“I thought it was serious,” she says, watching me carefully. “Weren’t you talking about moving in together?”
“We were.”
“What happened?”
I open my mouth, searching the recesses of my brain for an answer. For a moment, the memory is just out of reach, a shadow at the edges of my mind. I haven’t thought about Hazel in years. Haven’t thought about the night of her wedding in even longer.
But now that Genevieve has brought it up, the memories flash before me.
The hotel room was dimly lit, the glow from the San Francisco skyline spilling through the windows. Something about the night had drained me completely, left me hollow in a way I couldn’t explain.
“Come to bed,” Hazel murmured, leaning in to press a delicate kiss to my jaw while I continued to study the skyline as if it held all the answers.
“I’ll be there soon.” I took a long sip of my scotch, willing something to dull the ache inside me.
“Come on, Finn,” she coaxed, stepping back and letting her silk robe fall away. “I’ll make it worth your while.
I shifted my gaze to her, raking my eyes over her naked body.
I should have felt something. Desire. Excitement. The urge to sweep her up and lose myself in her.
Instead, my stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought.
“I’m not in the mood tonight,” I said, turning my eyes back to the city, the lights of the Bay Bridge twinkling in the distance.
A heavy silence settled in the room, and I could physically feel the heat of her glare scald my skin.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Genevieve.” Her name landed like a curse between us. “That’s why you’ve been weird all night. Why you won’t touch me.”
“That’s not ? —”
“Do you think I don’t see the way you look at her? That you’ve always looked at her. And tonight?” She swallowed hard, her lower lip trembling. “All night, you couldn’t take your eyes off her. You looked at her like—” She broke off, shaking her head.
“Like what?” I demanded, my jaw tight.
“Like you love her.”
“She’s my best friend.”
She let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Then why don’t you ever look at me like that?”
I parted my lips, but no answer came.
Because I didn’t have an answer for her.
She wiped at her eyes, her breathing uneven. “I’m not going to do this, Finn.” Her voice was quieter now, resigned. “I’m not going to be the woman you settle for when you’re in love with someone else.”
“I’m not, Hazel. What do you want me to do to prove it?”
“Choose.”
I stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath. “What do you mean?”
“Me or her. Who’s it going to be?”
I never gave her a response. I didn’t have to. She knew my answer without me saying a single word.
Hazel wasn’t the first to accuse me of being in love with Genevieve. To make me choose.
And she wasn’t the last.
One by one, I think back to every relationship I’ve ever had. The gradual retreats. The tearful accusations. The countless questions about my friendship with Genevieve.
The fights.
The ultimatums.
The choices.
And every single time, I chose Genevieve, even when she was married.
Not consciously.
Not deliberately.
But in the ways that mattered.
In the way my hands never lingered on another woman the way they do on her.
In the way no one else’s laughter ever settled in my bones the way hers does.
In the way their kisses never brought me even a fraction of the hunger her mere touch always has.
And now as I watch her sip her wine, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s holding my goddamn heart in her hands, it finally hits me.
I’m in love with my best friend.