16. The Perfect Gentleman
THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN
Itug my sleep shirt over my head and flop down on the unfamiliar bed. The unicorn sheets feel scratchy against my skin, and the entire room smells wrong.
Because it doesn’t smell like him.
It became glaringly obvious within five minutes of arriving back home that some creativity would be required when it came to tonight’s sleeping arrangements.
The new addition of Delilah left us more than one bed short.
Which led me here, wedged into Annabelle’s tiny bed so she and her mother could take the king.
I’m not even sure this thing is a full-length twin.
I know I’ve been spoiled as of late—Owen’s bed is so huge I could, and would happily, get lost in it—but I’m not a tall man by anyone’s definition, and my toes still scrape the end.
I let out a sigh and try my best to get comfortable. It’s not fair of me to complain, even though I’m about to be displaced. Staying here was supposed to be temporary, a chance for me to get back on my feet and figure out what comes next. It’s not Owen’s fault I forgot that somewhere along the way.
Deciding it’s best to take fate into my own hands instead of waiting for it to find me, I grab my phone off Annabelle’s nightstand and thumb out a quick text to Grace.
Finley
Don’t freak out, I’m okay. I promise I’ll explain everything when I see you, but can I stay with you for a while?
It’s quickly approaching midnight, so I’m not expecting a response, but her reply dings through a moment later.
Grace:
Of course. You need me to come get you?
Finley:
No. I’m set for tonight. I’ll come over tomorrow after my shift.
Thank you.
The three blinking dots start and stop for over a minute before she gives up on whatever motivational thing she was trying to tell me.
Instead, she simply hearts my message and sends a quick goodnight.
I appreciate that she knows me well enough not to push for an explanation right now.
The day’s been too long, and far too emotional, for me to trust any of the words that would spill from my mouth if I let all these messy, aching feelings loose.
Twisting onto my side, I do my best to get comfortable in my borrowed room for the night.
It takes some rearranging, but eventually I get the pillow under my leg and the other under my head, angled just right so I can wrap my whole body around them.
I’ve always been a bizarre sleeper, needing something to hug onto tight until sleep pulls me under.
I’m sure a therapist would unpack that as some deep, unfulfilled need for intimacy and, fuck… They’d probably be right.
That recognition alone is enough to have a tear slipping down my cheek. All I’ve ever wanted is a home. Not like the stuffy, sterile one I had growing up, where I had to tiptoe around and was constantly afraid of messing things up.
A real one, filled with love and warmth and laughter floating down the halls.
A place with cluttered countertops, walls of memories, and artwork on the fridge.
Most importantly, I wanted a home that contained my person.
My safe space. My grounding place. Someone who could hold me and make the entire world go still.
I nuzzle my face further into the pillow, determined to fight off yet another waterfall of tears. I’m surprised a human can produce as much liquid from their eyeballs as I have over the last two days.
My emotions are almost back where they belong—shoved deep, deep down—when a timid knock comes at the door.
It’s so light that if I hadn’t seen Annabelle fast asleep with my own two eyes earlier, I would’ve thought it belonged to her.
I must hesitate too long, as the knock comes again, this one more sure.
I slip from the bed and pad over to the door, cracking it open and peeking out into the hall.
An exhausted, slightly disheveled Owen stands before me.
His hair is mussed, the way-too-tight shirt he usually sleeps in hugging his muscular arms and slightly soft belly, sweatpants slung low on his hips.
This is exactly what I didn’t need tonight.
He looks like a vision, leaning against the doorframe, silhouetted by the small amount of light leaking in from the lamp in the living room.
I want to grab him, pull him close, and never let him go.
“You’re still awake.” A half-smile tugs at his lips. They look so damn kissable in this light, I almost forget all my common sense. I push that desire down, too, creating quite the trifle of complicated feelings in my gut.
“Did you come to tuck me in?” I aim for smugness, but fall more than a little flat. By the look on Owen’s face, he sees right through my attempt at nonchalance.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
His words are soft, but they trigger the fight-or-flight inside me.
My whole body goes tense. I know that the we need to talk about you finding somewhere else to live conversation is coming, but I thought he’d at least give me until the morning.
I’m not sure I have the emotional fortitude to broach the topic right now.
“Unless you’re too tired, of course,” he quickly adds.
My tongue struggles to form an answer. I want to tell him to go away so I can shut the door on the inevitable, and spend one more night sleeping soundly in my delusion that this will all work out okay.
Yet, because I can’t deny Owen a damn thing, I step backward, holding out my hand in a gesture I hope reads as if you must but likely looks all too eager.
He steps in past me, his body slipping so close to mine it’s mere inches away. My skin hums at the memory of when he was pressed against me, hand cupping my face, lips closing the distance between.
I shut the door on that thought, careful not to let it bang, then head back to the bed and awkwardly perch on one end.
Owen doesn’t say anything, just hovers in the center of the room, brows furrowed as he takes in me and the too-small bed.
I know what he’s going to offer before he even opens his mouth.
“You could—”
“Don’t you dare offer me the couch.”
He huffs and rolls his eyes. Still, I see the smirk he tries to cover behind his hand. He can pretend that’s not what he was going to say all night long, but I know him better by now. He’s a selfless motherfucker.
“Can I sit?”
I nod, not that he waits for my answer before plopping down. The entire frame of the toddler bed creaks ominously under the added weight. Honestly, I’m impressed by its sturdiness, considering I alone was already testing its limits. Now if only I could channel some of that strength.
“I wanted to check on you. I know today was hard.”
I shrug. What is there to say? The day was hard.
The evening was harder. Then we all came back to this tiny apartment, where it became glaringly obvious there’s no longer space for me.
It’s a shitty feeling, knowing everything you’ve come to love is being yanked away.
What’s even shittier is the crushing guilt that comes with it.
What right do I have to be upset? Who am I in comparison to Owen’s sister, Annabelle’s mother? It’s a no-brainer who stays and who goes. In this equation, I lose every time.
I can’t even be mad about it. I’m not—honestly.
Just a little lost and a lot heartbroken.
Owen nudges me with an elbow, obviously over this one-sided conversation. “What’s running through your mind? I can hear your cogs shifting a mile a minute.” Sometimes I truly hate this man’s ability to see right through me.
“Grace said I could stay in her spare room,” I tell him, the sentence stinging my throat as it fights its way up. “I’ll pack my stuff after work tomorrow and be out of your hair.” Not like there’s much to pack anyway.
He flinches. Whatever Owen was expecting me to say, it clearly wasn’t that. I’m sure he anticipated more of a fight. He’s probably glad I beat him to the punch and made arrangements for myself before he had to break the news. I know—regardless of the necessity—doing so would have killed him.
But if that’s the case, why does he look almost…hurt?
“You’re at capacity here.” I motion to the apartment around us. “It’s not a problem.”
“Finley, there’s plenty of space for you,” he replies. A brazen lie if I ever heard one, and it irritates me in ways it probably shouldn’t.
“Yeah? Behind which bookcase are you hiding the second wing of this apartment?” It’s impossible to keep the bite from my tone.
“I’m fairly certain if there was an extra bedroom in this place, you wouldn’t have insisted on sleeping on the couch for the last month and a half. Unless you enjoy playing the martyr.”
“Fin—”
I hold up a hand to stop him and pull in a deep breath.
That was completely unfair, I know. But if he thinks I’m going to be content shoving myself into this tiny bed—with its scratchy sheets that don’t smell like him—when there’s a perfectly good bed waiting for me down the road, he has another thing coming.
If I have to sleep in sheets that aren’t sexy-as-fuck-roommate-scented, I at least should get to be comfortable.
“It’s fine, Owen. It was generous of you to share your home with me, but Delilah and Annabelle need to be comfortable. We can’t all live stacked on top of one another. Last one in, first one out, right?” The words come out in a strangled choke.
I can’t cry. Not again.
I can’t put that kind of guilt on him after all he’s done for me.
“Finley, this is Delilah’s place. Not mine.”
My head snaps up, catching the amusement that overtakes his face as I put it all together.
I guess that makes a lot of sense. My first night here, I’d been taken aback by the oddly feminine vibe.
Nothing about this place says an eligible forty-year-old bachelor lives here.
I figured he hadn’t cared enough to redecorate after moving in, or maybe he’d let Annabelle run the show.
“Well, if this is Delilah’s…”