Finn leaned closer, running his nose along the column of her neck, and it was so easy to forget everything when he touched her so reverently. So easy to block out all the horrible memories they shared when he held her like she meant something. So easy to shove aside all their history.
At least, until Finn rubbed a circle against her hip over the material of her shorts, his fingers in the general vicinity of the brand she’d had put on her ten long years ago.
“You still have my bird on you, Willowtree?” His lips pressed against her ear, his voice a quiet rumble that ricocheted through her entire body, first sending a shiver down her spine before snapping it straight.
The tattoos they’d gotten on her eighteenth birthday had been one of her last acts of rebellion. And, unfortunately, had become a daily reminder of how much she’d misjudged someone she’d thought she’d known better than anyone. A daily reminder of her failures, one she couldn’t run from.
As his words charged the space between them, she didn’t pause to think—didn’t turn around and give Finn a piece of her mind, didn’t so much as stomp on his foot. Instead, she plucked his hand from around her waist and walked off the dance floor without a backward glance, ready to get the hell out of this bar. What had started out as a night to forget everything Finn had brought to her doorstep ended up only serving as a reminder of exactly why everything about him was a bad idea. He had trouble written all over him, and if her reactions were anything to go by, she couldn’t trust herself around him, not even with their sordid history.
If Finn wouldn’t stay away from her, she’d make damn sure she stayed the hell away from him.
Late May in Mississippi was not the time to be working on renovations in a closed-in space without a functioning air conditioner, but they didn’t have much of a choice. The stale, thick air hung in the former soda fountain, the humidity nearly choking Finn. He wanted nothing more than to spend the next hour in a walk-in freezer, but that wasn’t going to happen.
“Jesus,” Drew said, swiping his arm across his forehead. “It’s hotter than two rabbits fucking in a wool sock.”
Nash barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he hauled in a few replacement planks of wood for the floors. “Y’all’ve gone soft on me. It hasn’t even hit ninety yet. Quit your bitchin’.”
Ten years in California probably had made Finn go a little soft, but facts were facts. And the fact was it was hot as hell in there. “Drew’s right. When can we get some ceiling fans in here? And get that new AC installed?”
“AC is on order. As for the fans, soon as we get the ceiling done up. Y’all decide for sure if you want them covered in that old barn wood I’ve got?”
Finn nodded, thinking over what he, Drew, and Nola had discussed over the past few days. They’d spent the weekend sizing up the competition, seeing what their interiors looked like, what kind of vibe they gave off. It’d turned out the three of them were in agreement on one thing: they had no interest in going the typical honky-tonk route. Instead, they wanted something with an industrial vibe—old, reclaimed wood and corrugated steel all blended together.
The only problem they were having was figuring out how, exactly, to incorporate it all. Finn didn’t know a sconce from a hole in the wall, which meant it felt like he had his head up his ass most of the time. He could pick out what he liked for all the different pieces they’d need, but he had no idea if it’d all flow together well or look like a hodgepodge of randomness. They really should’ve budgeted for a designer, because he wasn’t so sure the three of them could pull it off without help, and this place was too important to wing it.
Friday night, they’d headed to a place in Parkersville, almost an hour away. The bar had been a bit of a dive, but then again, there hadn’t ever been much competition around the area. The people of Havenbrook had always had to go outside the county lines to get to a bar of any sort—and it was clear those bars hadn’t had to do much at all to bring in customers.
Saturday night, they’d narrowed their search, coming closer to town and closer to their more immediate competition. Finn’s first impression of Ropers had been mediocre at best. Nothing about it had stood out to him—at least, not until he’d spotted Willow across the bar, sitting at a high-top table. She’d been with her assistant from work and a girl who, based on his memories, looked a hell of a lot like Willow’s younger sister Mac. Shock at seeing Willow there had faded into that ever-present attraction as he’d stared at her, noticing the low dip of her shirt and how much of her legs had been on display in those nearly indecent shorts she’d worn.
After that, Finn had had no hope of noticing anything but her. He’d kept his eyes glued to her as he’d followed Drew and Nola around the place, pretending like he was paying attention to what they’d been saying about the decor, the band, the beer selection. Truth was, he’d been thinking only of Willow. His body had been wired into her presence—that hadn’t changed over the years. And even with twenty feet separating them, he’d felt the buzz in his veins.
That pleasant hum he’d always welcomed in Willow’s vicinity had turned into an unmistakable surge of jealousy when some dickhead had taken her out on the dance floor. Finn knew he’d had no right to feel it, knew it wasn’t his place. Knew it made him an asshole for it too. Even worse, though, had been when he’d told the other guy to fuck off and had taken his place behind her, allowing himself the pleasure of putting his hands on her.
It’d been a chaste touch, only his hands on her hips, but the sensation had shot straight to his cock, hardening it like steel. Willow had done a good job of pretending not to notice when Finn had stepped up behind her, but there was no denying how aware she’d become as soon as his hands had settled on her.
Having her tight little ass pressed right up against his cock had brought him nearly to the brink of insanity. But Jesus, what a way to go. And then, because it hadn’t been enough for him, he’d had to push. Too damn hard, too damn fast, and off she’d shot like her ass had been on fire, fleeing from him as fast as she could.
And he’d done nothing but spend the past few days thinking about what an idiot he was.
“All right then,” Nash said, placing the wood planks in the corner and pulling Finn back to the present. “I’ll get those boards hauled in tomorrow and start workin’ on that so we can get some ceiling fans in place for you sissies. Until then, I reckon I’ll run over and buy some box fans so you delicate pansies don’t wilt.”
Drew just laughed as Finn gave Nash a one-finger salute. Finn’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to find a text from Nola.
Willow needs some paperwork signed. Can you swing over to town hall?
Finn glanced down at himself, bare chest covered in a sheen of sweat, patches of dirt caked on his skin. No, he wasn’t exactly town hall appropriate.
Can you check if Willow can bring it by instead?
He went to put his phone back in his pocket, but Nola’s response came right away.
Uh, no. If you want Will to be your errand girl, grow some balls and tell her yourself. Godspeed.
Willow’s number came through a second later as a contact attachment. Finn chuckled, shaking his head. His charms hadn’t been tested this much in a while, and he knew damn well they’d get a workout when it came to Willow. Knew, too, it was probably a really bad idea to call her and ask this. Still, he dialed the number Nola had sent, waiting for Willow to answer.
“Hello?” Her voice was wary, probably because his number was one she wasn’t familiar with.
“Hey, it’s Finn.”
There was a brief pause before she asked, “Why’re you callin’ me on my private number?” Her voice was tight, that anger he’d only recently seen come out simmering under the surface. He’d never had that anger directed at him before—had never given her a reason for it to be. And he shouldn’t like it as much as he did, but there was no denying Willow was hot as hell when she was fired up.
“Ah, sorry,” he said. “Nola sent it to
me. Said you had some paperwork that needed to be signed.”
Willow made an impatient huff. “I’m still not seeing why that involves calling my cell phone, Griffin. I have an office phone for a reason, especially considering this is office business.”
He closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand down his face, hating every time she uttered his full name. Knowing damn well she was using it as a way to put up imaginary bricks between them. She could keep putting them up all she wanted, and as long as he was there, he’d keep knocking them down.
Finn ran a hand through his hair. “Drew and I are workin’ in the bar today with Nash. We’re not exactly dressed for town hall. Any chance you can swing that on by?”
Nothing but silence came from her end, and he could just imagine her in her office, her jaw tight, paperwork clenched in her fist. He waited for her to tell him to try his hand at skydiving, minus the parachute.
Instead, she snapped, “Fine.” Then the line went dead.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and glanced up at Drew, who was watching him intently.
Drew raised a brow. “How’s that plan of yours workin’?”
“Fuck off,” Finn said and turned his back on his brother.
Drew’s laughter followed Finn as he went back to pulling off another section of baseboards. The truth was he didn’t have a plan, not when it came to Willow. And maybe that was the problem. All he wanted to do was make sure she was happy here, that his leaving had served a bigger purpose. But it seemed like any time they got around each other, all common sense fled his head.
He didn’t know what he’d have to do to get through to her, to get her to actually have a conversation with him, but he wasn’t giving up just yet.
HOURS LATER, Finn was spackling a bit of plaster by the ceiling, Drew and Nash having just slipped out to wheel a few salvage loads from the back room out to the dumpster. He’d managed to stop checking the clock a while earlier, but that hadn’t made the time go by any faster, wondering when Willow would get over her anger and stop by.
He heard her before he saw her, the click of her heels on the sidewalk outside drawing his gaze toward the opened door where she walked through, taking a tentative step into his building.
And damn. Damn.
While he would always prefer the more casual Willow—the girl who was at home in paint-stained tank tops and cutoffs—he couldn’t deny how well she pulled off a suit. The tight, mid-thigh length skirt clung to the tantalizing curves of her hips…hips he’d had under his hands mere days before. She wore a bright red sleeveless top tucked into the waistband of her skirt, no doubt having shed her jacket in her office in deference to the heat.
Her dark hair hung down her back, loose waves framing her face. Cool detachment was written along every inch of her body and a fake smile on her pouty pink lips. At least, until she took in the space around Finn, no doubt a mess in her eyes, and realized no one else was around. It was just the two of them. That fake smile dropped like an anchor.
“Hey, Willowtree.” He climbed down from the ladder, setting the plastering trowel and mud pan on the old counter.
“Stop calling me that,” she snapped. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, like she was trying to get herself under control. Trying to rein in that temper that only intrigued Finn. When she opened her eyes again, she looked anywhere but at him, taking in the place that was in utter disarray. “Where’re Drew and Nash?”
“Around.” He hated how his gut twisted when she asked about the other guys, one of whom was his brother. But Nash…shit, for all Finn knew, Willow and Nash had dated at some point. It wouldn’t be so farfetched, considering the small pool of available people their age in Havenbrook. Nash was a couple years younger than her, having graduated with the youngest of the Haven girls, Natalie. But that didn’t mean anything.
“Why, you need them for somethin’?” he asked. As if he could wipe the make-believe images of Willow and Nash together from his mind, he plucked the T-shirt he’d tucked into the waistband of his shorts and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. That did fuck-all to get thoughts of Willow with some other guy from his mind—which was dumb as hell because of course she’d been with other men while he’d been gone. It’d been ten years. And besides being stunning as hell, she was smart. Funny. Kind. Generous. She was everything any sane man would want by his side.
And Finn had just walked away.
He’d kicked himself daily for that over the past ten years, but he’d stayed away. He’d managed to keep himself from running back because, while the circumstances surrounding his departure hadn’t left him much choice in the matter, he’d been sure he’d done it for her benefit. That his being gone had allowed Willow to become the person she was meant to become instead of being weighed down by him.
Shaking those thoughts from his head, he ran his shirt down his chest to wipe away the sheen of sweat and glanced back at Willow, realizing her eyes were trained on his hand as it brushed the cloth across his abs.
“Willow?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Why’d you want to know?”
“What?” she asked, snapping her eyes to his. “Oh, just wondering.” She averted her gaze and crossed her arms over her chest, but not before he caught sight of her nipples straining at the material of her shirt, dark shadows beneath all that red. And since it sure as shit wasn’t cool in here, that meant one thing.
Willow was still attracted to him.
And it might make him an asshole, but if that was what he had to use to get her to come around to talking to him, so be it. He’d pull out every obnoxious play in the book if she’d just tell him about her life.
She cleared her throat and thrust the paperwork in his direction. “I just need your signature on these. You missed a couple pages last week.”
He stepped closer to her, trying hard not to smirk when she stiffened. Then he brushed his fingers over hers as he pulled the papers from her hand. “Happy to give you anything you need, Willowtree.”
Her nostrils flared, the anger she was suppressing clearly written over every inch of her. But instead of chastising him for using her nickname from when they’d been teenagers, or for lacing his statement with an innuendo he was certain she’d picked up on, she just squared her shoulders. “You can go ahead and drop ’em by later today.”
“Much as I’d love to visit you in your office again, I’m afraid I’m not fit for public viewing for the foreseeable future.” Finn gestured to himself, the sheen of sweat he’d wiped away already replaced thanks to the heat.
Her eyes dropped to once again take in his appearance, a flush working its way up her neck and to her cheeks. Just as quickly as her eyes had dropped to observe him, they darted off to the side, staring instead out the grimy front windows. “I’m sure you can find another shirt.”
That much was true, especially since Finn and Drew were staying upstairs in the apartment for the time being. “C’mon, it’ll just take a minute,” he said. “I can sign them now. I was gonna break for lunch anyway.” He strode toward the stairs at the back of the space, intent on heading up to slap together a sandwich. He looked back at her and tilted his head in the direction of the stairway. “If you come on up, I’ll share with you. I’ll even make it for you—peanut butter and banana sandwiches, your favorite.”
It was only a brief moment where her expression changed, but he saw it—saw how her eyes softened the tiniest bit at the mention of her old favorite. The night before he’d left, they’d had a picnic in her tree house, one he’d prepared for her himself. Other girls might’ve wanted candlelight and fancy restaurants, but Willow had always been satisfied with anything, so long as they’d been together.
The memory was bittersweet, tugging at his chest. He watched as the same emotions played out over her face. That softness in her eyes lasted for only a moment before she hardened her features once again.
“I do not want to share your lunch, Griffin. As lovely as the offer is.” Sarcasm dri
pped from every word, her sweet Southern front dialed to ten. “What I’d like is for you to sign the papers so I can go back to work.”
He nodded, knowing when not to push. Tossing the papers down, he glanced around under the guise of looking for a pen, hoping if he couldn’t get her upstairs to talk, she’d be up for sharing a bit right there. “How’re you liking it?”
“You wastin’ my time?” she asked. “Not at all, actually.”
Finn shot her a smile over his shoulder. “I meant workin’ for your daddy.”
“I like it just fine,” she said, arms crossed and spine straight.
“Better than painting?” He didn’t stare at her as he waited for the answer, hoping if he pretended his attention was snagged by the paperwork in front of him rather than her answer, she’d be more inclined to respond.
She was silent for so long, he finally glanced over his shoulder at her in time to see her shake her head at him. “Look, I’m not sure what you think is happenin’ here, but you lost the right to ask me questions like that when you left town without a word. Ten freakin’ years ago. If you want insights on my life, you’re gonna have to ask around town, because you’re sure as hell not gonna get any from these lips.”
He dropped his gaze to said lips, flushed and pink, the barest hint of moisture there, as if she’d just licked them. He remembered what it’d been like to have that mouth on him. Remembered in great detail, actually. While he’d always liked to call up those memories in previous years, it had gotten ridiculous over the past week. Thoughts of Willow had been his morning companion in the shower as he’d taken his cock in hand and worked himself to completion over the fantasy of her under him. Astride him. Bent over in front of him. Dozens upon dozens of different ways, only one of which he’d ever actually had the pleasure of experiencing. Because he’d bailed.
Second Chance Charmer (Havenbrook Book 1) Page 6
