Page 37

Still, that doesn’t do it. I don’t get the reaction I’m so desperately trying to goad out, that I want, because I can’t be the only angry one all the fucking time.

I get something so much worse, I get sad eyes and disappointedly slumped shoulders and my own blind panic when he actually does what I’m demanding.

“Wait,” I blurt, and it’s not soft and resigned, it’s not a plea, it’s just as snarled yet Finn obeys anyway.

Turning slowly, he tracks the flex of my biceps as I comb my hands through my hair, eyeing the twist of my expression as the healing skin between my shoulder blades pulls when I link my fingers at the base of my neck. “I’m…”

Tired.

Sore in every context of the word.

Hyperfixated on his mouth, that red-stained bottom lip, on whether he would taste like wine.

“In a bad mood,” is the simple explanation I settle on.

So simple, so nothing, yet he accepts it. He steps closer again, hands casually in his pockets, a curious tilt to his head. “Something happen?”

I offer the smallest nod.

Finn dares another step closer. “Is this about yesterday?”

Like a damn bowstring pulled taut, I tense.

He knows. He figured out. Fuck.

Shame scratches my throat, a denial swimming up it, but before it can spill out, my concerns are replaced by confusion. Finn clarifies, without actually clarifying anything at all, “About Joy.”

“Why would I care about her?”

“You tell me.”

Mind still addled from the aftermath of a near-breakdown, it takes me longer than it should to decipher the look on his face—to recognize a smug challenge for what it is, and to realize what it means.

Oh, do I laugh when I do. “You think I’m jealous ?”

His shrug is anything but nonchalant, pure fucking cheek.

I laugh again, loud and gobsmacked . “At what point, exactly, did I give you the impression that I give a fuck about who you sleep with?”

Finn runs his tongue over his teeth. “I’m not sleeping with her.”

“Dating, then. Whatever. Same thing.”

“Not the same thing, and not what’s happening. I told you that already.”

Yeah because no man has ever lied about his relationship status before. “I’m not jealous.”

“You sure?” He steps even closer, smiles even asshole-ier. “You look a little green, baby.”

“That’s nausea, baby .”

“The thought of me with someone else makes you nauseous?”

“That’s not—” I cut myself off with a huff of disbelief, spinning around to grasp the dresser so my hands are occupied and not free to do something rash like smack that smirk right off him.

Jealous. Me . That’s… ridiculous. So ridiculous. Un-fucking-fathomable. He’s lost his damn mind, he has no mind, he’s—

I abruptly straighten. I look up. Glower at the sight of my reddened, gullible face in the mirror in front of me before shifting my ire in Finn’s reflection. “You’re fucking with me.”

That big, shameless grin says it all.

“You’re a child,” I deadpan, shaking my head as I drop it so he doesn’t see the smile that pulls at my mouth—the gratitude that flutters behind my breastbone because whether it was his intention or not, I feel better.

Blowing out a breath, I roll my shoulders back, giving myself a second before starting to turn around only to pause halfway as his reflection catches my gaze again.

The same way I’ve caught his gaze, evidently.

He stares at my back. Not the fading bruise like I first assume, but the whole expanse of skin bared by a flimsy camisole.

Shoulder blades, the length of my spine, the patch of skin between where my top ends and my sweats begin—I feel those dark irises as tangibly as I would the twitching fingertips balled at his side. “What?”

His gaze lingers a second longer before meeting mine. “You’ve got good posture.”

I… Jesus, I don’t know what to do with that. “You give the weirdest compliments.”

Those broad shoulders lift and fall, that dark gaze glimmering. “Figure I gotta use the easy stuff on you first before I get to the heavy hitters.”

“What, you think I’m gonna keel over if you call me pretty?”

“I think you should be deeply offended if I ever call you just pretty .”

A sharp breath. Silence.

And then, “See?”

“Still on my feet, aren’t I?”

Finn lowers his chin, looking at me like he knows damn well how unsteady I suddenly feel.

Slowly, I turn around, trying so very hard to look nonchalant as I prop my elbows on the dresser, cock my head to one side. “What would you call me?”

He hesitates for a beat, thinking. “Haven’t found a word for it yet.”

“That does not sound like a compliment.”

He just smiles.

Ignoring my indignant huff, he toes off his shoes before dropping down beside Grouch, scratching behind her ears while snagging my laptop from where I frustratedly tossed it earlier after yet another knitting tutorial failed me. “Wanna watch a movie?”

No. I want to know what the hell he would call me. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until I do. I sure as fuck won’t be able to sit still.

Yet I nod anyway. I sit beside him anyway, right beside him.

And fuck, if I don’t cackle when Pretty Woman starts to play.