Page 55

I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m eager.

I swear, my ears perk up like a dog’s, my invisible tail wagging as I get the chance to snoop, and I don’t even feel bad about it.

Why would I? He lived in my old bedroom for months.

He’s been in my current bedroom more than once.

I’m just returning the favor. And honestly, I don’t think he minds—when I slip out of his grip, I don’t think he whines because he’s mad I make a beeline for his dresser.

“Y’know,” I muse as my gaze roams over the assortment of wooden figurines scattered across the surface—scattered across a lot of surfaces in here. “I almost thought you were bullshitting about the whittling thing.”

Even though the literal proof of his honesty lives on my bedside table, I just couldn’t picture Finn—big, strong Finn—spending his days hunched over a tiny hunk of wood, working it into something beautiful.

Something dainty. Something as incredibly detailed as the horse figurine I swear looks just like Ruin. “I like this one.”

“Knew you would,” Finn replies.

Which is pretty cryptic. Definitely worthy of an explanation.

But I don’t ask for one. I forget to ask for one because I glance over my shoulder, and I find Finn fiddling with his tie, clumsily unknotting it before tossing it away.

I track his hands as they remove his collar pins before dropping to his waistband, as they undo the top button of his slacks and untuck his shirt, and it’s as he starts to slide the small buttons free that I clear my throat pointedly.

Because as much as I would love a strip show, I should probably take that as my cue to leave.

A cue I follow, but Finn does not.

“Wait.”

Against my better judgement, I do. Slowly turning, I hover in the open doorway, hands braced on either side, awkwardly shifting my weight from one heeled foot to the other.

Fucking indecent; that’s what the sight of him is. Shirt split down the middle to reveal a sculpted torso, pants gaping to reveal the tight boxers beneath, that face . He’s… porn. He’s fucking porn.

He advances, and I gulp .

Black silk parts a little wider as a hand curls around the doorway above my head. “Can I tell you one thing?”

I blame the distracting sliver of a bare chest for why I nod so quickly.

Long fingers encircle my wrist and lift, bringing my hand to his chest and flattening it, trapping it with his own. “Always like this for you,” he murmurs, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about the racing heart beneath my palm. “Won’t stop.”

“Hope not,” I joke, but it comes out more like a croak. A desperate, shaky rasp. “Think they call that being dead.”

“Thought I was for a second when you walked down the aisle.” His touch drops to my lower back. “So perfect, baby.”

Baby . Fuck me.

“Couldn’t breathe because of you.”

“Jesus, Finn.” I laugh and that’s pretty damn croaky too, pretty damn shaky, as shaky as the hand I tap against his chest—the hand I don’t move even after his falls away. “What’s Yasmin been feeding you all night? Straight moonshine?”

“I was jealous.”

I frown at the random segue. “Of?”

“That Cass guy.” Fingers stroke the butterfly wings inked just above that damn bow. “And Adam. Thought you were gonna ask him to dance.”

He… he did? “Why would you think that?”

“Thought you liked him.”

“I've spoken to him, like, three times.”

That pout returns again. Thoughtful more than boyish now. “You smile at him. You laugh, sometimes.”

“I smile at you.”

“Hm.” Eyes briefly fluttering shut, Finn tilts his head back, and he smiles so fucking sweetly. “I like it. A lot.”

My heart all but screeches to a stop. I’m the one teetering near dead now.

I’m the one who can’t breathe, who can’t move as Finn lifts his hand to my mouth, as his thumb traces my bottom lip.

Mine finds his elbow, glides along his forearm to hold his wrist—to knock him away?

To keep him in place? I honestly, truly don’t know.

“I really fucking wanted to kiss you.”

I inhale sharply.

His palm finding my cheek, Finn stoops until his forehead touches mine. “I really fucking want to.”

My grip on his wrist tightens. “You’re drunk.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does to me.”

Everyone wants to kiss someone when they’re drunk—I always wanted to kiss someone when I was drunk.

I don’t… Shit, I don’t want to be just someone Finn wants to kiss when he’s drunk.

And I don’t want to kiss him when he’s drunk because he’ll taste like alcohol, and I don’t want that to be what I remember, I don’t want that detail to be the one I cling to.

“Fuck.” His hands drop, a tortured groan rumbling from the back of his throat as he cups the back of his head. “ Fuck , I’m so sorry.”

It’s him who retreats this time, me who advances. “It’s okay.”

Finn swears again as he collapses on the edge of his bed. “I did it again. I keep doing it wrong. Shit, Lottie, I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” I kiss my teeth, not a real big fan of the pure distress twisting his features. “Relax, drama queen. You didn’t do anything.”

Like a drunk kicked puppy, Finn peers up at me with big, sorrowful eyes.

I’m playing with fire. I’m playing with him . I should get the hell out of here, that would be the smart thing to do, the kind thing to do, but I’ve never been much of either of those.

Instead, I step closer. I sidle between his spread legs and, after a long moment of hesitation, I set my hands on his shoulders. I repeat, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

With a relieved exhale that warms my midriff through the thin material covering it, Finn slumps forward. My breath hitches as his forehead presses to my stomach, as his hands return to my hips—to the curve of my ass, really.

All of a sudden, Finn stiffens.

When a hot groan makes my stomach clench, I frown at the back of his head. “What?’

“You’re not wearing any underwear.” Like he’s double-checking, his grip moves to the crease beneath my hipbones, to search for the waistband of the panties that are definitely not there. “Fuck me. You been like this all night?”

“You think I found a spare moment at my brother’s wedding to slip off my panties?”

He groans again.

I roll my lips together, stemming a laugh. “Is this a bad time to mention I’m not wearing a bra either?”

A third tortured noise burrows beneath my skin. Finn releases me, flopping onto his back. “Get out.”

This time, I do laugh. I back up too, but I barely manage a step before I’m halted by firm hands. “Don’t go.”

“You just told me to!”

Finn kisses the back of my hand. “Didn’t mean it.”

No. He clearly didn’t. He drags me into his orbit again, completely envelops me, palms pressed so tightly to my lower back, it’s as if he’s trying to fuse our skin together.

Finn buries his face in my midsection again, and I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life.

I’ve never been so comfortable in my life.

I’ve never been so unsure of what to do yet completely sure what I want to do.

When my hands tentatively return to his shoulders, Finn makes a pleased noise. His head turns to the side, his lips graze the crook of my elbow, his nose nudges the horseshoe tattooed there—he smiles at it, for some reason.

And then he smiles at me. Patient and honest and downright desperate. “What do I gotta do, Lottie baby? How can I make you believe me, hm?”

Nothing , I want to say. There’s nothing you can do. It’s me. It’s my problem, my fault. I can’t. I don’t know how.

I swallow, I can’t fucking breath again, I repeat, “Tell me when you're sober.”

“Thought I was telling you.” He frowns, gaze cloudy with unfocused contemplation. “Thought I was being obvious.”

I get it, suddenly. What he meant when he said I was breaking his heart . It was my cluelessness, my complete inability to understand all the little signs he thought he was so blatantly giving me. Fuck, it breaks mine a little too. “To someone else, maybe.”

“Okay.” He kisses my arm again. “I’ll try harder.”

That’s not what I meant, that’s not what I was asking for, but he doesn’t give me a chance to correct him.

“Will you stay here?”

I shouldn’t. I don’t know why, but I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t want to, I think is the issue. It’s not in my nature.

Yet it feels oh-so-very natural to nod. “Okay.”