“May I?” she asks, turning my laptop toward her.
“Sure.”
While she reads the article, I wash out my coffee mug and place it on the drying rack then scroll through stuff on my phone. I’m not sure if Finn’s quick exit implied I should leave or wait for him to come back downstairs, but I’m leaning toward going. This is the second time his mood has swung fast enough to give me whiplash, and I have no idea what to make of it. I’m used to seeing him composed and ultra-confident on the baseball field, like nothing can touch him.
“You’re a gifted writer,” Sylvie says a few minutes later. “This was a smart and thoughtful piece and you should feel proud of yourself.”
“Thank you,” I say with heartfelt appreciation.
“If I may speak on Finn’s behalf, I think he’d agree.”
I frown. Meaning he won’t bother to read it himself? Not that he has to. I wanted him to, is all. To see what I’m capable of. To see what an impact I can—and want—to make on his behalf.
Finn’s fancy iPhone rings from across the counter. It stops. Rings again. Sylvie walks over, glances down at the screen and picks it up. “Hello, Liza.”
Finn’s mom.
“I’m good. You?”
I quit out of the internet, close my laptop.
“Yes, as usual your son is nowhere near his phone.” Sylvie glances at me. I mouth in the shower. “He’s upstairs and when I saw your name I wanted to make sure everything was okay… Tonight’s gala, yes I’ll remind him… His date?”
My chin drops and I study my knees. Finn has a date tonight? I mean, of course he dates. He’s a sports celebrity after all, and along with his brothers, the three of them are the most eligible bachelors on the West Coast.
“Rosemary mentioned his social media manager, Chloe?”
I jerk my head up. Sylvie looks both surprised and delighted. I’m not sure what to make of that.
“She’s right here actually. Would you like to ask her yourself? Sure. Hold on.” Sylvie hands me the phone. “Finn’s mom.”
“Hello?”
“Hi, Chloe. This is Liza. It’s nice to meet you, albeit not face-to-face.”
“You, too.”
“We’ll make it official when I see you tonight. I do hope Finn mentioned the gala this evening and that you’ll be joining him?”
“Umm…”
“He forgot to tell you.”
“I think he might want to attend by himself.”
“And be subjected to unwanted attention from all the single women?” She laughs. “Doubtful. He likes to leave that to his brothers. I’m guessing it slipped his mind is all, so if you could let him know we’ll see you both by eight o’clock, that would be great.”
“I’ll tell him, but—”
“Thank you, darling. Oh, and please remind him it’s black tie. Goodbye.” She hangs up before I can decline her invitation. I stare at Finn’s phone, unsure how I feel about this. On the one hand, Finn doesn’t have a date. Yay! But on the other hand, his plus-one is me. Boo! That my feelings are so mixed up when it comes to him is proof I should stay away.
A Friday night anything with Finn is asking for trouble. My safety zone is daylight hours. Things change when stars twinkle in the sky. Defenses are lowered. Romantic notions can overrule a girl’s self-reliance and determination to keep her distance from the male species.
“You’re still here,” Finn says from the bottom of the stairs, his vexed tone accompanied by a deep wrinkle bisecting his forehead.
On second thought, it will be easy to hang out with this jerkface after the sun goes down. “Gosh, how does any girl resist your charming personality?”
“Is that my phone?” Mr. Grumpy asks. His prickly temperament is unfortunately offset by how attractive he looks with wet hair and a clean-shaven jaw. Not to mention how delicious he smells.
“I just spoke with your mom.”
“You did what?”
Sylvie sidles up next to him. “I suggest you take a chill pill,” she says.
I press my lips together so I don’t laugh.
“Two things you need to know,” Sylvie continues. “Chloe is on your side and she is trustworthy.”
Finn stares down at her. Sylvie is petite in size, but it’s obvious she’s a giant when it comes to holding his respect. That she sang my praises is something I will honor in return long after my three-month contract is up.
“Listen to her and talk to her.” Sylvie squeezes his arm then leaves the room.
“Thank you,” I call after her. I try not to get choked up. I wish I had a motherly figure like Sylvie looking out for me. Although, I guess I just did.
“I’m—” Finn and I start at the same time. “Go ahead,” I say.
“I’m sorry. I was rude to you, and you didn’t—don’t deserve it.”
“I’m sorry, too, if I made you uncomfortable in some way.”
He walks around the breakfast bar, lifts Drew’s mug off the drying rack and pours himself coffee. His palms dwarf the handmade cup and I picture him at age seven or eight drinking hot chocolate with hands much smaller.
“So, you talked to my mom?” He leans against the counter, cool and casual in light blue jeans and a white waffle-knit Polo shirt that molds to his well-sculpted muscles.
I remind myself I’m immune to muscles and stay focused on his face. Not that that view is any easier to deal with. “Yes. She told me about the gala tonight.”
He frowns. “She wants me to be there?”
“She wants us to be there.”
“Us?” He ponders that, his eyes roaming around the kitchen like one of the shiny stainless-steel appliances will spit out a formal invitation addressed to Finn Auprince and Chloe Conrad. “Are you available?”
“I think it would be rude of me not to attend now.” I mentally check off the clothes in my closet. Do I have an outfit fancy enough to wear? That would be a big fat no. But…I do have my bridesmaid dress for Jillian’s wedding. She’ll kill me if she finds out I wore it before my official maid of honor duty, so I’ll just be sure she doesn’t and be extra careful.
“Plus, this is a good chance for me to capture some pictures of you all dressed up in a tux. You own one, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who designed it?”
“Tom Ford.”
“Oh my God. That’s great. I know one of his social media managers and will reach out.” I pull up Whitney’s contact info on my phone. “The TF following is huge and if we can get you on his IG page that would be incredible.” I start a text to Whitney, but a Twitter notification pops up, snagging my attention. Someone has decided to get nasty with regards to my article on Finn.
“Chloe, about earlier…”
“Mother trucker.”
“Excuse me?”
I lift my head. “Sorry. That wasn’t directed at you. Some asswipe has unknowingly decided to go into Twitter battle with me. Give me a minute.” I don’t normally engage with people who have their heads up their butts, but I don’t like the comment about Finn. At all. And if you mess with someone I care about, then you mess with me.
“Someone is fighting with you on Twitter?” Finn asks, now in position to look over my shoulder and read the tweet. “Or me?”
Replying to @FinnAuprince @ChloeConrad1 @HuffPost
Saying he works hard is laughable. Entitled, pompous, stupid rich dude born with privileges 99% of the population don’t have is more real. He is not greatness helping others. Get off your fucking soapbox.
“Okay, so technically you, but since I’m managing your accounts and it’s in regard to my article, I’m going to respond. Just one tweet to put this jerk in his place.”
Replying to @baseballoriginal82 @FinnAuprince @HuffPost
No one gave Finn Auprince anything. He earned it, and I stand behind my accounts of his accomplishments. My sources are credible. His stats don’t lie. Talking ill of someone you’ve never met makes you the ignorant one. #sharekindness<
br />
“There.” I lay my phone face down on the granite countertop. “I feel better now. Why do people get off on saying mean things? I hate this part of my job. Dealing with scuzzballs who don’t care about anyone but themselves.”
“Scuzzballs?” Finn’s voice is full of good humor. The sound makes me happy. He read the tweet and he’s chosen to tease me about my dad’s favorite name for jerks.
“That’s right.” I straighten my back. “Feel free to use it whenever you want.”
He smiles at that. The kind that says he’ll never use the word but he will think about it and when he does he’ll think of me. “Thanks for standing up for me.”
“It’s my job.”
“Is that all it is?”
I’d hoped to hold off on this moment of truth. At least until the polar ice caps melted. “No,” I say softly.
“Then I’d like to explain about earlier.”
Chapter Nine
#HitAndRun
Finn
Staring down a Cy Young winning pitcher who throws a hundred mile an hour fastball is easier than opening up about my dyslexia. I learned from a young age to hide it. Confused as to why I couldn’t read like Ethan, and later on like Drew, I was afraid my mom would be mad at me if she found out. When I refused to read to her over and over again, she used my favorite thing against me: baseball. I immediately confessed to my failure after that. She hugged me tight and told me I wasn’t a failure, that success was measured in many different ways, and she loved me no matter what. But just because my mom knew, didn’t mean I was comfortable with anyone else knowing.
“I reacted poorly to your article because it’s difficult for me to read,” I say, proud of myself for sounding matter-of-fact.
“I get it,” Chloe says with her usual team spirit. “It’s like actors who can’t watch themselves on the screen. It’s weird reading about yourself.”
“No, that’s not it.” I run my hand down the leg of my jeans. “I’m dyslexic.”
I’m not sure how I expect her to react, but an immediate look in her eyes that reminds me of respect more than anything else hits me in the middle of the chest and my remaining defenses evaporate with nothing more than the release of a deep breath.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not many people do.” I sit on a barstool, my thigh muscles screaming to give them a rest.
Eyes locked on one another, the thrum of energy that is always there between Chloe and me intensifies. She knows my secret, knows my weak spot.
“Finn.” Reverence mingles with gratitude, her voice a comfort I’m growing addicted to. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. God, if anything you should feel incredibly proud of your accomplishments.”
“I do.”
“But?”
I don’t want to have a full-on discussion with her. This is my least favorite topic of conversation and yeah, I’m not sweating at the moment, but I could be soon. I come from a family of accomplished men and women who graduated from top universities with masters and MBAs, and because I’m the only one not working for the family business in some way, it’s often difficult to consider myself worthy.
“You know,” she says, filling the silence. “Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.”
We grin at each other. I’d venture it’s the biggest smile I’ve worn in a long time. That Chloe has tossed out a Yogi-ism to shred the remaining unease in the pit of my stomach cements her place on my shortlist of people I can trust.
“Seriously,” she says, “most people don’t realize how clever and shrewd baseball players have to be in order to be successful.”
“We are an intelligent bunch,” I agree.
“And millions of people have difficulties with learning. You’re not the only one.”
“I know that, too.” I run a hand through my damp hair. “But I am in the minority when it comes to my family tree. I’ve been under a microscope since the day I was born and while my family never made me feel ashamed or unintelligent, I didn’t want any more unwanted attention. So much of my life has been public; certain things I needed to keep private. Growing up wasn’t easy. I struggled in school and was made fun of. People I thought I could trust turned out to be two-faced. No one cared about me. They cared about my status, off the field and then on it.
“When I was drafted right out of high school, that was my ticket to freedom. From a girlfriend who used me and said cruel things, friends who didn’t understand me, and my own doubts about my intelligence. I couldn’t read well, but I could hit a baseball and field better than any other eighteen-year-old in the country.”
“So you put your dyslexia in a box and sealed it away.”
“Basically, yeah. When I can take my time and my body is well fed and strong, my threshold for confusion is pretty high, so I do okay. When I’m stressed or overly tired the scale tips away from my favor.”
“I’m a stressor for you,” she says with sweet concern.
“Sometimes. But that’s okay.” Because you also drain all the tension from my body.
“That’s good since you’re stuck with me. I won’t, however, ambush you again like I did this morning.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“I appreciate you telling me more about yourself. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You didn’t read the nasty tweet, or my response, did you?” she asks without judgment.
“I caught a word or two. The upside to all this is very little of what is printed about me, bothers me.”
“I don’t want you kept out of the loop, though, Finn. Let me know how I can keep you informed of things without bothering you.”
“You’re doing fine. Best social media manager I’ve ever had.” I wink at her. “You eat breakfast this morning?” I ask, ready to move on. I pull a pan out, put it on the stove.
“You cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” I look over my shoulder at her. “But don’t get your hopes up too high either.”
“So, eggs?” she asks with confidence.
I point a spatula at her. “Not just any eggs, Webster. You in or not?”
“Since all I ate this morning was a chocolate chip cookie, I’m in.” She slides off her stool and sits on the floor, beckoning for Sammy. Settling in to stay.
I’m really glad I didn’t scare her off earlier. “A cookie is not the best way to start the day, you know.”
“Neither was seeing your face, but I’m continuing on.”
I don’t need to turn around to know she finds herself funny. I can feel her smile on the back of my neck. I also know she’s attracted to me even though she doesn’t want to be. Her zings are her way of protecting herself. But she can pretend to make light of the pull between us all she wants. Her flushed cheeks and gently parted lips tell a different story. As does the way she defends me on social media.
She murmurs nice words to Sammy. When I glance at them, Sammy is curled up in Chloe’s lap, her head hanging to the side in total bliss as Chloe rubs her back.
“It smells good,” Chloe says, catching my eye.
“You want toast with your eggs?” I return to my task.
“Sure. So, the gala tonight. It’s for charity?”
“Yes. Every year my family partners with The Humane Society to bring awareness to the association’s causes and recognize the organization’s leadership.”
“Where is it being held?”
“At our downtown hotel. I’ll pick you up and we can go together.”
“That’s okay. I’ll meet you there.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop myself. I don’t like it, but I’ll respect her wish. It isn’t an official date so I can’t very well insist I take her. I could, however… “How about I send a car for you? Traffic on Friday nights sucks.” I set two plates of food on the kitchen table.
Chloe gets to her feet, leaving Sammy to trot to her dog bed. “You don’t need to do that. I’ve driven i
n plenty of LA traffic.”
“Still, I’d like to, given you were unexpectedly roped into attending the event.”
“Wow. This looks good.” She sits at the table. “What is it?”
“The famous Finn Scramble. Eggs, spinach, mushrooms, mozzarella cheese and secret spice.”
“Mmm. I like things spicy.”
“Do you now?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave as I fill a couple of glasses with water.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Auprince.”
I join her at the table, my thoughts constantly circling the drain when it comes to her. “I don’t know. I kind of like it there.”
And from the faint blush on her cheeks, I’d say she does, too.
Chapter Ten
#Heartthrob
Chloe
At the sound of the doorbell, I panic. I just got out of the shower. How the heck can the car be here already? Yes, I showered for longer than usual. And yes, I closed my eyes for a minute—or five—to touch myself to images of Finn, but unless Father Time is up to some funny business, I’ve got at least another hour to get ready for the gala.
I wrap a robe around myself as I hustle out of the steam-filled bathroom to check the time, a little angry with myself for giving in to Finn’s car request. Remember why, Chloe. You’re saving money on gas and valet parking. Raise your hand if you hate pumping gas as much as I do. And I could buy at least two dozen shredded chicken mini quesadillas—not in one day, mind you—from Taco Bell for the cost of hotel parking in LA.
The doorbell rings again and I stub my toe on the bed post. Grumbling curse words, I half limp to the front door. The clock on the wall assures me my visitor isn’t the driver, but I’ll look through the peephole to see who’s dropped by. It might be Mrs. Medby needing to borrow a cup of brown sugar again. (I keep a bag just for her.)
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