Page 22

It was too easy to forget he’d been a cop.

Finn looked handsome and dissolute sitting there on my bed.

The ruffled hair, the shadowy eyes, and the gold glint of beard.

His tuxedo shirt was unbuttoned, and I could see the pale swirls of chest hair and the taut lines of his abdomen.

Like the hero on an OG romance cover. My Hump Buddy the Billionaire .

Of course, we weren’t hump buddies. Not anymore. I wasn’t sure what we were at this point.

He said, “I learned more about you last night than in all the years we’ve known each other.”

“Take it from me. Stop while you’re ahead.” I said it lightly, but I wasn’t joking.

Nor was Finn smiling as he said, “One of the things I originally liked about our friendship was how emotionally self-contained you were. When we were together, you were passionate and attentive and funny. I enjoyed every single minute of being with you. And when we were apart, I felt like that part of the relationship went back into a box. It was all about the work. You didn’t seem to need or want anything else from me.

” He drew a breath that was partly a laugh.

“Honest to God, it was perfect, ideal, for where I was at that point in my life.”

“Same.”

“I did notice that you rarely spoke about your past. Even direct questions, you seemed to ignore or evade with a joke. Which was interesting, because your affect is direct. But actually, you rarely speak without thinking or tempering your response. I originally misread that for tact. And you are very tactful.” He shrugged. “Either way, it didn’t matter to me.”

I said nothing.

“Gradually, I began to want more. More from our friendship. More from you. I think you recognized that right away. And it was plain you weren’t interested.

You remained charming, affectionate, but the no trespassing signs were clearly posted.

And I wasn’t about to risk what we had. I loved what we had. ”

I’m not sure why that made my eyes sting. Because everything made my eyes sting now? I said huskily, “Same.”

“Anyway. Before I knew it, years had gone by, and you were the only person I was seeing, the only person I wanted. I went from thinking of our friendship to thinking of our relationship. I thought you were starting to see things differently, too. The phone calls would last longer. We spent more time together at conferences. You brought me that carved wood bookmark from Japan. And the sailboat bookends. You stock my favorite whisky in your liquor cabinet. I felt like you were opening up, emotionally for sure, but I still knew almost nothing about you. I knew you went to Columbia, so I assumed for years that you grew up in New York state. You never mentioned your parents. Not a word about family. I assumed…”

He stopped and I said, “Am I responsible for your assumptions?”

His eyes narrowed. “No. Not at all. But I was a cop for a long time. I’m trained to read inconsistencies, even subtle ones.

I’m trained to notice when someone habitually redirects, deflects, or omits.

And I’ve learned the hard way to trust my instincts when a story feels ‘off”—even if it’s from someone I care about. ”

I nodded wearily. I knew it had to be something like this.

He added quietly, “And I do care about you. I— A lot.”

I swallowed. Said nothing.

“But obviously, I had to wonder, if he can trust me in bed, why not with this? What kind of trauma makes someone that good at avoiding the truth?”

I mimicked, “ Is it pain or is it guilt ?”

He said evenly, “That’s right, Keiran. Exactly. I don’t know what you’re keeping from me, but there’s something. And it doesn’t take a detective to know it has to do with your past, your father, and Steeple Hill.”

“And so, you decided you didn’t want to be involved with me after all.”

After a moment, Finn said quietly, “Yeah.”

I was silent, listening to the hard, anxious pound of my heart in my ears. I said finally, “I understand. I don’t blame you. You could have told me you’d changed your mind before we got here, that’s all.” I shrugged.

“That’s all? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

Not anger. Sadness. His bright gaze held mine. Never wavered.

I swallowed, and my mouth was so dry, my throat squeaked.

I said, “Okay. The truth is, I don’t understand, Finn. It feels unjust. Because you knew all that—or knew that you didn’t know—when we agreed…when we agreed…” Words were my thing, but it was very hard to get these out.

Finn watched my struggle, admitted, “When I learned your father had died the week before we were together… It’s hard to explain, but I had to face the fact that I really don’t know you. That you don’t want me to know you. And that was probably never going to change.”

“You don’t think it’s unfair to judge me by your relationships with your family?”

He frowned.

“You’re close to your parents, to your kid. Hell, you’re close to your ex. I didn’t—don’t have those relationships. I was close to my grandparents. But they died a long time ago. It’s not like I-I can’t -can’t love someone.”

His face twisted as though that hurt him. He said quickly, “I know that. I’m not saying that.”

I drew a hard breath. “Yes. You’re right. My father was…”

“Abusive.”

I stared at Finn. Nodded. “Yes. He was.”

Unpredictable. Violent. Sadistic. He’d have denied, disagreed with all of that. He’d have said he had a bad temper. That he openly admitted.

You know I’ve got a temper. Why do you deliberately push me?

I’m not sure why it seemed important, but I wanted to know. “How did you find out I came back to California for his funeral?”

“I ran into Mindy Newburgh at the L.A. Times Festival of Books. She mentioned it. I think she’d heard it from Lila.”

I said indignantly, “What the hell does Mindy know about it? Why the hell would you be discussing me with her?”

Finn reddened. “I wasn’t discussing you. But our friendship isn’t a secret. Mindy was venting. I guess Lila had discussed the possibility of moving her to your list once the merger is complete.”

“That’s news to me.” Not great news, either.

“She said you’d worked together in the past and she felt that you didn’t understand her. Didn’t get her creative vision. Believe me, I didn’t encourage her. She did all the talking.”

“And based on that, you decided to cut me off. Without a word.”

His green eyes darkened with emotion. “You’re right. That was gutless. At the time, I figured you wouldn’t want to talk about it. It’s not like I haven’t tried many times to talk to you about how I felt. You’re very good at politely shutting down a conversation you don’t want to have.”

“You didn’t think this was different?”

“It was different to me, yeah. But I told myself it just wouldn’t matter that much to you. I genuinely believed that. You weren’t the one who pushed for more.”

He was right. And he was wrong. I said, “Just so you know: I wouldn’t have done that to you.”

He regarded me, then said slowly, “No, I don’t think you would’ve. I apologize. Sincerely. I let my insecurities get in the way.”

Before I could respond, he amended, “Insecurities combined with instinct. I was a cop for a long time. I can tell when something is not right.” He waited, his gaze challenging.

I imagined trying to explain to him how very wrong things were. Starting with I think someone tried to kill me last night.

I nodded, rubbed my forehead.

To my astonishment, Finn rose again, scooting next to me and wrapping his arms around me.

It wasn’t—it was such an instinctive, natural gesture of comfort— comfort .

As he held me, I could feel that he was offering strength, compassion, protection.

He said—and I could feel the steady beat of his heart against mine, hear his words whispered against my ear, “Keir, I know you well enough to know something’s wrong.

And getting worse. I thought you were having a breakdown last night. ”

I tried to say lightly, “It’s just the normal noises in here.”

But he was way past the fencing and diversions and evasions. “Please, let me help you.”

Please.

That had to be the first time in my life anyone had pleaded with me to let them take some of the weight off.

Slowly it came to me that that if I was ever going to trust anyone, that person would be Finn. In fact, I did trust him. My silence wasn’t about the lack of trust. It was…

Complicated.

It was about not wanting to drag Finn into this nightmare.

But also, it was about not wanting Finn to see who I really was.

I dreaded losing his respect almost more than I dreaded losing him .

And there was more, yes. It was also about having to deal with consequences, because once Finn knew the whole story, he was not going to be okay with it.

He was not going to take the attitude of letting sleeping dogs lie.

The truth was, these dogs weren’t sleeping. They were hunting me.

Was the real me, the old me, really worse than what Finn imagined? Because he clearly imagined something, someone unsalvageable.

I rested my head on his shoulder. Finn gently squeezed the back of my neck.

The fact that he didn’t try to urge his point, didn’t say anything at all, calmed me, allowed me to consider.

For the last thirty-something hours, I’d been in constant motion, reacting emotionally to events rather than thinking rationally.

If anyone could help, it was probably Finn. He wanted to help.

I drew back—it wasn’t easy—and untangled myself from the sheets and blankets, climbing out of bed. “I want to show you something.”

I padded over to the sliding glass door.

Finn watched in silence as I pulled back the drapes and opened the glass door, stepping out onto the sunlit balcony. I shivered in the morning breeze skipping off the ocean.