“Fuck, that’s good,” he says with a little groan that I find way too appealing, given that it’s over food.
“You’re stinking up my galley, Finnegan,” Sean says mildly. “You know the drill. Shower before meal service.”
“Aye-aye, Cap!” With a waggle of his brows to me, Finn grabs his glass and hustles off.
I’m left alone with Sean who looks at me as if he knows something I don’t. He’s astute enough to keep silent. But inside, I am a storm of guilt and uncertainty.
Finn’s family adores him. Their joy over him being in a relationship is so lovely it threatens to break my heart. I don’t want to lie to them.
But I don’t get to discuss it with Finn. We are effectively swept up in family activities. Starting with putting up the Christmas tree.
Gathered around in the big living room, Meg, Emily, and I watch as the men pull sections of a white, artificial tree out of boxes. Sean’s quiet commands keep Finn and Glenn from arguing while they try to figure out what goes where, and soon, the ten foot tree is assembled before the picture window and plugged in to glow in softly lit splendor.
“I know fresh trees have that lovely scent,” Meg says to me. “And some traditionalists would sneer at artificial, but I just love my white tree.”
I take a picture of Finn and Sean adjusting a few branches. “I have a silver tree. Or had one. I suppose it’s melted now.”
My laugh sounds brittle, even to my ears. Meg gives me a gentle squeeze around the shoulders, a move so much like her son’s that it’s eerie. “Well, I’m glad you’re here to enjoy this tree.”
I almost don’t know what to do with the Mannus brand of tactile affection. My mother would have recited a poem about loss and patted my hand before drifting off. As new as it is for me to be cuddled and hugged, I find it comforting. Especially since they never cling or make me feel pathetic.
Meg announces that she’s going to make her “special nog”, which has Finn and Glenn snickering, and I really don’t want to know why.
“You shouldn’t be working,” Emily tells me as she starts opening up ornament boxes. “Come relax and trim the tree.”
Glenn’s wife is petite, her curly hair so dark brown it’s almost black, her skin a deep, even tan that speaks of Hispanic descent. Silver bangles around her wrist tinkle as she works.
“I actually prefer this,” I tell her. “Putting up ornaments makes me tense. I’m never satisfied with where I place them.”
“Glenn is the same.”
My expression must convey my surprise because she gives me a wry smile. “He’s a landscaper. Everything has to be just so, the visual balance just right, or he’s twitchy. Whereas, I teach fifth grade students, so I’ve learned to go with the flow.”
I glance at Finn’s older brother, who is currently trying to get Finn in a headlock. I take a picture of that. “You been with Glenn for a while.”
“How can you tell?”
“The way you two interact with each other. It’s fluid. Like you’ve been together so long that you know which way the other will go before one of you even moves.”
Emily beams. “That’s lovely.”
“Just an observation.”
Thankfully, Finn walks up with a glass of nog for me, and a glass of what smells like hot cider for Emily. “Sorry, Em. Meg’s special sauce is not good for the baby.”
Emily laughs. “It isn’t good for any of us.” She glances at me. “Watch yourself. That stuff is lethal.”
When she heads toward the tree, I lean closer to Finn. “I like your family.”
“Good. They like you too.”
We’re alone now, off to the side of the action. But I keep my voice low. “I like them too much to lie to them.”
Finn does a double take at that. “You aren’t.”
“I am.”
He doesn’t roll his eyes, but his tone implies he wants to. “Have you said to them, I’m in love with your son and we are having wild sex?”
“Who says crazy crap like that to someone’s family?”
The corners of his lips twitch. “Well, it would be kind of awkward, I’ll give you that.”
“You are annoying me. Stop being purposely obtuse. I came here playing the role of your girlfriend.”
This time he actually does roll his eyes. “I’m trying to make it simple. Stop thinking of it as playing a role.”
“But it is a role.” I take a drink of nog to keep from yelling at him. And immediately regret it. “Holy lighter fluid, what the hell is in this drink?”
“Fireball cinnamon whisky.” Finn calmly pats my back. “You’re here because you’re my girl. Sex doesn’t change that fact.”
Throat burning, heart threatening to turn to mush, I can only look at him and sigh. “Finn, what am I going to do with you?”
His smile is an easy glide, but his eyes hold mine a beat too long. “Keep me. I’m pretty sure I’m good for no one else.”
Before I can answer, he’s off again, helping with the tree, joking with Emily and Glenn. I take pictures, eat the stuffed mushroom caps that Meg sets out on the sideboard, and gingerly sip my nog from hell.
My tongue turns pleasantly numb, and my limbs nice and warm. I’m taking a close up of the little elf man who lives on the shelf—why kids actually want an elf who’s supposed to come alive at night, hanging out in their house is beyond me— when Finn peaks over my shoulder to look at the camera screen.
I nearly yelp but settle down, trying my best not to lean into him. He smells like cinnamon and spiked eggnog, which I find exceedingly delicious at present.
His breath tickles the sensitive skin on my neck. “Can you do selfies with that thing?”
“With a bit of awkward juggling,” I concede.
“That’s what I thought.” The warm wall of his chest presses against my back, as he swings his arm in front of us, holding his phone. “Say, hey!”
He snaps a picture. “And the humble iPhone triumphs over the fancy Nikon.”
I’m still blinking as he brings the phone up to look at the picture and utters a quickly stifled laugh.
I catch a glimpse. “Ack! No!” One of my eyes is closed, and my mouth is open.
Finn hums under his breath. “You look like a confused fish.”
I make a grab for the phone, but he holds it away, chuckling.
“How on earth did you manage that, Chester?”
“Delete it or die, Mannus.”
“All right, but I need another one to replace it with.” Finn’s grinning face is so close, the flecks of navy in his irises are visible. Those happy eyes full of mischief.
“Okay,” I say. “Do it again.”
He adjusts his grip on the phone, lifting it right in front of us. As soon as I feel his arm tense to take the picture, I kiss his cheek.
Finn gives a small start, his breath hitching. Before I can move away, he turns, his eyes a little wide. I’ve shocked him, making first contact.
A smile wavers on my lips. “How was that—”
Finn presses his mouth to mine. The kiss is sweet and swift, a touch of lips to lips, a slight exchange of air. And it still manages to stop my heart and send heat flaring up my thighs.
He backs away just enough to meet my eyes. For one tight second we stare at each other, breathing a bit faster, deeper, as if we’re not sure what just happened. And then he kisses me again. Another soft peck as if to make certain this time is real.
The third kiss is mine. His lips are firm and smooth, addicting.
Finn makes a small noise at the back of his throat, his lips lingering as if he’s simply enjoying the feel of me.
We’re barely touching, barely kissing even, yet it feels almost frantic, as if we have to take what we can get now. My hand rises, fingers clutching his shirt. More. Give me more.
“Yeah, enough of that,” Glenn—the rat bastard—says, suddenly in front of us. “We have a tree to trim and Mom’s hooched up nog to drink.”
Finn’s gla
re is scary, and I’d run if I were Glenn. But the man seems immune. He gives us a shit-eating grin and backs away, holding up a silver ball ornament like a taunt.
Shaking his head wryly, Finn turns back to me. Meeting his gaze is too much. I can’t kiss him again. Not here. Not now. I won’t be able to stop.
“Kissing in front of the family accomplished,” I blurt out, hating myself as I do.
Ugly heat prickles on my cheeks, as he simply looks at me. I expect to see disappointment. But it’s worse. His expression is one of affection and gentle amusement, as if he’s silently saying, Oh, Chess, who do you think you’re fooling?
“I think,” he says after a long, hellish moment, “we’ll have to practice that play some more.”
With that, he leaves me. And I want to follow.
* * *
Finn
* * *
Sunset at Black’s Beach is one of my favorite settings in the word. It’s almost surreal this canvas of gleaming oranges, hot pinks, and turquoise blues. The cliff face flares tangerine in the fading sunlight. The air is cooler now, tinged with briny sea spray.
A few surfers are enjoying an evening ride. I know some of them, but thankfully they haven’t yet recognized me. I need a few moments alone.
Which is why I didn’t invite Chess along, even though I want her to see this place.
I know what her lips feel like now. We’ve kissed. If you even really call what we did kissing. It was PG-13 stuff, quick pecks on the lips. And fuck if those stolen touches, the almost frantic fumblings with her, wasn’t the hottest thing I’ve done in recent memory. First touch of her lips and I was hard. The second, I’d wanted inside her. I’d needed it.
Crazy thing is, it had been so unexpected—her kissing my cheek, me snatching a little taste of her mouth in return—that I’d been coiled tight as a spring, unable to move or do anything but steal a few more kisses like a greedy, horny bastard afraid of having the whole opportunity ripped away from him.
And then it was. She pretended the whole thing was just for show.
Bullshit.
Question is, what do I do about it? Call her on it? Let it ride?
I’ve never been struck by indecision before. In football, you hesitate, you’re done. We train, run drills, practice until reaction is muscle memory and instinct. There is comfort in that. Hell, there’s comfort in knowing that you’re one of the best at something. I know I’m not the best quarterback in the world. Not yet. But I’ll get there. Perfection in this sport comes with experience and finding your groove.
But with Chess. I might as well be in the peewee leagues. I’m bumbling around, not knowing the plays or how to read a line. It’s frustrating as fuck. And I cannot fuck up. Not with Chess. She’s too important.
I’m at a crossroads here.
A small voice inside me is whispering to cut and run while I still can. That’s the easy solution. No failure there. I can back off, treat Chess as a casual friend. The kind I call every couple of months when I have some free time and nothing to do.
That was Dex’s advice, and the man is a master strategist.
Leave Chess alone. Go back to being alone.
I watch a surfer paddle out, calling to his buddy. Their voices are thin on the air, the surf crashing to the shore. Sun glitters off the curve of a wave, turning it murky, turquoise blue.
I feel old. Not yet thirty, not yet in the full groove of my career, and suddenly I feel so fucking old. Apart from everything. I could have been a dad.
Would she have had my eyes? Would she have hated green peas like I do?
My fingers dig into the sand. It’s cold and rough just below the surface.
The sound of my phone ringing has me dusting off my hands.
I reach for it, expecting Chess. “Hey, I’m down at the beach.”
“Ah, okay.”
It isn’t Chess.
“Britt?” I actually look around as if expecting her to pop out of the sand.
“Yes, it’s me.” She pauses. “You thought I was someone else?”
Well, obviously. But I don’t say that. “What’s up?”
I have no idea why she’s calling, but I don’t like it. It feels like one of those woman traps that end with her crying and me generally feeling like a heel.
“I…ah…” She clears her throat. “Look, I don’t like how we left things.”
This is why I’m terrible with women. Because I have no fucking clue what she means. She asked me if my mom had invited to spend the holidays with us. I told her no. What else is there?
My silence must be too long because she makes that sound again, as if she’s trying to push her words past some blockage in her throat. “There were things I wanted to say, Finn. But I got distracted, upset.” A soft, half laugh escapes her. “It was difficult seeing you again.”
Again, I feel like a shit for rushing her out. I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache is coming on. I need to get back to my parent’s house. I’ve been gone too long, under the guise of making a wine run.
“I know it’s hard,” I tell Britt as gently as I can. “I was… I was just thinking of her.”
A lump rises swift and painful in my throat, and I swallow convulsively.
“You do it too,” she whispers thickly.
“Sometimes.” My fingertips press against the hot skin of my eyelids. “At random moments.”
“The other day, it hit me that she would be old enough to eat baby food now.” Britt’s voice trembles. “And I had to pull over my car and cry.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
The beach is cold now. I get to my feet. I don’t want to be here anymore. I need to get home.
Chess had gone off to take a nap, jet lag catching up to her. But she’ll be awake now.
“Could we meet for lunch or something when you come back?” Britt asks, pulling me back to the conversation.
Fishing my keys out of my pockets, I rest the phone on my shoulder, holding it in place with my cheek. “You’re still in New Orleans?”
“Yes. I’ll be here for a while.”
It makes no sense. Britt’s home is in London.
“I’m out for the week.”
“I’ll be here next week,” she says.
When I don’t say anything, she presses again. “I want to see you. And I…I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”
I don’t point out that she called me. This feels off. No, it feels like she’s working her way up to asking me out. “Britt, I don’t…”
“We share something, Finn. There is no one else in our lives who understands it the way we do. I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”
The desperate pain in her voice is too much for me. With a sigh, I turn on the jeep and pull out of my spot. “All right. Text me next week and we’ll set something up.”
As soon as I hang up with Britt, I toss the phone on the car seat. I’m not looking forward to that meeting at all. Sharing with her doesn’t make me feel better. There’s only one person who does that. I turn onto the main road and head for Chess.
I can’t let her go. It’s too late for that now. But I can give her space.
Either she takes that distance and pulls away. Or she’ll find it as unnatural as I do now. Instinct tells me it will be the latter. I fucking hope so.
Chapter Fourteen
Chess
* * *
It is fairly horrifying to realize how well Finn Mannus can play me. For the rest of the day, and into dinner, he keeps his distance. He isn’t cold or anything. Hardly that. He’s a great host. Solicitous, including me in conversations, making sure I have enough to eat.
And that’s the problem. He’s treating me like a guest. Gone are the light touches, as if he can’t keep his hands off me. Gone is the way he somehow always manages to be standing close enough that our arms brush. And gone are the teasing glances that dare me to reach for more.
I hadn’t noticed he’d been doing these things unti
l he stops.
The result being, I seek him out. I’m the one finding ways to stand closer, to touch his wrist or the curve of his biceps. And though he doesn’t say a word about it, I know he’d predicted with unnerving clarity how I would react.
I don’t know if I should admire his skills or be annoyed.
Both, is the answer.
My annoyance grows when he gives me space and heads out to get wine for dinner without inviting me to come along. He’s gone for over an hour.
I realize I’m pissed at myself. For being a coward where he is concerned. For pretending that what we are to each other isn’t evolving. I know he cares about me. He makes certain I feel his care every day. He won’t hurt me. Not intentionally.
And I need to apologize because how I acted was hurtful and unfair. But I don’t get the chance. Between Finn distancing himself and his family intent on being good hosts as well, we are never alone.
Before dinner, Finn and his dad settle down in the den for a game of chess.
“I didn’t know you played,” I say to Finn as I sit next to him on the couch to watch.
“We never really got to the ‘hey, by the way, I love playing chess’ stage of our relationship,” Finn says with a sly wink.
I nudge his shoulder. “Smart ass.” God, I’m doing everything I can to be close to him. It’s ridiculous.
Even more so when my heart gives a little leap as he nudges me back, softly chuckling. “You play chess, Chess?”
I resist sticking my tongue out at him since Sean is watching with avid interest. “No. I admit, it’s over my head.”
“Then watch and learn, my friend.”
“I’ll watch, but all I ever see are pieces being moved around, seemingly at random.”
With a snort, Finn hunkers down and studies the board. The stern, absorbed expression on his face is adorable, and frankly hot. It’s even sexier when I realize he’s actually good, really good.
I lose track of time as he and his dad play with the intensity of men at war.
Eventually, I end up reclining on the couch to read. Without taking his attention away from the board, Finn puts my feet in his lap and rests one warm hand over my ankle. I keep reading, but I love it. I love that, ever so often, his thumb strokes my skin in an absent-minded but tender caress. Whatever is going on between us, I know that he isn’t angry at me. And some of the tension flows out of my body.
The Hot Shot Page 19
