Page 82 of The Hot Shot

“Finn got you that apron, didn’t he?” I say.

The lines at the corners of Sean’s eyes deepen. “Yes, ma’am, he did.” He glances up from his work. “You know my son well.”

I shrug and finish another bite of turnover. “His humor anyway.”

Sean grabs a kitchen towel and wipes his hands. The more I watch him, the more I see a lifetime of military training in him. Not a single movement is wasted or hesitant. He manages to be utterly graceful, yet proudly commanding.

He reminds me of a less impulsive Finn.

“You haven’t asked where my son is,” Sean remarks.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he was out running.”

Sean’s lips curl in a smile that is very reminiscent of Finn’s when he has something on me.

“It’s eleven,” I feel obliged to point out. “He always exercises at ten. Before returning starving and in search of food—”

Finn breezes into the kitchen, sweaty and flush. Gym shorts ride low on his hips, the white tank he’s wearing sticking damply to his skin. “Do I smell meat pies? Man, I could eat a dozen.”

Sean catches my eye before grabbing another plate from the cabinet.

Finn pours himself a massive glass of orange juice and comes over to stand beside me. He smells of sun and sea and sweat.

“Chester.” He kisses my cheek, a sweet gesture that makes my skin tingle. Memories of being wrapped up with his long, hard body flutter through my mind, and it’s all I can do not to lean into him.

From the speculative look he’s giving me, I’m guessing he’s remembering things as well. “I see Dad’s taking care of you.”

“Very well,” I agree, focusing on my coffee.

His gaze slides to the food on my plate and turns covetous. Rolling my eyes, I offer him a bite, which he takes without hesitation.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he says with a little groan that I find way too appealing, given that it’s over food.

“You’re stinking up my galley, Finnegan,” Sean says mildly. “You know the drill. Shower before meal service.”

“Aye aye, Cap!” With a waggle of his brows to me, Finn grabs his glass and hustles off.

I’m left alone with Sean, who looks at me as if he knows something I don’t. He’s astute enough to keep silent. But inside, I am a storm of guilt and uncertainty.

Finn’s family adores him. Their joy over him being in a relationship is so lovely it threatens to break my heart. I don’t want to lie to them.

But I don’t get to discuss it with Finn. We are effectively swept up in family activities, starting with putting up the Christmas tree.

Gathered around in the big living room, Meg, Emily, and I watch as the men pull sections of a white artificial tree out of boxes. Sean’s quiet commands keep Finn and Glenn from arguing while they try to figure out what goes where. Soon, the ten-foot tree is assembled before the picture window and plugged in to glow in softly lit splendor.

“I know fresh trees have that lovely scent,” Meg says to me. “And some traditionalists sneer at artificial, but I just love my white tree.”

I take a picture of Finn and Sean adjusting a few branches. “I have a silver tree. Or had one. I suppose it’s melted now.”

My laugh sounds brittle, even to my ears. Meg gives me a gentle squeeze around the shoulders, a move so much like her son’s that it’s eerie. “Well, I’m glad you’re here to enjoy this tree.”

I almost don’t know what to do with the Mannus brand of tactile affection. My mother would have recited a poem about loss and patted my hand before drifting off. As new as it is for me to be cuddled and hugged, I find it comforting. Especially since they never cling or make me feel pathetic.

Meg announces that she’s going to make her “special nog,”which has Finn and Glenn snickering, and I really don’t want to know why.

“You shouldn’t be working,” Emily tells me, as she starts opening ornament boxes. “Come relax and trim the tree.”

Glenn’s wife is petite, her curly hair so dark brown it’s almost black, her skin a deep, even tan that speaks of Hispanic descent. Silver bangles around her wrist tinkle as she works.