Page 20

Chapter twenty

Foxx

I think I’ve been dick-matized.

Is that even a thing? If it is, then Finn has done it to me. It's the only explanation for the insanity of me hooking up with him again. Morals? Don't know any. Ethics? Never heard of them.

My feet move fast, nearly tripping over themselves as I rush around my apartment, hands snatching up anything out of place and stuffing it out of sight.

There’s not much but, suddenly, the book I left open on the coffee table looks too messy, and the water ring underneath it looks like evidence of a life not as put together as I pretend it is.

It’s ridiculous. He’s been here before. He doesn’t care about my bookshelves, or the way my shoes aren’t lined up perfectly by the door. If anything, Finn seems like the kind of person who thrives on messiness .

And yet, I’m still standing in my kitchen, wiping down the counters for the second time in five minutes.

I need to get a fucking grip.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Finn

I hope you’re decent. I’d hate to walk in and get ideas.

I scoff, but smile too. The audacity of this man. I think it’s one thing I like most about him. His confidence is unwavering. It’s refreshing.

Foxx

You already have ideas.

I could have told him not to come. Could have ignored him, set a boundary, reminded myself that this isn’t anything serious. But instead, I told him not to be late.

Now, I’m standing in my kitchen, heart beating a little too fast, checking the time like a man obsessed, like it’ll make any difference to whatever this is turning into.

Like I don’t already know I’m in trouble with him.

The buzz for my door makes my pulse jump higher.

Deep breath. Calm down. I make my way over to the intercom and press the button to let him into the building, all while sweating.

I anticipate the second knock on my door, but it still does nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.

My hand grips the handle and as soon as it swings open, those blue eyes scald me.

They trail over me slowly, leaving nothing unburned, taking in every inch of me, until they land on my face again, and he winks.

“Smells good in there,” he says, stepping inside without hesitation. “If this is your way of seducing me with food, I’ll allow it.”

I close the door behind him, leveling him with a look. “I told you to show up hungry. Are you hungry?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves closer.

Before I can react, his hands are on me. One grips my hip, while the other presses against my chest, backing me up with effortless control. I let him, too caught off guard, too caught up in the way his touch sends something hot through my veins.

My back meets the wall, the cool surface a contrast to the warmth of him in front of me.

Finn braces a hand beside my head, close enough that I can smell the salt on his skin, the chill of the night clinging to him.

He looks at me, eyes flicking over my face, my mouth, like he’s waiting for me to say no, but that word doesn’t seem to be in my vocabulary with him.

His lips press against mine, nothing hesitant about the way he takes. It’s not desperate, just a tease of pressure, like a hook meant to sink beneath the skin and stay there.

Just for a breath, he lingers, then pulls back, his smirk deeper now, more satisfied.

“Starving,” he murmurs, voice raspy and wrecking my goddamn composure.

I ball my fists, trying not to pull him back to me, ignoring the way my body reacts, ignoring the way he’s watching me like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and step back before I do something stupid.

Tonight might’ve had all the markers for another hookup, but somewhere between cleaning counters that didn’t need wiping, freaking out and prepping dinner, I think I decided that I want more.

Not just his hands on me. Not just the way he smirks like he can pull me apart piece by piece.

I want to feed him. I want to know what he looks like when he takes the first bite, whether he eats fast or if he takes his time.

I want to hear what he thinks about things that aren’t sex, see if he’s still sharp when he isn’t trying to get under my skin.

If I’m going to take a risk with him, I need more reward here.

I turn for the kitchen, expecting him to follow, but he lingers.

“What is it?” I glance back at him.

Finn’s head tilts, gaze locked on me. “You really did cook for me,” he says, pushing off the wall, moving with that loose, easy confidence that makes everything he does seem effortless.

I frown. He really thought this was just a hookup. But the look on his face isn’t one of disappointment, just surprise. He walks past me into the kitchen, and I follow as though this isn’t my space.

Opening a cupboard, I pull out two plates. Finn slides onto a stool at the counter, fingers drumming against the countertops. “What’s on the menu?”

Pulling open the oven, the heat rushes out as I grab the dish inside. “Chorizo and halloumi orzo tray bake. Roast peppers, onions, spices.”

He groans. “That sounds insane. Fuck, am I drooling?”

A chuckle slips past my lips as I serve his first, the steam bellowing in front of me. “Try to contain yourself.”

He leans over the food, inhaling deeply with his eyes closed, a satisfied look on his face. “No promises.”

His first bite is quick, no hesitation for the temperature of the food. He chews, eyes flicking up to meet mine, then nods once before going in for another. Okay, he's a fast eater then.

“You like?” I turn to grab us both a beer from the fridge.

When I turn around, half his plate is cleared, and he’s working on the other side, humming and groaning. I watch his throat work on a swallow. “I hope you know, you’re the one to blame when I move in.”

Laughter bursts out of me unexpectedly, but it feels good. My chest feels lighter, and I don’t remember the last time I actually laughed freely.

Finn grins around another bite, not taking his eyes off my mouth.

Shaking my head, I twist the cap off the beers and push one toward him.

“You’re not moving in.” Well, that was said with zero conviction.

I may as well have swooned and given him a key with a personalized keyring.

He’s not moving in , I repeat in my head, but it’s already too late.

The picture’s there. Him, barefoot in this kitchen, stealing my hoodie, putting his things in my bathroom cabinet.

Yeah, I can’t think about that. That's completely insane.

He takes a sip of his beer, and I snap myself out of it. “Like I said, you’ve played your cards here. I’m folding. A man who can cook is my biggest weakness.”

I smile genuinely. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to exploit that weakness again.”

The words have left my mouth and, suddenly, it hits me that they could be taken in a way that means this is permanent. God, could I overthink any more?

He leans forward on his elbows, studying me like I’m a puzzle with too many edge pieces missing. “You know, I’ve been wondering…”

I release the breath in my lungs. Good, he didn’t pick up on my internal freakout. “Oo-kay?”

“Why Foxx?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Why you go by your middle name,” he says casually, dragging his fingers through a smear of sauce on his plate and lifting it to his tongue. Don’t stare, don’t stare . “It’s hot as fuck, but all I know is that your friends call you that. Is that it? Or is there a story there?”

I swallow a sip of beer. “It’s complicated,” I say.

I don’t think it’s quite right that I tell him Nicholas was the version of me that was supposed to last, that had notions of forever.

But the way his blue eyes bore into me, unfiltered, bright and knowing, I realize that I don’t want to hide anymore.

“I’ve always used both names. My…ex used Nicholas a lot. So Foxx felt more—”

“Like armor?” His interruption surprises me, and I’m stuck swirling in his expression. It’s not angry or confused; if anything, he falters for a second, searching my face with the hope that he’ll find something of himself in me. “You lose someone?”

I swallow down the emotion that’s suddenly clawing up my neck. And it’s not because of what he asked, it’s the fact he’s curious. He’s usually so confident and sure, but right now, he’s being careful with me, and I’m not sure I was ready for that.

“Yeah,” I say eventually, the word feeling like sandpaper in my throat. “A husband. A life. The idea that I thought I knew what I was doing, where my life was going. But he found better in someone else.”

He blinks, just once, and the emotion disappears from his eyes. No pity, though, which makes me internally exhale. “Shit,” he says. “That explains the control thing.”

I snort, and it pulls a smile from me, despite everything. “You think I’ve got control issues?”

“Not exactly that. Well…maybe.” He grins again, wide and unrepentant, then he winks, and the gesture hits exactly as intended. “You were rearranging your bookshelf while waiting for me to knock on the door, weren’t you?”

I groan, tipping my head back. I can’t even deny it. “Jesus.”

“You alphabetize your spice rack, huh?”

“It’s called organization.”

“It’s called adorable.”

I look at him, half horrified, half…maybe something else. And he’s just watching me with that smile that says he’s got my number and isn’t letting go of it any time soon.