Page 67 of The Hot Shot

Oh, we’re going to talk about type now? After I’ve come face-to-face with Ms. Golden Goddess Pouty Lips?

“I suppose he is,” I agree. Because Finn is right. Dex is one hundred percent my usual type. We’d even discussed our mutual love of art and painting when I’d taken his picture. Yet, I hadn’t felt anything past a gentle fondness and the need to put the big guy at ease. “Are you trying to set me up with him?”

I’m pretty sure I’ll have to kill Finn if he starts trying to get me to go out with his friends.

The corners of Finn’s mouth tighten. “Sorry, but he’s taken.”

“Good for him.” I mean it. I like Dex.

Finn grunts in response and shifts his position on the couch, moving his legs around as if he can’t get comfortable. We’re both out of sorts, and I can’t tell if we’re trying to fight or not. The thought makes me tired and depressed.

“You need a big ottoman to rest your feet on,” I say, distracted.

“Usually I stretch out on the couch.” Finn glances at his coffee table then at me. “But you’re right, an ottoman would be better. We should go buy one.”

We?Oh, hell. I curl up tighter into the corner of the couch. “You don’t have to go through all that. I can always sit on the chair and give you the couch.”

“Or you could sit on my lap.”

“Cute.”

“I thought so,” he agrees.

It’s our typical back-and-forth, but everything feels off. I’m tense as hell, and he’s lacking his usual easy charm. The glow of the TV paints his face in flickering blues and reds. The lines of his face are pinched, his shoulders held tight. His hand rests between us, large and wide, the nails trimmed.

I know that, when stretched wide, his hand is ten and three-fourths inches from the tip of his thumb to the tip of his pinky. They actually measured it for the Scouting Combine before he was drafted. Because, as Finn had once laughingly told me, hand size matters. Perhaps to the NFL it does. Right now, I’m more worried about the way he digs his fingers into the cushions as if he needs to hold on to something.

I want to pick up his hand, trace the bumps of his knuckles and the fine fan of bones that lead to his wrist. But it isn’t my place to do that for him.

“I’m glad you’re home.” His voice is low but strong, and it resonates through my bones.

Our gazes meet. Looking directly at him aches, makes my head light and my heart heavy. A petty, small part of me wants to yell at him for having a life that doesn’t involve me, for so clearly being gone on a woman whoisn’tme. I hate myself for that hypocrisy. He isn’t mine. I can’t make those demands.

But the tender, needy part of me wants to crawl into his lap and rest my head on his shoulder. That’s all I’d need right now. Just that. “Me, too.”

That seems to please him, but the solemn expression doesn’t ease. “You didn’t have to leave, you know.”

“Yeah, I did.”

His gaze slides away. “Not for hours, you didn’t.”

There’s a heaviness about him now, a slowness that isn’t the Finn I know. And I realize it’s pain. He’s in real pain. My throatcloses in on me, and it’s hard to say the words. “She broke your heart, didn’t she?”

Finn flinches then holds himself utterly still, his lashes lowered. “I guess she did, in a way.”

I officially hate the woman.

“I thought you didn’t date,” I blurt out like an idiot.

The corner of his mouth quirks sadly. “I don’t.”

He doesn’t expand on that, and I’m left confused with the hard hand of jealousy pushing down on my chest. Clearly, I’m not good enough at hiding my feelings because, when he glances at me, he does a double take, his brows knitting together. “Chess—”

My phone pings with a text and then another one. Finn reaches for it as if to hand it to me but freezes when he sees the screen. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath. “Who the hell is Nate?”

I have absolutely no reason to feel guilty. I snatch the phone out of his hand. “A bartender I met tonight.”

“Tonight,” he repeats as if it’s a bad word. “And what does he mean when he says you didn’t tell him what kind of place you were looking for?”