Famously First: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxy Reid

  But instead he flinched. Like that was the reason.

  A crippling sense of low self esteem. I wasn’t good enough for the great Charlie De Luca.

  He had a broken heart.

  It doesn’t make any sense. He said, We’re not right for each other. He said, We want different things. He said, I don’t love you anymore.

  Why would he say that if it broke his heart? Was he scared it wouldn’t work out? I don’t think Finn always liked himself, but it never stopped him from going after what he wanted.

  We settle at a cafe table. Even this late at night—or early in the morning—there are other customers. There’s a roof with ceiling fans, but other than that the seating area is outdoors.

  Finn’s sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, his face in perfect profile as he looks away from me, waiting for a waiter.

  I raise my camera out of habit, and snap a photo, even though I don’t think any of these photos will turn out. Most of the places we’ve been tonight are too dark, and if I use a flash I’ll end up with a washed out, squinty Finn.

  I should have told Finn as soon as I realized this was a waste of time, but I thought maybe he’d eventually let his guard down and give me something I can use for the False Prophet story.

  It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that maybe I like spending time with him.

  Because I don’t. I absolutely don’t. He’s only gotten more stubborn and arrogant with age.

  And those little snarky jokes of his aren’t as funny as he thinks they are.

  He had a broken heart.

  What would Finn’s heart ever have to break about? He’s a fucking billionaire rockstar. He has stadiums full of people adoring him every night. I shift restlessly in my seat.

  The only thing on the powdered-sugar stained menu is beignets and chicory coffee, so that’s what we order. I think of the powdered sugar and pack my camera away for safe-keeping.

  Something about the camera going away seems to relax Finn.

  “You really don’t like being photographed, do you?” I ask, wonderingly.

  Finn shrugs.

  “You never used to mind me photographing you,” I say.

  “You were the only one who ever looked at those photos,” Finn says.

  “Ouch,” I say.

  “You know what I mean. No one used to hear my songs either. It’s different now.”

  “I’ll say.” The legions of fans. The exposé I’m doing. The break up we can’t seem to talk about.

  Even the way he’s looking at me. Years ago, he looked at me in a way that thrilled and confused me, until I realized what it was.

  Want. Pure, unadulterated desire. It was addicting, to have someone you loved want you like that.

  There’s still want in his gaze—at least I think there is—but now it’s buried under mistrust and years of distance and a host of other things I can’t identify.

  It is, if I'm being honest, both thrilling and confusing.

  So maybe it’s not so different after all.

  I’m rescued from that uncomfortable thought by the arrival of our beignets and chicory coffee.

  The smell of butter and carbs fill the air as I take a bite. Powdered sugar and delicate flakes of pastry melt on my tongue.

  Across the table Finn gives me the ghost of a smile, “Better?”

  “Apparently, I was hungry?” I say, licking my fingers. The beignets come three to a plate, so technically we should each get one and a half but …

  “Go ahead. Take the third one. I’ll order another plate,” Finn says, laughing.

  The roll of his laughter is as rich as the butter-drenched beignets and, for once, utterly free of sarcasm. I feel myself relaxing under its warmth.

  I know it’s dangerous to relax. To let myself get used to having that laugh in my life again. Even if I wasn’t working on the exposé, we live in fundamentally different worlds now. We couldn’t even stay in each other’s lives when we worked across the street from each other. There’s no way Finn Ryan is in my life to stay.

  But his smile is easy and open as he slouches in his chair and smiles at me over his coffee.

  It’s 1:00 A.M., the moon is full, and I’m in New Orleans sitting across from the first man I ever loved.

  I don’t want to fight anymore. And I don’t want to fight liking him anymore.

  I take a sip of my own coffee, which is richer and smokier than I’m used to.

  “What do you say?” I ask. “Truce until dawn?”

  His smile fades, and for a moment I’m worried I’ve ruined the moment, but then he nods seriously, and holds up his mug, like we’re toasting, “Truce until dawn.”

  We clink mugs then drink, like medieval knights formalizing an oath. I feel silly as I set down my mug, but also like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest.

  “So,” Finn says, tearing off a piece of beignet and popping it into his mouth, “what have you been doing for ten years?”

  We talk for hours and hours. I’m drunk on sugar and coffee and Finn, and I know it will hurt when I land—there’s no way we can really be friends—but for right now I don’t care.

  I tell him about meeting my best friend in college and the horrible bridesmaid dress I wore for her wedding last summer. I tell him about my first grown-up job, about my photography business. About how it’s almost what I want, but not quite. About how I still get homesick for my family sometimes.

  He tells me about the summer he spent traveling the country, broke and lonely, slowly building connections and getting experience, until someone introduced him to Bridget. I bite my tongue, refusing to point out that he made the choice to be lonely that summer, because we’re inside the truce and I don’t want to pop the bubble.

  He tells me about how he met Owen and Mariana, and recording his first album, and how great that was. He tells me about his brother’s divorce, and recording his other albums with Zane, and how horrible that was.

  When I tell him it’s a good thing he never has to work with Zane again he hesitates, like there’s something he wants to tell me. My senses prickle, and I wonder if this is it, if this is my story. But then he changes the topic abruptly.

  It might be a truce, but there are still things we’re both holding back.

  Like, for example, that I’m fantasizing about leaning over the table, and licking that powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. I wonder if he’d taste sweet like sugar or rich like butter.

  It’s the grey of pre-dawn when Finn realizes we’re a block from the Mississippi and decides we should watch the sun rise over it. I agree because I don’t want the night to end. So he pays, and we wander behind Cafe du Monde and toward the river.

  The Mississippi is flat and wide, and somehow more still than I’m used to rivers being. I lift my camera from the place where it’s still hanging around my neck and turn it on to capture the water.

  Finn groans, “Oh come on. You’re off for the night.”

  “This one’s for me,” I say, peering through the lens. It’s almost dawn now, and there’s just enough light that I think this one will actually turn out well.

  I shoot my fill, trying out different angles and focal points.

  I’m about to put the camera away. But instead I follow my instinct and turn the camera on Finn.

  “Hey! You said this was just for you,” Finn protests, holding his hands up like I’m the paparazzi.

  “This one’s for me too,” I say.

  For a moment Finn hesitates, but then he lowers his hands and lets me look at him. And maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation, but when he drops his mask and lets me in, it feels like a kind of communion.

  Finn makes my chest ache; he’s so beautiful. Not in a generic catalogue kind of way. No, Finn’s beauty is all high cheekbones, day old scruff, dark hair, and a mouth made for wicked smiles. There’s the faint scar along his temple, almost invisible, that he got standing up to a bully as a kid.

  And then there ar
e his eyes. Tired but relaxed, drinking me in, while I try and figure out how to fit everything that he is into a single, frozen image.

  I almost don’t want to press the button, because I don’t want this moment to end, but the sun is rising. The truce is almost up.

  One way or another this weird, magic night is ending.

  Still, I hesitate.

  “You said I had until dawn?” Finn says, like he’s reading my mind.

  “That’s what we agreed.”

  He takes a deep breath, like he’s gearing himself up to do something difficult. He steps toward me, and I snap photos on reflex. It’s that or drop the camera and kiss him. His face is getting closer, more intense, less in focus, until his hands are on my forearms, making me lower my camera.

  Making me lower my defense.

  His hands are so warm, and strong, and he’s so close, his face intent. My heart is racing and slowing down all at once.

  “Charlie I know this will sound stupid and ridiculous, and I don’t have any right to ask. You’re either going to slap me or make fun of me until we’re both dead, but hell, I’ve got until dawn, and if there’s even a chance—”

  I kiss him.

  He stills, like I’ve caught him off guard, but before I have time to get self-conscious, he’s kissing me back, and the sweetness of his lips is giving away to the heat of his mouth. Finn sinks his hands into my hair, and the casual possessiveness of it turns me inside out.

  I reach up to return the favor, but Finn breaks away.

  “Charlie, this isn’t what I … We need to talk about … Fuck it.”

  He grabs me and kisses me, so forceful I realize he was holding back before. Letting me steer.

  He’s not letting me steer now. He’s overwhelming me, and I can’t catch my breath.

  And oh God, his taste is like coming home. It’s as easy as kissing a lover and as hot as kissing a stranger.

  I whimper a little into his mouth, and the responding sound from him makes me clench and soften all at once. My hands go where they want to, up his chest to those broad shoulders.

  He’s so much stronger than I remember. Or maybe I just know to appreciate it now.

  Finn’s hands slide up under my sweater, and my stomach flips, but instead of moving up, where I desperately want him to go, he grips the small of my back and roughly pulls me toward him. He’s too forceful, and my knees knock into his shins. I grab him for balance, and he uses the motion as an excuse to lift me up until I’m halfway off my toes, his big hands sinking into my butt as he presses me into his hardness.

  Oh God. Yes. Yes, he’s definitely stronger.

  I want to press closer, but my camera is jabbing me, and I start to pull back, dimly aware I should find a solution to that problem.

  Finn’s oblivious to any jabbing though, and follows my lips as I try to draw away. And, ok, I don’t try very hard to break away. In every way a woman can, I’m begging to be seduced.

  I could blame it on how long it’s been since the last time I had a date, let alone got laid.

  But the truth is, it’s Finn. It’s just Finn. I rock my hips into him, and he groans in a way that makes me feel very, very feminine.

  The first rays of sunlight are slanting over his skin, over mine.

  I shouldn’t be doing this.

  But I want to.

  Finally, I muster the strength to turn my head and break the kiss.

  Finn takes it as an invitation to trail his lips down my neck, finding that spot I’ve always liked. I gasp, and the sound makes him shudder. This time it’s his turn to pull back, just enough to press his forehead against mine.

  “This is …” Finn trails off, his voice rough.

  “Yeah,” I say. My voice isn’t much better.

  “The last time a woman kissed me like that I bought a ring,” he says, and I jolt.

  Finn bought a woman a ring? Is he … No, obviously not. He’s not engaged. A) The internet would know, and B) Finn would never, ever be kissing me if he was in love with another woman.

  Still, it’s like cold water to the face. I might think I know him, but I really, really don’t. The only things I know for sure are that he broke my heart and my professional future rests on taking him down.

  “No, no don’t get that look on your face,” Finn kisses me again, but I shake my head against his mouth, and he pulls away with a groan.

  “Charlie, don’t—” He grabs my chin, “Charlie please. This wasn’t what I meant to … Not that I didn’t … that I don’t …”

  I jerk my chin out of his grasp.

  “If you’d just come back to my room and let me explain.”

  “I do not want to go back to your hotel room,” I lie.

  My hips grind into his, even as I say it. I’m one more good kiss away from changing my mind and begging him to come back to my room, but for once Finn can’t tell that I’m lying.

  Slowly, he releases me until my feet are flat on the ground again.

  I don’t know how I thought kissing him would end, but neither one of us are getting what we want. What we need.

  Finn looks out to the Mississippi river, running a hand through his hair as he tries to get himself under control.

  A jogger goes by, her eyes widening when she sees Finn. I hope it’s because she recognizes him and not because she’s noticed his giant hard-on.

  Either way, I move in front of him and glare at her. I must look fierce, or maybe just unhinged, because she whips her gaze away and runs faster.

  Finally, Finn looks back at me, “I don’t get it. You kissed me. Did I do something wrong?”

  Yes. No. You just reminded me that I don’t know you at all, and my job is to wreck your career.

  “It’s dawn,” I say, scornfully. “What did you think was going to happen?”

  I’m talking to myself as much as him. But just like that I watch his face close off.

  “Right. Dawn. Truce over,” he checks his watch, and the casualness of his movements feels like a personal insult. “The jet leaves in three hours. I don’t tolerate lateness.” Finn turns on his heel and begins walking briskly toward the hotel.

  I refuse to watch him walk away. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and face the Mississippi, trying not to feel like I’ve just lost the possibility of something wonderful.

  7

  Finn

  I stand with everyone on the tarmac as they hook the rolling stairs up to the plane. I’m in a foul mood. I’m sleep deprived, sexually frustrated, and, worst of all, I’ve got a meeting with Zane Wright as soon as we land in Chicago.

  I look around, then check my watch. Charlie’s not here yet.

  I shouldn’t have kissed her. I know I shouldn’t have kissed her. No matter what we once were, we’re not that now, and she works for me, even if she keeps forgetting it.

  I shouldn’t have kissed her, but hell.

  That kiss.

  She was hot and sweet and, for a few heartbeats, mine.

  I meant to take a cold shower at the hotel, but I couldn’t get her kiss out of my head, and I ended up jerking off to her in the shower.

  Which, hello, haven’t done that in ten years.

  The guilt is about the same as it was back then, but the fantasies are much more vivid.

  I look at the time and swear. I’m going to miss my meeting with Zane. It took an unholy amount of groveling to get him to meet with me in the first place.

  “Has anyone seen Charlie?” I shout.

  “I’m here!”

  I look up to see her jogging across the tarmac, wrapped in a giant black hoodie, and weighed down by three camera bags and her suitcase.

  Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright when she comes to a stop in front of me, and despite the Zane thing, my mind immediately does a swan dive into the gutter.

  I scowl, “I said I don’t tolerate lateness.”

  “Well, I don’t tolerate less than three hours of sleep,” Charlie barks back at me.

  I make a str
angled sound of fury in the back of my throat, “Charlie. I need you to take this job seriously.”

  “It’s a private jet, Finn! What the hell do you care if I’m five minutes late?”

  Because I have a meeting I can’t miss with my least favorite person in the world.

  But instead I say, “Just be a professional for once in your life.”

  Charlie’s face goes white. She looks like I just hit her.

  She takes a step closer to me than hisses so only I can hear, “Just because I didn’t want to sleep with you does not give you the right to treat me like shit. You’ve always been an asshole, Finn. But you never used to be that kind of asshole.”

  She shoves past me and starts climbing up the stairs to the jet. Owen hurries to help with all her bags, and she thanks him with a blinding smile that makes me want to punch something.

  “What’s with her?” Mariana asks on her way to the stairs.

  “I don’t know. Why would I know?”

  Mariana narrows her eyes at me, “What’s with you?”

  “Nothing,” I growl.

  Absolutely fucking nothing.

  We’re an hour into the flight, and I can’t get Charlie’s words out of my head. I’ve cooled down enough to think about it from her perspective: I hired her, tried to have sex with her, then publicly accused her of unprofessionalism when she said no.

  If another man did that to Charlie, I’d fucking kill him.

  There are things I can’t control. I can’t control that Zane is my only option. I can’t control that, apparently, I need a partner just to write a shitty pop song.

  But I can control whether or not Charlie feels safe and respected when she’s working on my tour.

  I check out the rest of the jet. Everyone else is sleeping or has headphones in.

  I make my way back to Charlie. She’s sitting by herself in the very last row of the jet. She’s picked the seat that is the absolute farthest from where I’m sitting, and she’s curled up against the window, with her headphones in, her eyes closed.

  The giant sweatshirt and the bags under her eyes make her look vulnerable, and I feel even more like an ass. I tried to manipulate her into forgiving me so she’d solve my songwriting problems, and then when she misunderstood, instead of coming clean like an adult, I kissed her like a starving man. And then when, like a sane woman, she wouldn’t come back to my hotel room, I acted like a spoiled kid who didn’t get the toy he wanted.