by K. Bromberg
I know what she means by that. Now. And I also know that when I was with them, I didn’t feel quite as alone as I had when Dad first passed. They’d come when I’d asked though, and I knew I was . . . am so lucky to have friends who do that.
“Who knew what I needed . . . but thank you for being there for me regardless.”
“Always. You know that. We had your back then, and we have your back now.”
STEVIE
“KELLEN,” I GROAN AS I plop down on the bench, exhausted, and drenched with sweat. “You’re relentless.”
“And that’s how you like me,” Kellen says. The smile he throws my way is smug as he picks up some of the balls on the court.
“Huh.”
“Enjoy this weather here—this California sunshine and cool coastal breeze—because when we get to New York in a few weeks, it’s going to be miserable. Muggy and hot to the point that it smothers you.”
“Don’t remind me.” I wipe my face with the towel. “And the crappy part? The crappy part is I haven’t even gotten to explore anywhere here because I’ve been locked up tight.”
“Should we start calling you Rapunzel?”
I whip my head over to see Finn standing on the side of the court, his arms crossed over his chest, his sunglasses on. Is it ridiculous that my heart jumps at the sound of his voice and the sight of him even though I see him every day?
Kellen laughs. “I could think of a lot of things to call her, but Rapunzel ain’t one of them.”
“Funny.” I raise my middle finger at him but laugh while doing it before standing and moving toward Finn. “What are you doing here?”
It’s been two days since the sex on the floor. He’s been busy. I’ve been busy. Or maybe if I’m honest with myself, I’ve been kind of lying low because I was uncertain how this dynamic between us would go.
But he’s here when I know he’s knee-deep in a serious contract negotiation as well as fixing some problems a client got himself in. Problems that I have a feeling he normally would tend to in person but has chosen to do remotely instead.
Because of me.
Finn shrugs and his smile widens. “I figured you’ve been training here for a few weeks and I’ve yet to see how it’s going for myself, so . . .”
“So as a good agent would, you decided to mosey the quarter of a mile from your house and come see me.”
“Something like that,” he murmurs and I stare at him from beneath my visor, my own smile wide, wishing I could see his eyes.
“So did you like what you saw?”
“I did.” He nods. “I do.”
I mock curtsy and laugh. “And?”
“And, Rapunzel, after seeing the crude art you left on the kitchen table with the silverware,” he says, “I realized you might be getting a little stir-crazy.”
“Just a little.” I hold my thumb and index finger about an inch apart, a small thrill shooting through me at the prospect of getting out of the house. Not to mention I love that he saw my message and understood its meaning. “Was the SOS I created too obvious?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know how hard it is to use silverware to spell?”
He laughs. “Maybe I was feeling slightly the same.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“I’m rescuing you from the tower, Rapunzel. It’s time to let your hair down.”
FINN
“I’M MORE THAN IMPRESSED THAT you even knew the story of Rapunzel to begin with,” Stevie says, the warm glow of the candlelight reflecting off her tan skin and dancing in her eyes.
The second-story outdoor patio is quiet tonight. A frequent favorite when I’m in town, I asked the owner if I could have the private balcony to myself tonight, and luckily it was available. The small area sits above the main restaurant, so that we can see other diners but they can’t see us.
Lights are strung back and forth over the terracotta tiled floor adding warmth to the atmosphere. Dishes clink and glasses clank while a mariachi band plays quietly in the corner of the main floor.
“It’s my favorite of the Disney movies.”
She lifts her brows. “You have a favorite Disney movie?”
“Well, let me correct that comment. When I’m forced to watch Disney movies with my cousins’ kids, that’s the one I’m partial to.”
Her smile widens. “Even that surprises me. You seem like a man who no one forces to do anything.”
Except for meeting you. That first meeting in Carson’s suite flashes through my mind.
“For the most part.” He shrugs. “Besides, the hero’s name is Flynn Rider so I figure it’s close enough to assume they were writing about me. . .”
“Oh Jesus.” She barks out a laugh. “Ego much?”
“Flynn. Finn. Close enough for me,” I tease.
She shakes her head with an adorable smile on her lips and asks, “Do you have a big family?”
“No. I mostly know my dad’s side of it, hence the cousins.”
“What’s your dad like?”
My sigh is heavy. “Like someone I never want to be like.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re fine. It is what it is. My mom leaving turned him into a bitter man who wanted to make his son be the same.”
“So you don’t see him much?”
“He died of a heart attack years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He wasn’t exactly the nicest man. Never a kind or supportive word, something I didn’t realize until I worked with Carson for a while, actually. After my mom left, he took any and every opportunity to push his agenda. Tough love wasn’t even on his radar. As I said, bitter.”
“Well, if it’s worth noting, he failed. His son isn’t bitter. His son is successful and polite albeit demanding at times, and good at many things.”
“Should my ego swell with pride at that last part?” I ask, wanting my father nowhere near whatever this is with Stevie.
“No complaints here.”
I lean back in my chair, my elbows on the armrests, and a margarita in my hand as I angle my head and stare at her.
We’ve been here for almost an hour, and it’s been . . . effortless. Normally on a date, I don’t care much for the conversation. I haven’t cared about the conversation. Women have been there for my purposes alone, and at the end of the night, once I’ve pleasured them and got what I needed, I’ve sent them on their way. I’ve kept them at arm’s length, never wanting anything else. I’ve kept my father’s words foremost in my heart—that women are nothing more than a distraction, who will play you and screw you over—even though the man was filled with resentment and misery.
And yet I care about what this woman says, someone I should consider completely off limits both because she’s my client and nearly a decade younger than me. Why? What made her the woman I see in front of me?
“Who are you, Stevie Lancaster?” I don’t mean to put words to my thoughts but they’re out before I can stop them.
“I’m just a girl who likes the simple things most days and the roar of a crowd on others.”
“Do you like it? The crowd?”
Stevie sits back, her eyes watching her fingers trace around the rim of her glass before meeting my eyes. “It’s what I do and all I know. I mean, I’ve been doing this, competing professionally and training, for ten years.”
“But do you still love it? The fanfare, the competition, the crowds?”
A smile ghosts her lips and tears mist in her eyes. “It’s a rush and if anyone tells you differently, they’re lying. But it’s also like being in a pressure cooker that can either explode because the lid isn’t screwed on properly or it can create the most perfect meal.” She snorts and places a hand to the middle of her face like a little girl would. “That was the lamest thing I’ve ever said. Oh my God, I’m such a dork.”
“I just told you I had a favorite Disney movie so I’m pretty sure I already took that ti
tle.”
“I think we’re tied.” She holds her glass out to mine and I tap mine against it. “Cheers.”
“What are we toasting to?” I ask.
“To tonight.” She stands abruptly as the music changes from traditional mariachi to a slow, sultry Santana song. “Dance with me, Finn.”
She moves around the patio, closing her eyes and swinging her hips to the beat as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.
I can’t take my eyes off her. I wouldn’t want to if I could.
It was so much easier having a damaged Stevie than the one dancing hypnotically in front of me. Damaged had me stepping back and putting the brakes on any and all lust. Damaged put me in check so I didn’t want her more. So I wouldn’t hurt her further.
Then she figured her shit out. She did it on her own and it made her all the more attractive because of it.
And now she’s standing there, her fingers waving to me to come to her, and I’m fucking useless at resisting.
“C’mon, Finn. Let loose with me.”
“I’m not good at dancing,” I warn, but my feet move toward her.
“I’m not good at a lot of things, but I do them anyway.”
The music continues and then she’s in my arms. Her body sways against mine. Her lips meet mine.
And tonight, everything just feels that easy.
The thought is almost comical after you consider the first week that we met, but it is.
The conversation.
The comfortable silence.
The wanting—her—every minute of every goddamn day.
STEVIE
I WATCH FINN FROM THE doorway of his office.
God knows what time it is, but the buzz of my margarita and the high from the sex we had when we got home has faded with the early morning hour.
He looks just as tired as I feel as he sits behind his desk in nothing but a pair of board shorts and some seriously mussed-up hair.
Yet he works, and I silently watch.
The man tugs on things inside of me. Wires. Strings. Last nerves. But I’ve laughed more than I can remember as of late. I’ve wanted to feel instead of wanting to feel numb.
I’m proud of you.
Those four words have rung in my ears far longer than they should and yet, they meant more to me than he ever could have known.
“Hey, what are you doing up?” he asks, startling when he sees me standing there before turning his chair to face me.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Are you telling me I didn’t do my job properly?” His sleep-drugged smile flips my stomach over.
I step into the room. “No complaints here.” He definitely tired me out in the physical sense, but my mind won’t shut off.
“But something is bugging you.” Instead of answering, I move into the room and rest my hips on the desk beside where he sits. “What is it, Stevie?”
“I was afraid to ask earlier but now I can’t stop wondering.”
“Ask what?”
“About her.” He raises his eyebrows at my comment. “I deleted all social media off my phone so that I don’t get distracted from training. After my interview last week, has she done more press? Has she gotten more attention? Is she still out there?”
Finn reaches out and puts a hand on my hip. “She tried to the first day or two after, but your interview pretty much put water on her fire. The only people willing to give her the time of day are the same magazines who have cover stories about how an alien impregnated a seven-foot-tall woman so . . . yeah, everything pretty much lost steam after your interview.”
“At least I did something right,” I murmur as I pick at the edges of my nail polish.
“Hey?” he asks, his hand shaking my hip. “What else is going on?”
I twist my lips as guilt eats at me. “I thought I was going to regret saying some of the things I said in the interview. That I was going to regret my decision to not talk to her, but other than hoping I’m nothing like her, I haven’t questioned it at all.”
“Then you made the right decision.”
I stand there hearing his words and know he understands better than anyone. “Sorry. I’ll let you get back to work. You must be exhausted.”
“I’m so tired, I can’t even see straight,” he says and laughs before he does something completely unexpected when he rolls his chair over in front of me and rests his forehead against my stomach. His sigh is heavy, and for the first time, I realize just how much Finn has given up or put aside by bringing me here.
He has a full client list to tend to—some he probably needs to visit in person—and yet he’s here, tending to me. Making sure no one finds out my whereabouts. Giving me the space and time to live my life without the cameras in my face—something I asked for when he first brought me here.
“You need an assistant,” I say.
“I have an assistant. And an intern and a secretary . . . I have a whole office full of people in Manhattan but it’s me who people want to deal with so that makes it hard to not answer the calls.”
Guilt eats at me for taking him away from that—his life, his work, his routine—and yet I can’t imagine being here without him.
“I understand that. And it makes you who you are.” I run my fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp to try and help him relax.
He grunts in response.
“What’s your real name?” I ask out of the blue.
“Huh?”
“Is Finn short for something?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s one of those dorky two-in-the-morning questions that float through my mind.”
“Finnegan Alexander Sanderson.”
“That suits you.” And I’m not sure why I care to know, but I repeat it in my head, over and over, almost as if it’s something I might forget when our time here is done.
He shrugs, and I chuckle when something tucked in the corner of his desk plotter catches my eye.
Have a one-night stand.
“How did you get that?” I ask, completely stunned that he has it.
“Get what?” Finn asks lifting his head.
“My Cards O’ Fun card.”
“It was on the hallway floor. It must have dropped out of your suitcase when you were getting your stuff,” he says resting his forehead back against me. “I thought it was funny so I kept it.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah, it’s how we first met, isn’t it?” he asks rhetorically. “You took the dare. You met me. And here we are.” He shrugs. “You’re not mad, are you?”
Because he can’t see me, he misses the cheesy grin on my face. “No. Not at all.”
And even minutes later when I snuggle in on the couch in his office, the click of his fingers on his keyboard as he keeps working lulling me to sleep, that cheesy grin is still there, still plastered on my lips.
What does it mean if you find a guy who keeps a sentimental token of what might be called your disastrous first date? Some might say a keeper, but this is Finn. Finnegan Alexander Sanderson. And something tells me that Finn isn’t a man who wants to be kept.
FINN
SEX IS A WEIRD THING.
It’s awesome obviously, but it’s also weird.
Like when you’re seeing someone, you have sex, and then have a valid excuse to leave. Like your own house. Your own life. It allows you to get a break from the person. You don’t answer the phone if you don’t want to talk. You don’t respond to texts if you’re afraid that you’re going to get sick of them too soon.
It connects you but then can also drive you apart. Sometimes you use it to do that on purpose.
Or at least I have.
So how are you supposed to handle the person when you’re living with them?
Even more so, what if that person is living with you, having sex with you, spending more time with you than you’ve ever spent with someone before, and you still aren’t sick of them? What the fuck does that mean?
That’s been
my train of thought as I take a long jog on the beach to clear my head.
My conclusion?
Does it fucking matter? I’ve slept with her to try and get over her.
That clearly didn’t work.
Now I’m sleeping with her knowing she’ll leave for the Open and then that will be that. Fling over. Time well spent. Mind-blowing sex had.
Stop fucking overthinking everything and just go with it.
So why am I picking up my pace to make sure I’m back at the house for when she gets home?
I jog down the street and purposely pretend to look at my watch as I move past Kristen’s house, ignoring her just like I’ve ignored the numerous texts she’s sent over the past few weeks.
I’m sure she’s more than curious who the woman was in my house. I’m even more certain the SUV with the dark, tinted windows, which pulls out from behind my gate every morning and arrives back every evening with Stevie inside, has Kristen even more desperate to understand why I’m ignoring her.
By the same token, I’ve let numerous clients use my house over the years so the neighbors should be used to the blacked-out windows and secrecy.
The only difference is I’ve been here the whole time too.
I punch in the gate code, my phone already in hand as I begin scrolling through the emails that have come in since I started my workout. One after another after another. Some bullshit. Some simply noise. Very few are pressing.
At least I’ll have the evening off, and then my mind goes to Stevie and what trouble we can get ourselves into.
Not a bad way to spend an evening.
And isn’t that funny? A few weeks ago, I’d consider a night alone with one woman, in my house no less, to be a sign of the apocalypse.
That’s not how I spend my nights. Typically, they involve my laptop, a glass of expensive whiskey, and maybe a game on TV. Other nights involve a woman, some time between her thighs, and then an excuse to leave.
