Chapter 16 #2
Mallory stops stirring and gapes at Finley like she’s sprouted another head. “Wait. You don’t know how Alex takes his coffee?”
Finley freezes like she’s a cat burglar caught red-handed, so I blurt out, “I never have regular coffee when I’m with her. She always makes me an espresso drink.” Technically true.
“Ah, that makes sense,” Mallory says.
I slide off the stool. “I just take some creamer, but I can get it.”
Finley’s already by the fridge. She pulls out a bottle and a spoon, then hands them to me like it’s second nature. Like she belongs here.
I’m amazed that she’s so comfortable in my mom’s kitchen.
None of my other girlfriends would have even considered baking with my mom and sister, let alone learning their way around.
It does something to me, something I can’t name.
It can’t be nostalgia—Finley’s never been here before yesterday.
It feels like yearning, but for what? For her?
For this? Either way, it makes no sense.
Finley turns away, but the need to know where she stands gnaws at me. “Are we still on to go to the Christmas market?”
She swivels back with a hesitant look. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to go.”
“Of course I want to go,” I insist. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Her expression makes it clear she doesn’t buy it.
Honestly, after last night when I bailed on caroling, I wouldn’t believe me either.
But strangely, I am looking forward to it.
If you’d asked me to go last Christmas—or any past Christmas—I would have rather wrestled a wild pig and butchered it for dinner than set foot in the market.
But with Finley? I want to see her reaction.
Something inside me feels lighter when she’s happy.
“Okay,” she says slowly, holding my gaze like she’s trying to tell if I’m lying. “I’d love to go, but if you changed your mind, Mallory already said she’d take me.”
Mallory gives me the stink eye. She doesn’t believe I want to go either.
“Of course, I want to go. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well…after your late-night run,” Finley says carefully.
“Nope.” I stir creamer into my coffee. Hopefully, the caffeine will help with my hangover. “I’m great. Never better.” I glance over at my mother. “Mom, what time will you guys wrap this up?”
“We should be done by noon,” Mom says. “I plan to reheat the chili for lunch, then you two can head out.”
“Sounds good.”
I head upstairs with my coffee, still feeling off. Some of it’s my hangover, sure, but mostly it’s the image of Finley in my mom’s kitchen, buzzing around like she belongs there. It unsettles me more than I want to admit.
A long shower helps take the edge off my headache. When I get out, I dry off and redress the bandage on my knee. The cut’s deep and throbs, but it’s manageable. After I put on jeans and a sweater, I pull my laptop from my bag, sit on the edge of the bed, and check my email.
The first two are from investors. The other three are from Roland, and one is flagged urgent. I open that one first.
Dude, I’ve been trying to call you all morning. Where the hell are you?
- R
I pat my pocket and realize I haven’t seen my phone since I got up, which is highly unlike me. Where is it?
I search the nightstand, the bed, the floor, and sweatpants pocket and come up empty. Did Finley find it and plug it in? If she did, my phone’s not in here.
Where could it be? The last place I remember having it was at the bar, shoving it into my pocket after closing my tab. Uncoordinated from the beer, I’d fumbled putting it in my pocket.
Shit. Did I drop it outside the bar? Or maybe when I tripped in the pothole?
I pull up the locator app on my laptop, but it says my phone’s battery is at zero, the last time it pinged was at the bar.
Panic floods my head. Everything’s backed up in the cloud, but still—my whole life is on that phone. And if some drunk scooped it up…
I take a deep breath. This is not a crisis. If I can’t find it, I’ll just get a new one. But the closest phone store is in Hartwell, probably an hour away with the Christmas traffic. Not to mention, I’ll have to shell out over a grand for a new one.
Worse, two hours I won’t have at the Christmas market with Finley. It would be a convenient excuse to get out of it, but I don’t want to get out of it. I want to go.
I don’t spend much time dwelling on why. The answer’s obvious—it’s guilt. Besides, I need to deal with Roland. I fire off a quick reply.
Lost my phone and I’m on my laptop. What’s up?
Seconds later, a video call request fills my screen. I set the laptop on the dresser, sit on the edge of the bed, and brace myself before accepting.
Roland’s face appears, then he recoils. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It’s called a hangover,” I grumble. “Thanks for the sympathy.”
“Jesus, it’s nearly eleven. Must’ve been one hell of a bender.”
“Whatever. What’s the emergency?”
“Brewster’s on me for the report on the response times after the latest upgrade. I don’t have it yet.”
My irritation spikes. We had this conversation before I left. Twice. “As I told him—and you—the report will be ready on January second. That hasn’t changed.”
Roland’s face darkens. “That’s not good enough.”
“Well, it has to be. The firm we hired is shut down for the holidays. They’ll deliver on the second, just like they promised. You can’t rush this.”
His jaw sets with frustration. “I said we should’ve gone with the cheaper guys. They guaranteed December twenty-third.” His lip curls. “And they cost less.”
“We went with the other firm for a reason,” I snap. “The cheaper one has a reputation of missing deadlines and cutting corners. Best case with them, we’d get it mid-January. Worst case, we’d get garbage data. You want to hand Brewster garbage?”
“We need results, Alex. Investors don’t care about excuses.”
“It’s December twenty-third,” I bite out. “There is no one else. Everyone’s gone.”
For a second, I’m sure he’s about to throw it in my face that I’m gone too, hiding in Vermont with Finley. Instead, he sneers, “The world doesn’t stop because of presents and candy canes.”
“Roland,” I say with forced patience, “If you want to hire another company, be my guest. But I still stand by the one I chose, and we’ve got a contract.
So, if you can justify to the investors spending a few thousand dollars extra to cover both, go ahead.
Otherwise, suck it up and tell Brewster we’ll have the report after the first of the year. ”
Roland leans back with a put-upon sigh. “Well, all right. I guess there’s nothing we can do.”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to unclench my jaw. “Glad you finally see reason.”
But I know better. He’ll probably circle back tomorrow, same argument, different angle.
Roland’s scowl slips into a smirk, that Jekyll-and-Hyde switch I’ve come to dread. He leans closer to the screen. “So,” he says, “did you get Finley to sleep with you yet?”
My chest tightens. For half a second, I want to reach through the screen and throttle him. “You know this is platonic.”
He scoffs. “Please. I haven’t met a woman yet who could resist the Alex King charm.”
“Hate to break it to you, asshole,” I grind out. “But Finley’s immune.”
Roland clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. That has to sting. You’re not used to hearing no, are you?” His grin turns wolfish. “Don’t worry. Lay it on thick and she’ll fold. They always do.”
My stomach turns. It’s not just the hangover. It’s the way he’s talking about her, like she’s disposable, like what she wants doesn’t even matter.
“She’s not my type, okay?” I snap. “You know I prefer sophisticated women.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waves me off. “It’s not like you’re gonna bring her to a business dinner. You screw her, then dump her when you get back. Simple.”
The words make my skin crawl. Every muscle in my body coils, ready to launch through the screen. Then I feel a presence behind me.
I twist around.
Finley stands in the doorway, my phone in her hand. Her face is pale but carefully arranged.
Oh. God.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her voice is steady—too steady. “Tyler found a phone outside by the back door.” She steps in and sets it on the bed, the thunk is loud in the quiet room. “I figured it was yours.”
She takes a small step back. “Your mom said to tell you she’s heating up the chili.”
Her gaze flicks to Roland’s face on the screen—just for a second—then she walks out.
“Finley,” I call as I lurch to my feet. “Wait.”
Roland laughs. “Someone’s in trouble.”
“Screw you, Roland.” I slam the lid shut then hurry after her. She’s already at the top of the staircase, one foot poised on the first step. “Finley. Wait. Please. Can we talk?”
She hesitates then turns around to face me. Her face is smooth, giving nothing away.
“I don’t know what you just heard—” I begin, breathless.
She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have just walked in. I should’ve knocked. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s your room too,” I say quickly, trying to sound calm while my panic claws up my throat. If she’s still mad about last night—God, if she asks my sister for a ride to the airport—I’m screwed. “Look, about that call—”
“Really, Alex,” she says, her expression flat. “You don’t have to explain.”
“The hell I don’t.” The words come out louder than I meant, raw with frustration.
Her eyes widen. I rake a hand over my head, forcing myself to breathe.
Panicking will only make this worse. “Can you come back to the room so we can sit down? Just for a minute? Please?” I’m begging—and I’m not sure I’ve ever begged a woman for anything.
But I don’t feel any shame. All I can think about is fixing this.
She looks torn, like she’d prefer to bolt down the stairs, but to my relief, she gives a sharp nod, then walks toward me.