Two Weeks and a Day (Finn's Pub Romance Book 2)

by R. G. Alexander

  I can think of one or two things. “Right.”

  “And whether you know it or not, mister, you are very popular up here. All our regulars rave about your massage skills. I’ve been tempted to make an appointment myself, but I’m so busy with this job, my two kids and the in-laws who decided to move in right across the street—thank you very much—I have a feeling that if I ever let myself relax I’d fall asleep and not wake up until retirement.”

  This is the most she’s talked to me in three years. I didn’t even know she was married. “I know what you mean.”

  And I do. Whether she knows it or not, I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now. My virgin years ended with a vengeance. I have a new deck. A new dog. A Fred.

  She wants me to be her legal guardian. Me.

  That’s one of the reasons behind my sudden desire to get an actual haircut instead of trimming it myself. And yes, that’s what I’ve been doing.

  Relax, it’s just hair.

  I’ve always been responsible. I have a decent nest egg growing for my retirement, a house in my name, a car I don’t owe anything on and a skill set that insures I’ll always have a job. But I need to look more respectable.

  I know how big a deal this is. And I made sure Fred knows that if I sign on to this, I’m not going to be a hostel she squats in until Emancipation Day. I’ll want her to stay, graduate from high school and get into a good college. I want her to be able to do something with all that brainpower. Maybe even change the world.

  I have no doubt she can do it.

  Taking Fred on isn’t entirely selfless. Having her around on a permanent basis would be good for me. It would help get me out of my own head and out of this funk I’ve fallen into since Brendan left.

  Three days. He went to see his father three days ago, and he hasn’t gotten back yet. Most of his luggage is still here, but with only two days left of his two-week suspension, it’s getting pretty clear that I need to get used to life without him again. To be good with short, sporadic visits and the way things used to be.

  I can do that.

  So far I’m not handling it as well as I’d like. But the brand-new case of insomnia I suddenly developed has given me enough time to do a quick renovation of the guest bathroom in case Fred decides to stay. So, that’s kept my mind off my heartbreak and the empty bed I couldn’t sleep a wink in last night. I wonder what I’ll have to do this time.

  Betty is still chatting, and I tune back in just in time to catch the tail end of her monologue. “I heard her product party was a success, but I had no idea she’d made enough to suddenly go flying off to Paris.”

  “What? Who are you talking about?”

  “Austen Wayne,” Betty says. “I’ve been talking about her for five minutes.”

  “Who told you Austen is flying to Paris?”

  She would have told me if she were making plans like that, right? I just talked to her last night and she didn’t say anything other than she wouldn’t be in today.

  Betty waves her arms expressively and I worrying about random eyes getting poked out. Maybe my legal guardian instincts are already kicking in.

  “Nina at the front desk?” she says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Austen called and Nina heard her tell the boss she was still paying for her space, but she’d be gone for a week. Paris was mentioned. I thought you two were friends. Didn’t she tell you?”

  I dip into my pocket for my phone and try to send a quick text without Betty reading it.

  Me: Paris?!

  Austen: I thought you didn’t listen to gossip.

  Me: Getting my haircut upstairs. See? We both keep secrets.

  Austen: *&%$!!!

  Me: So…Paris?

  Austen: Long weekend, Cupid. He handed me tickets this morning. Am I insane?

  Royal. That son of a bitch is good. But he’s also a good match for her. I’ve never seen two people come together this easily before. Like they’ve been dating for years instead of days.

  Like they fit.

  “Confirmed,” I say out loud. “Austen is going to Paris with Royal.”

  Shit. I think the fumes in the salon have actually gotten to me.

  That’s my story. Go with it.

  “Who is Royal?” Betty asks immediately, reminding me of a shark circling chum.

  Unfortunately, a woman in the middle of getting a dye job two chairs down speaks up. “If that’s the sexy beast who was at her beck and call at the GPP last Thursday, then she’s the luckiest girl on the planet. He was huge.”

  I snort and send Austen another message.

  Me: You can never come back here. They know.

  Austen: I don’t care. But you didn’t answer my question.

  What am I supposed to tell her? Is flying to Paris with a man she’s technically known only a few days insane? On paper, sure. But is it any more insane than falling for your straight best friend, then throwing yourself at him as soon as he gets curious and damn the consequences?

  At least Austen’s crazy has a happy ending.

  Me: Insane in the best possible way. Go. Drink wine, eat smelly cheese and stare at his glorious calves in Paris.

  Austen: You think my calves are glorious too? I though you only loved me for my nail gun skills.

  Austen: Sorry! He stole my phone. I’m going! Another Wayne bites the dust. What about you? Any news?

  Me: I’ll still be here when you get back. But with shorter hair.

  I put my phone away and try not to let feeling sorry for myself get in the way of my happiness for Royal and Austen.

  Betty squeezes my shoulder. “You’re a good friend.”

  Yep. She was definitely reading over my shoulder.

  “I am,” I say with forced lightness. “Remind me to tell you how I got those two together. And then got locked in a room for an hour.”

  She laughs and spins the chair around to face the mirror, unsnapping my cape with a flourish. “All done.”

  Before I look, I make myself a promise. This is a fresh start. A new haircut and a new Miller Day. It’s time to grow up and face the truth about where things aren’t going with Brendan.

  My handsome pilot isn’t taking me to Paris. Not that I want to go to Paris, but if I did, I’m pretty sure it would be on my own.

  I was right about our lives being too different. The last few days have been a good example. I’m complaining about shelling out the money for a decent haircut and Brendan is likely at a country club having cocktails with his rich father’s investors.

  To be fair, I know he doesn’t care about any of that, and for his sake I hope they can find some common ground. But either way, when it’s done he’ll go back to his carefree globetrotting life and, like I told Austen, I’ll still be here.

  Didn’t you just say it was time for a new Miller Day? A fresh start?

  The voice in my head is right. Maybe I’ll start saving up for a vacation instead of another house project. The house is done. Why mess with perfection?

  Who are you?

  I have no idea.

  “Are you ever going to look in the mirror, Miller?” Thankfully Betty sounds amused instead of irritated. “I can’t gloat until you do. And I love to gloat.”

  I look in the beveled glass and have the strangest desire to pinch myself. “Holy shit.”

  Betty can be mean as a snake, but it’s clear she knows what she’s doing career-wise. I look like a new man. The haircut is short in the back and on the sides, the sweep in the front enhancing my natural red and gold highlights. I look more mature, despite the freckles. I don’t want to say sexy but… “This is amazing.”

  “I know.” Betty is practically dancing in her heels when a smattering of applause comes from the other stylists and their clients. “He looks like a cover of GQ now, doesn’t he? I wish I’d taken a before and after picture. He was hiding so much hotness underneath that shag.”

  I’m not hiding anymore.

  “Betty.” Nina’s voice comes over the PA system
. “I can hear you up there. Please tell GQ his appointment is in room one.”

  I pull out my credit card but Betty waves it away. “You’ve already made my week, Miller. Just let me see your phone and we’ll call it even.”

  I hesitantly hand her my phone, blushing when she takes a picture of me. Then she types something rapidly and hands it back with her trademark smirk.

  She sent another message to Austen with my picture attached.

  Me: Betty is the best.

  ***-***

  Brendan

  What is taking him so long?

  I bribed the lady at the front desk to slip me into the private room before letting him know “his client” had arrived. She informed me that Miller was upstairs getting a haircut, so I was safe.

  Why is he cutting his hair?

  I’ve been racing around the room since then, stripping off my clothes, finding the switch to dim the lights and slipping a CD into the player—Peruvian flute, which is the sexiest music available at the moment. I’m working with a limited arsenal here.

  Everything needs to be perfect.

  I’m a man on a mission. The last few days with my father were like a high budget Scrooge reenactment in my honor.

  Here’s a ghost from your past, in the present, telling you about your shitty future if you ever let yourself turn out like him.

  The last time I’d talked to him—less than a year after my mother died—he asked me to sell back her stocks in the company. But after what he said yesterday, I made sure he paid what they were worth before I cut him out of my life for good.

  I chose my real family a long time ago, and the conversations Miller’s been having with me on the phone for the last few days—about starting a family of his own—showing me that now might be the perfect time to make it clear that I want to be a part of that future. With him.

  Even JD would think this is romantic.

  I hear steps in the hall and get in position on the massage table, covering my ass with a sheet and my head with the closest available pillow.

  I hope he likes the surprise.

  “Nina, did you turn on the—oh.” There’s a long pause, then I hear him pick up the clipboard with the fake name and details I scribbled on there while I waited.

  “Mr. N. Cage?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I’m trying not to laugh, because yeah, Nicholas Cage.

  “Mr. Cage,” he says matter-of-factly, setting down the clipboard. “I’ll admit I don’t have many male clients, but I do know all about the lower back injury you say you’re suffering from. Would you like to discuss what I intend to do, or should I just show you instead?”

  Does that sound as suggestive as I think it does? He knows it’s me, right? I mean, I don’t have any tattoos or birthmarks, but if anyone can pick my body out of a lineup, it should be Miller.

  Without revealing myself, I hold up two fingers.

  “Option two. Great choice. I can’t wait to get a feel for your problem.”

  Okay, he’s got to be fucking with me.

  When he doesn’t rip the pillow away or give me hell for not letting him know I was coming back today, I’m honestly not sure what to do next.

  Why do I try to plan things? They never go the way I expect them to.

  When he starts rubbing the warmed oil into my tense arms, my shoulders, my back… What was I saying again?

  The pillow muffles my groan of ecstasy. I can’t even describe what he’s doing, but he’s finding and fixing aches I didn’t know I had. I’ve never been this relaxed in my life. I’m even starting to dig the flutes.

  Which is why it takes me a minute to react after his hands slip beneath the sheet and start to rub my ass.

  “You’re holding a lot of tension here, Mr. Cage,” he purrs, kneading the cheeks in a way that makes my cock instantly swell and demand to be let in on the conversation.

  What the fuck?

  “Relax. You know, you remind me of someone, Mr. Cage. He was a hard ass too. Excuse me, has a hard ass. If he hadn’t disappeared on me a few days ago, I might have done something like this for him.”

  He slides one warm, slicked-up finger through my crack, lightly glancing the sensitive nerves in between, and my entire body starts to heat up. I’m actually tingling.

  “Jesus,” I mutter.

  “I think this is the kind of deep, thorough massaging he needed.” His fingers return again and again. A small rub. A teasing circle.

  Then he starts massaging the tight bundle of muscles and I’m so hard I can barely get the words out. “Do it.”

  “Mr. Cage?”

  I toss the pillow on the floor and push up on one elbow, twisting to reach for him. “Stop fucking teasing me and do it, Miller. Let me feel it.”

  I snag the back of his neck but there’s nothing to grab onto. “Damn haircut,” I grumble, pulling him down to kiss him in a way that leaves no doubt who I am and how much I’ve missed him.

  “Do it,” I repeat the command against his lips. “I know you’ve thought about it. Let’s see if we can keep that wild streak going.”

  “Breathe out,” he whispers, excitement deepening his voice as he pushes inside with his thick, slippery finger.

  “Oh fuck,” I gasp, my ass clenching at the invasion. “Miller.”

  “Relax.” He kisses me again, almost breathing for me until I get used to the sensation.

  “Don’t stop.” My voice is shaking. I’m shaking. I’m not even sure if I like it, but I need him to keep going. “Please.”

  His thrusts are slow and shallow at first, his other hand caressing my jaw, soothing me as he fingers my ass. “Let me know when you want more.”

  “More,” I say immediately, not knowing if it’s true. My dick thinks it is. I have to get up on my knees or risk leaving a permanent dent in the massage table.

  “You like it.” Miller’s voice is almost hypnotic as he adds another finger to the first. “Don’t you, Mr. Cage?”

  I puff out a laugh and reach for his cock. “You’ve got too many clothes on, Mr. Smartass.”

  He pushes his sweatpants down and presses his thighs against the table near my face as he fucks me with his fingers. “Is that better?”

  “Fuck, yes,” I groan, straining to take him in my mouth. I wrap my arm around his hips and pull his body into my face, letting him fuck my mouth as he fucks my ass.

  If I die with his fingers in my ass, his dick in my mouth and Peruvian flutes playing in the background, I’ll haunt him, I swear to God. I’ll die happy, but there will be haunting.

  We’re a jumble of moans and oil and body parts, sucking and touching and begging for more. Somehow, even during his climax, he’s able to keep fucking my ass with his skilled fingers. Luckily, I lift my mouth from his cock before he starts massaging my prostate, because I come so hard I bite my tongue and nearly sprain my neck again.

  “Fuck, Miller, that was…” I can’t finish. He knows.

  I’m not sure I have any muscles left in my body. After the massage and that orgasm, it might be a while before I can get off this table.

  “Welcome back,” Miller says with a breathless laugh, adjusting his pants and reaching for a wet towel to wipe off his hands.

  “Surprise,” I say weakly from the massage table, or as I like to call it, my new home. “Honey, I’m home.”

  He doesn’t respond to that, and I lift my head and set my chin on my crossed arms as he busies himself around the room. “I’m sorry it took three days to get back.”

  “I understand.”

  There’s no way he can. “My father kept accidentally running into people he wanted me to meet. Do you know why he wanted to see me in the first place?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Good old dad seems to think I’m a viable commodity again, and he wants me to take a more active role in the company. Public relations, to be specific. And this is the good part,” I say with a grimace. “It was all because of that damn video.”

  “You’re an internet sensation, Bre
ndan. Have you been in a cave? There’s a petition for you to get a medal or a key to the city, if you can believe it. They’re calling you Captain America. Why shouldn’t we use that kind of free publicity and goodwill to our advantage?”

  Asshole.

  “Did you say yes?”

  “Did I—Are you listening to me, Miller?” A thought occurs to me and I stare at him in disbelief. “You thought I wasn’t coming back, didn’t you?”

  Miller doesn’t look at me, but seeing his profile now, I really do like that haircut. It makes me smile until he opens his mouth.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to get your things before you went back to work, flying off to parts unknown, no. But the surprise was nice.”

  “Okay, I’m greased up and naked, but we’re doing this now.”

  He spins on his heel, looking nervous. “Doing what now? There’s nothing we need to be doing.”

  “You know.” I point at him and climb off the table, wrapping the sheet around my waist like a giant towel. “You know me and you know what it is that we’ve been doing together.”

  “Sex?”

  I jam my hand through my hair. “Why are you making it less than it is? Why do you keep trying to push me out the door? Have I given you any mixed signals? Acted like I was unhappy with how this was working out?”

  He shakes his head, eyes just a little too wide. “There were no signals to mix. We’re friends. We had se—”

  “I’m in love with you, friend. How’s that for a signal?”

  Miller’s expression closes and he moves quickly to the door. “No, you’re not. Get dressed and we’ll talk about this later.”

  “No, I’m not?”

  I don’t beat him to the door, but I’ll be damned if that stops me from following after him. “Stop running away from me, Miller Day.”

  The murmurs that make the day spa machine run come to a screeching halt at the sound of my voice and Miller’s face turns a shade of red I haven’t seen before. “Get dressed,” he grits out. “We’re not talking about this here.”