Chapter 5
Chapter Five
OAKLEIGH
I should have known that my day would turn into a shitshow.
When it begins with a certain asshole unexpectedly banging on my door for the entire five minutes it takes me to put on clothes and run downstairs, then what other result could there possibly be?
At least he has the decency to look awkward as he stands on my doorstep, hands in his pants pockets, rocking back and forth from the soles onto the balls of his feet.
“What?” I demand. I’m aware that I look like I just crawled out of the Devil’s ass, but I’ve only slept for what feels like an hour. My mouth feels dry, my hair is sticking up at all angles, and I can just feel the line of drool on my chin.
Finn watches me with a pained expression. “This is how you open the door for people?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, is the drool and the bedhead offensive?”
“It’s less that and more the gap in your robe.”
My eyes jump down to my robe, which is indeed half open, one of my breasts almost fully exposed to the world.
“Fuck!” I spin around and close my robe back hastily.
When I turn back to face him, my hand anxiously trying to smooth my hair, he’s welcomed himself inside. He closes the door behind him and looks around.
He’s never been inside, I don’t think. I lived elsewhere the last time I held a house party of any kind and even then, I’m pretty sure he only came one time and left pretty early on.
When he sees that my robe is fixed, his eyes lazily trail down the length of me once before he turns toward the open-plan kitchen that immediately follows my front door. The kitchen stands on the left, while my living room sits on the right.
He turns to inspect the living room and nods. “Nice place.”
I eye him suspiciously. “What do you want, Finley?”
He shrugs but says nothing.
“Usually, when someone asks you a question, you answer it.”
“Usually, when someone sends you a message, you answer it.”
“A messa—” I pat myself down, but my pockets are empty. “My phone is in my room, and I was this thing called asleep.”
“I messaged you to tell you that I’m picking you up.”
“Why?” I follow him into the kitchen. He turns on the kettle and begins opening random cupboards until he finds my various glasses and mugs.
For the first time in my life, I find myself embarrassed by the number of coffee cups with some kind of cherry pattern on them.
God knows, he doesn’t need any more reason to use that stupid nickname.
“Because I promised my mother I would.”
He picks one with an alternating cherry-and-mistletoe pattern, smirking as he places it onto the countertop.
“I’ll ask again. Why?”
He shrugs again. “Because I’m a nice person.”
I snort. “Try again.”
He sends me a look. “You don’t think I’m a nice person?”
“I think you’re an asshole. I thought we’d established that ages ago.”
His movements falter: his hand pausing for the briefest moment before it continues reaching for the kettle.
I regret it immediately. I’ve done such a good job of pretending that night didn’t happen.
I always thought that Finn and I would at least talk about it before deciding that it was a one-time thing, but the next time I saw him, he was more than happy to move past it without a single conversation, and so I was, too.
But it’s stuck between us, a lump in the throat that we ignore, even though it clogs my airway often enough.
Did it mean anything? No. But did it shake me to my very core? More than I want to admit. It’s just a shame it had to be with someone who makes my blood boil. Clearing my throat, I change the subject.
“Who invited you to help yourself in my kitchen?”
He shrugs.
With a shake of my head and a roll of my eyes, I head into my bedroom to get ready. The entire time, I’m oddly aware of his presence. Every clink of a spoon, every cupboard that opens and closes. I’m overly aware of his presence and I hate it.
I waste no time putting on a pair of shorts and a crop top. I run a brush through my hair and brighten my face with some blush and mascara. It’s supposed to be hot as shit today, so I’m trading in the usual sneakers for some gladiator sandals because ain’t no way I’m putting socks on my feet.
When I return to the living room, Finn is leaning back on my couch, head tilted back, eyes closed, his hands clasping onto a steaming cup of what looks like chamomile tea.
“Is that not burning your hands?”
He answers me with his eyes still closed. “Nah.”
“Right.”
I’m about to grab myself a glass of water when something catches my eye on my coffee table. An extra mug of tea and a glass of water sit side by side on coasters.
Something flutters in my stomach and I mentally swat it away.
I’m not sure what to think of this. It’s oddly sweet for Finn.
Well, when it comes to me it is anyway. With me, Finley doesn’t do nice, he does competitive.
Who can offer the harshest insult? Who can make the best cup of tea?
One time, who could bring their hand closest to the flame of a lit candle.
Really don’t recommend that one. I still have the scar in the palm of my hand.
But making cups of tea for me without me having to ask? That’s the kind of stuff he does for his family, for his friends. Finley and I aren’t friends.
“Why did you do this?” I ask him.
He lifts his head, sees me pointing at the drinks on the table, and takes a sip of his tea. “Were you not going to make yourself one the minute you were ready to go?”
“No.” Yes.
“Sure thing.” He takes a sip. “Sit and drink.”
I stay standing.
He watches me and his stubborn look intensifies. Finley Southwick doesn’t tell me what to do. Ever.
“Oakleigh.”
“What?”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Seriously? We’re at this point now?”
“We’ve always been at this point.”
He sets his tea down on the table and holds his head in his hands.
“Please sit down, Oakleigh,” he begs, his voice muffled by his hands. “I need to talk to you.”
Anxiety spikes within me. Maybe my slip-up earlier is coming back to bite me in the ass?
What if he thinks that an unintentional reminder of that night serves as an invitation to have the talk I’m so glad we avoided?
I don’t want to talk about it. Not when we can just do exactly what we’ve been doing and play ignorant.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Finn.” I sigh as I pick up the glass of water and take a sip.
He sits up. “Talk about what exactly?”
“That night.” I agitate the fibers of my blue rug with my toes. “I know I brought it up earlier, but that doesn’t mean that I want to talk about it.”
A frown mars the smooth skin beneath his eyebrows and around his eyes. The corner of his lips contort until he’s grimacing at me. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
Oh. Well, now I just feel like an idiot.
“Right.”
Awkwardly, I sit on the very edge of the couch, as far from him as I can possibly get. I pick up the tea and take a sip. The warmth of it slides down my throat and warms me up from the inside. Not that I necessarily need warming up. It’s a hundred degrees outside.
We sit in silence as he watches his mug, the cogs in his head whirring so loud it’s almost as if I can hear them.
“Well?”
His shoulders lift in a small flinch.
“I fucked up a little bit.”
I look around my house to see if he’s about to tell me he broke something. Nope, nothing out of the ordinary.
“Okay?” I clutch the tea in my hands tightly.
He scrunches his eyes closed before turning to face me. “I accidentally let some private information slip and when Mom made her own speculations based on it, I was too shocked to correct her in time.”
I’m honestly so confused.
“And this concerns me how?”
“It all involved you.”
The silence in my house is deafening. “Right.”
“You know how they really want us to get together?”
My stomach tightens. “Yes?”
“And you know how they always bring it up?”
“You better not be going where I think you’re going with this, Finley.”
“I may have—”
“No.”
“—accidentally implied—”
“Please, God, no.”
“—well, inadvertently suggested really—”
“Finley—”
“—that we’re dating?”
I’m so shocked and disturbed that I do the only thing that feels right in this moment… I punch him right in the gut.