Chapter 15 #2
Just when Iris was starting to think that was all they would do, they stopped in the middle of the street and broke into a dance, using their tools the way a color guard troupe would use flags, as they broke into some sort of song—only, there were no words.
“What is that?” Iris asked, not even glancing at Finn because she didn’t want to miss a second of the display.
“Beatboxing,” Finn supplied.
As the gnomes walked away, Iris spotted the dryad float moving down the street, the bright green leaves waving in the wind, their limbs swaying.
Then, so slowly that it almost seemed as if your eyes were playing tricks on you, they emerged from their trees—adults and children alike—and broke into a song about protecting the woodlands. It was so beautiful that Iris found herself blinking tears from her eyes.
Another garden float was next, this one lined in rows of dirt, with vegetables sticking out of the tilled rows.
Then, with a growing rumble like an impending storm, the root fae pulled themselves out of the ground to show off their colorful and shapely bodies.
“I forgot there were so many kinds of fae,” Iris said as a group of female fairies in rainbow outfits and lots of hair ribbons came down the road doing backflips and cartwheels.
“Hundreds,” Finn said, his arm shooting out to grab her as someone to her side rammed into her.
“Do you know them all?”
“Individually? No. But the types? Yes, absolutely. And it looks like the elves are up next.”
Finn’s arm didn’t leave her lower back as the group of men with gossamer wings and barely there flesh--colored shorts—and nothing else—came marching down the street like an army, their bows in their hands.
The group stopped suddenly, half of them turning in the opposite direction.
Then, in perfect unison, they reached for arrows, nocked their bows, and shot the arrows into the air.
Where they exploded into floral confetti that rained down on the delighted crowd.
Iris, like just about everyone else, leapt up and reached out, grabbing for some of the falling petals.
But her heart shot up into her throat, and her belly hit the floor, as she lost her footing and started to fall over the barricade.
Before her gasp could even fully escape her, Finn’s hands were on her hips, dragging her back against his firm body.
This time, as her heart tripped into overdrive, it was for entirely different reasons.
His arm draped across her lower stomach, keeping her against him. His face was against the side of her head.
All she could think about was how perfectly their bodies fit together, how nice it felt to be held.
She even let herself get caught up in those feelings for a few moments before she caught sight of a news crew across the street from them.
Knowing what she knew of Finn, he’d noticed them and decided to play it up for them.
Why she found that disappointing, when it was literally the plan, was beyond her.
She stayed in his arms, but she was a lot tenser than a moment before.
Thankfully, the next performance was making its way down the street.
Tall, ethereal fae seemed to float across the pavement, their skin, hair, and wings matching shades of magnificently translucent white.
There was a twinkling sound in the air, and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from the fae as they sang and slowly broke into a dance that had their bodies swaying and their wings gently flapping in the wind.
The song and their movements pulsed, grew, until suddenly, they hit a high note as they floated up into the air like angels.
Not even the planned paparazzi could dull her amazement at the performers moving down the road.
“I think this is the last one,” Finn said, his fingertips teasing upward, stopping just shy of decency. She barely resisted the urge to slouch ever so slightly until his fingertips brushed the underside of her breast.
Even just the idea of it had a delicious ache building in her core.
Her breathing went quick and shallow; her pulse quickened.
She was pretty sure if the last float hadn’t drifted up right then, she would have done something humiliating—like grind herself back against him.
But its wheels came to a stop before them, revealing a lush, gorgeous garden. Reds, pinks, yellows, and blues covered every inch.
At first, Iris assumed the movement across the flowers was the wind blowing down the street.
Then, suddenly, the movement intensified. It wasn’t wind. It was fluttering.
All at once, all the winged creatures drifted up into the air. Bright, colorful wings danced, then shifted around until they formed a perfect rainbow above their float.
The crowd erupted in cheers at the sight of the fluttering rainbow.
The show wasn’t over yet, though. They transitioned from a rainbow to flowers, and finally, the date.
Then they drifted back down to their flowers, and the float chugged on down the road to the sound of loud clapping and cheering.
“I thought you would like this,” Finn said. His lips were close enough to her ear for his breath to warm the shell of it.
“So much,” she agreed, not having it in her to lie.
“Mr. Westrock,” someone called, making him turn the two of them as a unit toward the sound of the voice.
His arm drifted down to a more neutral position low on her hips as he pulled her in at his side.
“Marsha Grand,” the speaker said. She was statuesque, with a distinct gray tone to her skin, two large horns erupting from her forehead, and massive wings she had pulled in close at her back.
This, Iris was reasonably sure, was a gargoyle.
“Miss Grand,” Finn said, reaching out to give her a firm but friendly handshake that Iris was sure he’d practiced a thousand times before implementing. “Spokeswoman for the Gargoyle Rights Council.”
“You remembered,” Marsha said. Her head tipped to the side as she shot Finn a charmed smile.
“How could I forget?” Finn asked. He was practically oozing charisma—thick, heady, and completely off-putting to anyone who knew how fake it was.
Iris just barely managed to keep her lip from curling.
“It’s nice to see you again, Miss Grand.”
“Marsha, please,” the gargoyle said. She was all smiles, having gone from collected—if not a bit cool—to on the verge of giggling schoolgirl in close proximity to Finn.
Iris watched as the woman’s gaze triangulated from Finn’s eyes, down his body, then up again.
Heat flared behind Iris’s ribs—sharp and fast, like a jab from a trident’s tines.
What was that?
A random case of indigestion?
“Marsha,” Finn repeated, pearly whites all on display. He was in full-on eye-crinkle territory while looking at this woman.
As her stomach twisted, she had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t indigestion. Oh, no. It was something far more unwelcome.
Not jealousy, exactly. Just some sort of mild disgust at witnessing someone mentally unbuckle a man’s belt while his arm was clearly wrapped around someone else.
Not that she cared. Truly.
But it was weird to watch a public display of desper-ation like that.
And so what if she noticed that Marsha’s perfume had the same chemical profile as the bathroom cleaner they used at the local coffee shop she frequented? That didn’t mean anything. It was just an observation.
The woman tossed her head back and laughed at something Finn said.
Iris’s eye twitched—literally. A full-on involuntary tic.
Finn leaned into the sound, bending toward the woman, his smile threatening to crack his stupidly handsome face.
Her jaw locked so tight, she could have cracked a clam between her molars.
That strange heart lurch she felt? It didn’t mean anything. Hearts just did that sometimes. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Finn was smiling at this woman like he actually meant it for a change.
It wasn’t jealousy.
It couldn’t be.
She didn’t want Finn. That was the point. But he couldn’t be playing into the hands of someone who clearly wanted him, right in front of her.
It was a matter of respect.
Of morals.
Of freaking campaign optics!
“I almost forgot about that,” Finn said, shaking his head as the two of them shared a memory that left Iris standing there as an outsider. “So, Marsha, what can I do for you today?”
“Well,” Marsha said, her gaze cutting to Iris like she just noticed her. And didn’t want her there.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Finn said, pressing his hand to his chest. She hated that move. It was so practiced but meant to look natural. A pure ‘my bad’ gesture. “Marsha Grand, this is Iris.”
This is Iris?
That was how he introduced her?
She didn’t get a last name, let alone a title? Or, heavens forbid, a connection to him.
“Nice to meet you, Iris,” Marsha said. Her tone turned to granite. And there were no smiles for Iris like there were for Finn. “I’m sorry, but this is a bit of a … sensitive topic.”
Oh, please.
A ‘sensitive topic?’
What—was she about to request a private audience to discuss his … legislative package?
Did she want Iris to walk away so she could pitch her bedroom re-election campaign?
She wasn’t going anywhere.
“Iris, would you mind?” Finn asked.
Oh, he didn’t.
He did.
And he’d said it so gently, like she was a child being ushered out of the room before the grown-ups could speak in peace.
Anger snapped—hot and potent, threatening to burn it all to the ground.
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, snark slipping into her tone. “I don’t want to stand in the way of political networking. Or whatever they’re calling it these days.”
She lurched out of Finn’s hold, forcing her chin up, and walked away like there wasn’t a strange crushing sensation in her chest.
Of course, that was the exact moment a news crew moved directly in her path, making it impossible for her to sidestep them without making it look deliberate.
“Porsha DeWinter. Channel 16 News,” the woman with the perfectly styled brunette hair announced. “We saw you with mayoral hopeful Finn Westrock. Can we ask you a few questions?”
Oh, they could bet their asses they could.
He wanted to embarrass her in public?
Fine.
Two could play that game.
“Ask me anything you want.”
Then she did something she swore she would never do: she plastered on the fakest smile imaginable.
And threw any trace of media training out the window.