Page 64 of The Hot Shot

Her mouth falls open, her eyes welling as if she’ll soon cry.

“My mother means well,” I press on. “But this isn’t the right thing for either of us.” It sure as shit isn’t what I want or need.

Britt staggers to her feet. I reach out to steady her, but she shakes me off. “I thought...” She takes a breath. “I thought maybe she was speaking for you.”

“No,” I say, trying to soften my tone because she’s a victim of Mom’s meddling, too. “I’m sorry.”

“It is because of the photographer?”

“Chess,” I remind her.

“Chess. Is it because of her?”

“No.” It’s the honest truth. Chess has nothing to do with why I don’t want Britt celebrating holidays with me. “I just can’t...” Fucking hell, what do I say that doesn’t make me sound like a complete dick?

“I understand,” Britt says, saving us both. She takes a breath and stands straight. “I do. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable?God, there’s so much uncomfortable between us, I feel like I’m choking. I rub the back of my neck. “No. I’m sorry if I was abrupt. I’m no good at this.”

Her smile is wry and bittersweet. “Well, who would be?” She moves toward the front hall, and I hustle to open the door for her. Britt pauses and looks up at me. “Take care, Finn.”

I can barely look at her anymore. It’s wrong of me, I know. But feelings rarely listen to reason. “Goodbye, Britt.”

I close the door and lean against it, wanting Chess back here more than my next breath. But she’ll probably ask questions. And I don’t know if I have it in me to give her the answers.

Chess

One of my favorite things about the French Quarter is that you can always find a bar, no matter what time it is. And not some dank, gloomy dive—although there are plenty of those, but ones with high, pressed tin ceilings, walls of windows, and cute mixologists like my new friend Nate here who kindly slides a perfect Sazerac in front of me.

I take a cool sip and listen to Ella Fitzgerald muse about being bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It’s almost enough to soothe the weary soul.

“That’s an awfully big sigh,” Nate observes as he wipes his spotless mahogany bar.

I’m no longer a fan of nosy Nate.

“I wasn’t aware I sighed.” I take another sip of my drink. Good man, Nate, despite being nosy.

“Practically blew back my hair,” he jokes. I eye Nate’s shaved head, and he laughs.

“I need a short-term place to live.” Sadness swamps my chest. I don’t want to find a new place. Which just proves I really need to find one.

“You just moved here?” Nate asks.

“No. My place burned down.”

“Man, that sucks.”

I think of Finn running into the ER to find me, the way he brought me home and made me feel like it was my home too, for as long as I needed it. Then I think of Finn up there right now with Britt, and the way he looked at her. They have a history, and it clearly isn’t a simple one.

My cocktail chokes me going down, a sticky sweet burn on my tongue. “Yeah.”

Nate moves closer, until he’s standing opposite of me. “I can keep an ear out for you, if you want to give me your number.”

I stare up at Nate with his shaved head, gauge in his ears, and cute suspenders over his shoulders. There’s interest in his eyes.

“You want my number?”

The interest turns to heat. “I’m great at consoling.”