When we get to the house, a large, royal-blue beauty with floor-to-ceiling windows, I stop dead in my tracks. The blood drains from my face. It’s him. Tending the fucking rose bushes.
“Finley?” Emerson says quietly.
All I hear is the blood rushing past my ears.
And then my dad straightens out and turns around.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Emerson
I watch the scene unfold in slow motion like a car accident. First, Finley’s face goes stark white, the warm flush from earlier replaced by awe and fear. Second, I follow her gaze to a blue house with a back garden, and there I see an older man pruning a rose bush. We’re only about fifty feet away, so when he turns and holds his hand up to squint in our direction and then promptly proceeds to drop his pruning scissors, I put two and two together.
Gabriel Matthews.
Unsure of what to do, I stay quiet and still. This is Finley’s forte—I don’t want to get involved. She might run, and that’s okay. Or, she might do the unthinkable and walk up to him. Just as I’m about to clear my throat, a woman with coifed blonde hair comes out the back door and brings a mug of something to him. Her mother. Mary Matthews. When she turns to look in Finley’s direction, following her husband’s line of vision, the mug drops and shatters. The noise seems to wake Finley up, because she jumps and turns around, walking away from the whole scene.
“Finley,” I say delicately. She doesn’t answer me. I follow her, but not before I see her parents come out of the back garden toward us.
“Finley!” her mother shouts, her voice shrill and desperate. She’s chasing after us in a skirt suit and kitten heels. From the looks of it, the woman doesn’t know how to relax. It’s barely eight in the morning, we’re on a beach, and she looks as though she’s headed to a corporate office. “Wait.”
This makes Finley break out into a sprint. I don’t know what to do. I look between the three people here. Are Finley’s parents glad to see her? Ultimately, I’m on Finley’s side. So I begin to run after her.
We make it back to our boards. Mary and Gabriel are still following us as if Finley’s a ghost they can’t believe they’re seeing. I quickly grab the boards and we walk to the car. When we get there, Finley stops.
“Hey,” I say gently. “We can leave.”
She shakes her head and stops in place, placing her hands on her hips. She takes three deep breaths, looking for some sort of direction in what to do. “It’s okay. It’s now or never. I should do this.” She walks out toward the sand where her parents are panting and watching us with anguished expressions. One of Mary’s hands is on her hips—the other hand is holding the heels she took off to run. Gabriel walks up to Finley and embraces her, pulling her into a tight hug. I see him begin to cry.
It’s not really my place, so I load the boards on the racks and get into my car, watching from a distance. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but there are a lot of angry glances on Finley’s part, and a lot of tears on her parents’ part. They talk for a few minutes. Mary takes Finley’s hands and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. I see Finley relax instantly.
Nothing like a mother’s touch. I, for one, know this all too well.
A minute later, they part ways. I study the situation before Finley gets into the car. Mary and Gabriel watch us, waving and beaming. Finley is scowling. She opens the door and shuts it quickly. I wait for her to say something. Finally, she does.
“I didn’t know they still owned the beach house,” she says quietly, obviously dumbfounded. “My dad’s retired. My mom works from home. They live here for six months out of the year now. They tried calling me every day for two years.” She turns to me. “When I cut them off, I changed my number. I made Hannah change hers too, because I knew they’d manipulate her somehow.”
“Are they . . .” I begin to ask, before I realize I’m not entirely sure what I’m asking.
“They seem different.” She shrugs. “It’s hard to tell. I don’t want to buy their bullshit just yet. One right doesn’t conceal a million wrongs. But we have dinner plans tomorrow.”
As I take this in, I observe her scattered behavior. She’s picking at her old nail polish and her jaw is clenched. Her eyebrows are pulled together, and she looks like a wounded child.
She looks like someone who was hurt. Badly. And that pains me to the point of no return.
“Is that what you want?” I ask. “To let them into your life again?”
She nods slowly. “I think so. But . . . only if they’re different. They’re my parents,” she says quietly, and I see a tear slowly make its way from the inner corner of her eye and down her cheek. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Can we go home now?”
I’m gutted. Thoroughly, completely gutted. Seeing her like this is like experiencing a small death. Or a big death.
Her use of home startles me. My house is now synonymous with home? That makes me extremely happy. I’m now realizing I want her to think of this place as home. I want her to stay. Not just because she’s contractually obligated, but because she wants to.
This is all getting so out of hand. I can’t deny the deep feelings I’m developing for Finley. It’s more than physical, too, which terrifies me.
I haven’t thought of Sylvanna as my girlfriend for quite some time. Well, never really. Occasionally fuck buddy? Yes. I don’t think Sylvanna has permanence on her mind, but regardless, we need to be done.
The night I pushed Sylvanna away was the start.
With Finley, I’m beginning to feel—everything that will ruin me.
There’s no denying the start of something now. Not after today. Not after the way her face lit up so brightly when she stood up on the surfboard. I want those smiles. I want that joy. I want that delight. I almost kissed her again after she stood. Almost.
“Yes, we can go home now,” I answer, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road. We don’t say anything during the drive home. I play the new CHVRCHES album, because I know she likes it. She listens to it every damn day. It seems to relax her, and as we pull into the driveway of the house, she peeks up at me through her lashes.
I come undone.
She’s too beautiful.
She owns my soul whether she knows it or not.
“Emerson,” she says vulnerably. “I wrote something. Will you read it?”
I don’t know what to say at first. One, I suspected she might be writing when she holed herself up in her room on her off days. Two, I think it’s wonderful. I’m thankful she trusts me enough to share her writing with me. I know how very personal writing can be. It’s like slicing your soul and gluing it to the paper, one page at a time.
“Of course. I’d love to.”
She gives me a large grin, and I feel my cheeks burn from the smile I unconsciously mirror. We walk inside, and she goes up the stairs without saying anything. She’s still in a daze, and she needs space. I can respect that. I walk up to my bedroom and hop in the shower. As the water runs down my salty body, I think of Finley.
Why is it that my only thoughts of late are of her? Seven weeks. That’s how many weeks she has officially been in my life. When I first met her I told her she interested me. What a fucking understatement. She beguiles me. After that first weekend where I brought home a water-drenched, despondent Finley, things have changed. Initially she had been hesitant, but warm, toward me. So much so, every moment I touched Sylvanna that night, I was distracted. I turned her away because all I could think about was Finley. Fuck, that pink shirt that had hidden nothing. Every curve. Perfection.
I hadn’t been feeling it with Sylvanna since that night. Why have I kept things going with her? You’re a man, you ass. You want sex. Last night, I don’t think my eyes left Finley once though. Seeing her with Isaac made my blood boil. Even the excessive alcohol hadn’t burned through that seething anger.
I had to kiss her last night. And today. Now I know what she tastes like I might not be able to stop again. Every alarm bell is go
ing off, but I don’t fucking care anymore. Why delay the inevitable? From the start, we were like two sticks of dynamite, strings tied together. When we met, we sparked. When we kissed . . . we exploded.
I step out of the shower and change into black basketball shorts and a white T-shirt. I shake my hair to dry it, and I swish my mouth with Listerine. When I spit it out and look in the mirror, I sigh. She just saw her parents for the first time in five years, and I’m mouth-washing in case we kiss? I’m a sick fuck.
I jog downstairs and spot a freshly showered Finley at the breakfast bar, eating yogurt from the tub. It disgusts me that she doesn’t use a bowl. So much bacteria . . . I don’t say anything. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. As long as she’s happy, I can deal with germ-ridden yogurt.
I sit down next to her and we exchange a wordless glance. Her eyes are heavy—perhaps she’s just tired, but I think it’s more than that—and she slides a stack of papers over to me. I look down, astounded to see a legitimate start to a book. There are at least fifty pages before me, and I honestly can’t wait to dig in. I want to learn anything and everything I can about her. The writing is my way into her soul.
She’s inviting me into her soul? Like I invited her into mine?
“Have at it,” she says, smiling. “I’m going to go take a nap. Surfing wiped me out.”
“Okay.” I smile back. “Goodnight,” I add, cheekily. She just smirks and walks off. She’s wearing the lace shorts. I admire the backs of her tanned thighs, and then I immediately exhale.
Finley Matthews . . . what have you done to me? More importantly, what are you doing to me?
What will we do to each other?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Finley
I wake up and my room is still bright—which thankfully must mean I didn’t sleep the day away. I check my phone. 2:34 p.m. I sit up straight with a start, remembering earlier.
Emerson is reading my book.
I saw my parents for the first time since my graduation day.
Oh, and Emerson and I kissed. Again.
I groan and put my hands in my face. When did everything become so complicated? I pick my phone up and dial Hannah’s number. Right now I just need to hear her voice.
“Finley?” she answers, and I immediately begin to cry.
“I saw them,” I sob, wiping my eyes with the back of my free hand.
“What?” Her voice sounds tiny and so far away. I crave her lavender-scented presence. The thought makes me cry even harder. “Tell me,” she says, her voice gentle.
“Emerson took me surfing for my birthday, and afterward—”
“Wait,” she says loudly, interrupting me, “but you hate the water. Did you actually go in?”
“Yes,” I say proudly. “We surfed for like two hours. I even stood up. It was amazing.”
She’s quiet on the other end. “I can’t believe he got you to go in the water,” she says finally, astounded.
“I know. Anyway, afterward, I wanted to show him the house. Low and behold, my dad was trimming the fucking roses. And he saw us. Can you believe it? I didn’t even know they still had the house. We never discussed going after . . . after what happened to Chloe.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah. My mom came out. I panicked and ran away, but they chased after me. They seemed really happy to see me,” I say, my heart lighter. It’s true. They were so relieved I was doing well. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to start a relationship up with them again.
“Finley,” Hannah replies, her voice skeptical, “I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Okay?”
I shrug, but then realize she can’t see me. “I know,” I answer glumly. “But it was really good to see them. We’re having dinner together tomorrow. Maybe they’ve changed.”
“Maybe.” Hannah sounds doubtful, and I love her for protecting me. “You should bring Emerson.”
I pause. “What? To dinner?”
“Yeah. As a buffer. In case things go awry.”
“I don’t know, Han. I don’t want to involve him in my life drama. He’s my boss.” The minute it leaves my mouth, I know it’s no longer true. Because he’s not just my boss—we’re so much more than that now.
“Mmm-hmm, your boss,” Hannah muses, her voice sarcastic. “How was that kiss with your boss last night?”
I grunt. “Oh my God. It was the king of all kisses. The crème de la crème. And he kissed me again this morning, in the water.”
“So it wasn’t just a one-time thing?”
“I guess not.”
She’s silent on the other end. I wait for her to say something, but I can only hear background noises of cars rushing by and a siren.
“I like Emerson. Maybe you should see where it goes.” I don’t respond right away. I’m surprised she’s supportive—not because she doesn’t like him, but because she’s normally so distrustful. “I have some news,” she continues slowly. “I’ve been wondering how I was going to tell you . . . but I guess since I won’t see you for a few days, I should tell you now. I got an acting job in San Francisco. It starts in September.”
I nearly drop my phone as I squeal.
“That’s great,” I say, smiling. “I’m really happy for you.” Finally. Finally someone has seen the wonder who is Hannah Burrows. I’m beyond thrilled.
“Thanks. I guess things are finally starting to happen for us, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I stare at the wall for a few seconds. “I can’t wait to hear all about it this weekend,” I add, my voice firm. I need to go home. I need a break from everything here, and I need to spend time with my best friend before she leaves.
“Sounds good. Love you, Finn. Make good decisions.”
We hang up and I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face. I hate that grimy, just-woke-up-from-a-nap feeling. My stomach is grumbling painfully, so I decide to check on Emerson. I wonder if he’s finished the first part of my book—something I’ve been writing on the side. The minute I moved in here, it was like Emerson’s creative energy rubbed off on me because I finally wrote the first chapter of my book—and then the second, and the third, and so on. I gave him everything I have—all eleven chapters.
Eleven chapters of him.
Untitled
By Finley Matthews
PROLOGUE
The first thing that drew me to him was his hands. They were artist’s hands. Long, thin, perfectly tanned. His nails were perfectly trimmed, and his touch left my feelings somewhat unfinished. Isn’t that a cliché? That a man made me feel helpless? That’s how it always goes. Except my story is different. In my story, there is no happy ending.
There’s only a beginning and a middle.
And I broke all my rules for him.
When I get downstairs, Emerson is hunched over my manuscript. I retreat backward and watch him as he traces a pen across my words—across my heart.
I see him circle a word and I’m dying to know his opinion. I know it’s a shitty first draft—all first drafts are. But I want to know how the story makes him feel. I clear my throat, and he spins around.
“This is amazing, Finley,” he says quietly. He motions for me to come over, and it’s like an invisible rope is drawing me in. That’s how he affects me.
“Do you like it?” I ask meekly. The truth is, my guards are down. Whatever walls I’ve built to keep him out are gone. I’m sick of fighting against my feelings—our feelings. So giving him the first part of my book, however transparent it may be, is something I feel good about. I want him to see that side of me.
I want him to understand.
“I love it.” He looks down at the papers and then back at me. “I’m almost done. Give me five more minutes.”
I nod and walk to the refrigerator. When I turn around, he’s already scribbling something, completely engrossed. In my story. I smile and make myself a cup of coffee. I quietly walk to the deck and take a seat in one of the lounge chairs, as if the soothing lapping of the
water will give me a sense of peace. Emerson joins me a few minutes later, the manuscript pages and a pen in hand.
“No wonder you wanted to quit ghostwriting and get your name out there.” He sighs, sinking into the chair next to me. “Damn.”
I blush at his kind words. “I’ve always been intimidated by putting myself out there. You know how it is—people judge you. It’s easier to write under another name. It gives me the courage to write freely. It takes the pressure off.”
He nods. “I get it.” He surveys me quickly before asking his next question. “Where did you come up with the idea of captive and captor?”
I smile abashedly. “I don’t know.” Yes, I do know. It came from you. From being stuck here with you, Emerson. Day in, day out . . . I was subjected to YOU. Captured by you.
“Well, I think it’s great.”
I nod. “But?”
“You need to keep writing. I’m giving you homework. One thousand words a day of your book.”
“I have enough writing to do already.” I chuckle.
He winces. “Yeah, I know. But you’ll just have to write my book slower. And maybe . . . I can try writing my own stuff every once in a while.” I want to protest. I want to say no. This means an unlimited extension of our time together, and I’m not sure I can handle that. “To be honest, Finley, I think we’re going to need to redefine our contract.”
I swallow the spit that’s accumulated in my mouth. “What parts?” I ask timidly. Does he want me to leave? Is he done? Does he not feel he needs me anymore?
He watches me, his eyes moving across my face. “Like maybe we should split your work in half—half your book, half mine.”
“Okay . . .” I reply skeptically.
“That means you’ll be here longer than the original six months.” He’s watching me carefully.
I feel a smile begin to hint at the corners of my mouth. “More time together? What could possibly go wrong?”
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