Page 32 of The Hot Shot

“I’ll make sure to tell them you said that.” I eat a fry. “Okay, your turn.”

Finn sits back, and the sunlight caresses his skin, making the angle of his jaw both sharper and warmer. I find myself wanting to paint him, capture the way he dominates the space around him without even trying. His presence is immense and effortless.

Compelling.

I haven’t painted since college, but my fingers remember the feel of the brush. A picture is taken in one click and then it’s over. To paint someone is to linger over them, live in their skin for a while. I miss that intimacy.

My distraction ends when he finally speaks. “Let’s see. Two stick out in my mind. There was the time I got up to use the bathroom—”

“Oh, my God, please tell me you didn’t get all Chatty Kathy with your date while in there.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, that exactly what I was going to say. How did you guess?”

“Right. Sorry. Go on.”

“I thought my... er... date was out for the count, so I didn’t bother fully closing the door.”

I eye him warily, having no idea where this is going.

“So there I am, taking a piss, when this hand, holding a phone pushes past the crack of the door—”

“No!” I lean in with a gasp.

Finn nods. “Yeah, she was trying to take a picture of me.”

“Peeing?” I plunk back in my seat. “What the hell?”

Finn smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what I said. She claimed she was just curious, and that she wasn’t going to show anyone.”

“What a freak.”

“Total freak. But that’s not the worst one.”

“I’m almost afraid.”

Finn takes a long drink of his beer as if to brace himself. “There was the chick who started crying during sex.”

“Because you were so bad?” I tease, with mock horror.

“I left myself wide-open for that, didn’t I? But, no, Chuckles. I’d barely gotten started when she starts sobbing, like full-out snot-fest chest heaves.” His lips twist. “I was horrified. Was I hurting her? Was she traumatized?” Slowly, he shakes his head.“Between sobs, she says she just couldn’t believe Finn Mannus was fucking her. That she had ‘Finn Mannus’s dick in her.’ And, maybe, could we film it?”

I’m gaping. I don’t know what to say. He’s fidgeting with the edge of his napkin and giving me a pained smile as if he wants to make a joke out of this, laugh it off, but can’t summon the energy. Why should he? I get that hookups aren’t going to be the most meaningful encounters. But those women were using him. Blatantly.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice. “I didn’t tell you those stories to get you to feel sorry for me. They’re supposed to be funny.”

I swallow hard. “Do you find them funny?”

He winces, lifting one, broad shoulder. “When I told the guys, yeah. We laughed our asses off. But when you look at me with those big, pained eyes? It feels... shitty.”

With a breath, I shake myself out of it and rest my arms on the table. “You’re not allowed to feel shitty.”

“I’m not, huh?” The easy expression is back, his stiffness fading.

“I forbid it. They are the ones who should feel shitty. I want to hunt them down and slap some sense into them.”

“You’re kind of scary when you’re pissed.” His gaze slides over me in a slow stroke. “Scary hot.”

“I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”