by Elise Faber
“Mr. Stoneman,” Rylie repeated.
He glanced from the eyes beneath him—blue with streaks of brown—to those next to him—the arresting clear blue of a summer’s sky—and hesitated for a moment, not sure what to say. But there wasn’t any recognition in the mom-slash-model-slash-superhero’s eyes—and not to be an arrogant asshole, but how was that even possible with his face on every magazine, every news site, every morning TV show? When his name had carried many of the big blockbuster films of the last decade? Still, he figured he’d better get his shit together and stop thinking so hard, because if Rylie was anything like his nieces and nephews, then he would only have her attention for another zero-point-three seconds.
So, he crouched down, met her gaze straight on, and said, “Thanks for apologizing. I’m not hurt.”
Clunky, definitely.
But his sister hated when someone told her kids, “It’s okay,” when she corrected them for their behavior, saying it undermined what they could learn in that moment.
Whether or not he agreed with his sister wasn’t in question—though, for the record, he thought she made a valuable point—one he’d taken, promising himself he’d make sure to use the knowledge for good.
Rylie glanced at her mother, who nodded with an encouraging smile, then ran back over to the chair, picked up her book, and started reading.
“Thanks for that,” she murmured, still no recognition, which was just . . . ego popping? Amazing? Confusing? A breath of fresh air? Finn had constantly been recognized everywhere he went for years now, and he didn’t quite know how to respond to someone not knowing who he was.
So, yeah, ego-diminishing.
“She’s a ball of energy sometimes,” the woman murmured, eyes on her daughter, “and hasn’t quite learned to control her body. Thank you for being so great with her.”
Finn smiled. “My nieces and nephews are the same. Tiny maniacs, the lot of them.”
Her expression warmed. “Oh?”
“I’m one of five kids,” he told her. “The middle child with both a sister and brother on either side of me. Only my older siblings have kids though. A lot of them.”
“Define a lot.”
He grinned.
“I have four nephews and two nieces, ranging from ten to three.”
“Okay.” Her brows lifted. “That is . . .”
“A lot?” he teased and grinned. “You should see us at our family dinners.” He laughed. “I swear, my parents’ neighbors would hate us if they weren’t invited to eat the feast my mom cooks up every Sunday.”
“Every Sunday?” Her eyes widened.
Finn laughed. “I can tell by your face that you think it’s a lot,” he teased. “And you’d be right. It is a lot. But they’re my family, and I love them.” A beat. “Plus, not all of us always get together. Whoever’s in town or not busy heads over to my parents and we just . . . hang out as a family.”
“That’s wonderful,” this woman murmured, but the tone was off. And when he looked at her face, the pain in her eyes stole his breath. But then she was smiling, and it was gone—or maybe not gone so much as tucked carefully away.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sharp shake of her head. “I didn’t even ask. How can I help you?”
Finn blinked, forced himself to focus on why he’d meandered over to this house in the first place, or at least on the reason he was telling himself he’d come over—that he most definitely wasn’t lonely after having spent too much of the last years surrounded by people, but rather, was just trying to be a good neighbor. He held up the bucket inscribed with the name Rylie on it. “I found this on my deck. Wasn’t sure if it had been misplaced or left behind, but I saw the toys on your deck and thought, perhaps, it might belong here.”
“Left behind?”
“I’m renting the house next door.” He pointed behind him to the small cottage that mirrored hers, one of a few houses lined up along the beach, their front doors facing the ocean. “Just for the summer.” He waved the bucket slightly, the plastic shovel rattling. “I’m guessing there’s only one Rylie in these parts.”
“You’ve guessed right,” she said, taking it from him, slipping beside him and out the front door to set it down in a large tub that held a gaggle of other beach toys. Less than a foot separated them, and he could smell the sweet floral notes of her hair, feel the heat of her body. Or maybe that was just him and more insanity.
He’d gone more than a year without feeling a lick of desire.
One glimpse of this woman, of her sad eyes, her sweet scent, and his cock twitched.
He wanted.
For the first time in as long as he could remember.
“Sorry it was left on your deck,” she murmured, drawing him back into the conversation. “Rylie and the little girl who stayed there a few weeks earlier this summer were thick as thieves.” Her mouth curved. “If you find any rogue toys, then that little one”—she pointed to her daughter, cuddled up with her stuffed animal, eyes on the page—“is probably the culprit.”
Finn chuckled. “Noted. I’ll be sure to storm over if I step on a Lego.”
“Ah, you joke, but you must not have suffered that particular parental torture if you can make light of it.” Her smile made his breath catch again.
She was . . . incredible.
Sweet. Lovely. Beautiful. And . . . sad.
So, so sad.
Her gaze met his, and he went rigid, hating the fact she was sad, this woman he didn’t know from a stranger was in pain, and yet wondering how the rest of the world didn’t see it, because otherwise they would want to storm in and take away that hurt.
But . . . he wasn’t here for that.
He was messed up, and bringing his special brand of messed up into this woman’s life wasn’t an option. “I’m just going to go.”
Sad got sadder.
And . . . fuck.
“Of course.” She stepped back. “Thanks again.”
Dark brown hair that shone in the afternoon sunlight, skin a deep gold that made the turquoise of her eyes stand out in sharp relief, lush, pink lips.
That parted.
That tipped up into a smile.
One that didn’t reach her eyes. Again.
And even though he didn’t know her, even though he was just going to be in town for a couple of months, even though she was only a temporary next-door neighbor—albeit one who seemed lovely and had an adorable kid—Finn made himself a promise.
In that moment, he made it his mission that if he did nothing else in his time away from Hollywood, then he would get this woman to smile for real.
Not just with her lips, but with her eyes.
With her heart.
He turned away, stopped, then spun back around to face her. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Shannon,” she murmured, extending a hand for him to shake.
His fingers met hers, his palm collided with hers, and . . . sparks, heat licking up his arm, consuming him with desire.
And Finn, who hadn’t felt anything real in far too long—
His skin prickled, his cock twitched, and . . . his heart pulsed.
Five
Graceful As An Elephant On Rollerblades
Shannon
She watched the tall, gorgeous man walk away, his stride loose-limbed and familiar, but her mind was too clouded with everything that had happened since the damn realtor had shown up at her front door, since Brian had screwed her over. Again. Worse, she felt beyond dumb for letting it happen, for holding on to stupid hope that her ex wouldn’t be a complete asshole, but he’d proven his asshole tendencies were strong and that hope had been shattered anyway.
Later, when things became clear, she wouldn’t be able to believe she hadn’t recognized the stranger bearing sand toys at her front door.
But, in that moment, her mind wasn’t anywhere close to sharp. In fact, she felt a bit like an elephant wearing rollerblades—big clumsy feet moving out of control in all directions, fla
iling and trying not to fall . . . even though the collapse was inevitable in the end.
And that was an image for the middle of the day.
Enough.
Her lawyer was doing what he could. She’d checked in with Alberto just that morning and he was filing . . . whatever lawyers filed with the court. So, she was focusing on her work. Her lesson plans were almost complete, her classroom supplies had been ordered. The first day of school loomed heavy with anticipation . . . and she might not be able to stay in this house.
Memories refused to be compartmentalized away.
This was the house she’d spent hour upon hour setting the tile backsplash in the kitchen, watching copious YouTube videos, fucking up so much, but still managing to make it look nearly perfect in the end—if one ignored the tile with spacing that was off in the corner by the fridge.
Which most people—most people being not her—did.
This house to which she’d brought Rylie home.
This house with the ocean, with waves, never failed to soothe her, with salt-tinged and sticky air that clung to her skin, mussed her hair.
This house where Rylie was asleep, cuddled up with her fox on their deck, those waves in the background, her book forgotten as they coaxed her into a nap.
God, this house. She loved it so much.
And yet, it was nothing when compared to the love she had for her little girl.
Shannon sighed, stepped out onto the deck, and made her way over to her daughter, scooping Ry up into her arms—albeit with a grunt, since at almost seven, Ry was getting to be a big kid and it wasn’t an effortless lift any longer. More gym time was necessary, she supposed, as she carried her daughter inside.
She stepped over the threshold and stifled a giggle, thinking of what Pepper had told her the last time she’d lamented about needing more time for exercise.
“One, lifting your wine glass to your lips is exercise,” the sweet redhead with a naughty streak had told her. Then had gone on, proving that naughty streak by adding, “Two, the best exercise is finding a hot guy and working your way through a pair of sheets.”
“Through?” Shannon had asked.
Pale skin flushed bright red, because even though Pepper had that dirty mind, her blush powers were strong. “Through,” she’d said. “Improbable, unless you’re me, who catches a heel and manages to tear my lovely, expensive thousand-thread-count sheets I argued with my husband over buying.”
“Who wanted them?”
A grin. “Neither of us . . . and both of us.”
“Um, what?”
“Part of the fun with Derek is the debate.”
Shannon had been married for years, but she had no clue what Pepper was talking about. “What do you mean?”
Green eyes on hers. “I guess, I’m saying that even if we’re bickering or arguing over stupidly expensive sheets”—Pepper’s face had softened—“I know at the end of it, he loves me . . . and making up is half the battle.”
She didn’t know what expression had crossed her face at Pepper’s words, but her friend had paled, apologies beginning to drop from her lips.
Which was the point when Shan had shepherded her to the door.
Because she’d seen what was in Pepper’s eyes.
And it was pity.
But no more pity than she felt for herself. She’d been with Brian since high school, and in all their years together, she’d never found what Pepper had.
No fighting and making up in bed.
No arguing about the small stuff because the big things were going wonderfully.
No . . . weighted looks only Derek and Pepper understood, no inside jokes, no closeness or partnership or loving eyes.
Because she and Brian weren’t meant to be.
Because Brian had fucked everything in sight.
Because . . . she’d let herself be in a relationship with a man who didn’t see her value and instead of leaving, she’d been too afraid to be alone.
She set Rylie on the bed, tugging a light blanket over her and her stuffed fox, aptly named Foxy, but when she turned to the door, Shannon found her legs wouldn’t carry her through it. Instead, she found herself moving to the rocking chair perched in one corner and sitting down.
How many hours had she sat there rocking Rylie?
How many hours had she sat there wishing that things were different?
Too many, she knew.
“Too many,” she vowed because as she stared out the window, watching the waves, so beyond done with feeling this way. No. More. Shannon made a promise to herself, to her daughter. No more wishes. No more making herself small.
She was going to live.
She was going to fight.
And in doing so, she was going to give Rylie something she never had.
Herself.
A girl, a woman who didn’t need reassurance from the outside world, or from a man, a partner, or even from her family, her friends. Ryle would have confidence inside and not look for it to be reinforced elsewhere.
But in order to do that, Shannon knew she needed to find it for herself first.
“I will, baby,” she said, glancing over at the sleeping form of her daughter. “I promise. I’ll fight for this. I’ll fight for you. I’ll fight for myself.”
Six
Bearing More Than Gifts
Finn
He was knocking on Shannon’s door again.
But this time instead of returning lost toys, he came bearing gifts.
In the form of a giant fruit basket sent from his agent. One that was going to rot on his kitchen counter, because how in the fuck was he going to eat ten pounds of apples and oranges all on his own?
A freckled nose appeared in the window. “Mom! It’s Mr. Finn.”
He grinned and waved. “Hi, Rylie.”
“Hi!” She waved back.
Then her face disappeared, and Shannon was there, dark circles under her eyes, recognition still not anywhere in the vicinity of her expression, but determination seemed to be present. “Hi, Mr. Finn.” A quirk of her lips, amusing herself by echoing her daughter. Then the door cracked, and she leaned against the opening. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Also, you can just call me Finn.”
“I don’t know. Mr. Finn does have a certain ring to it,” she teased.
“If you say so.” He grinned and held up the basket. “I wanted to see if you and Rylie would take some fruit off my hands.”
Her brows drew together.
“My ag—uh . . . friend sent me this, and it’s way too much for one person to eat before it goes bad.” He shrugged. “I just thought that most kids seem to like apples and oranges.” A beat. “Or, at least, my nieces and nephews do.”
“I love apples,” Rylie said, skipping in. “Can I have one?” He nodded, and she glanced at her mother, who nodded as well, before scooping a shining red fruit from the basket he held. “Can I read on the deck, Mom?” she asked, lifting the apple to her lips.
“Wash it first,” Shannon admonished. “And, yes, but what did you forget?”
Blue eyes streaked with brown met his, and Finn experienced another gut punch courtesy of the females in this house. Because where Shannon’s eyes were tinged with sadness, Rylie’s were bright and clear and startlingly happy.
“Thanks, Mr. Finn,” Rylie said.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Rylie.”
A smile, a vivid burst of happiness before she sprinted off to the kitchen, where the water turned on for all of one second as she washed the fruit. Then footsteps raced across the hardwood, her, “excuse me,” rushed but still there when she slipped by them to pass through the door. And then she was skidding to a stop in front of a chair on the deck, covering herself and her stuffed fox with a blanket before she pulled out a book.
The actions told him that she must have done the same routine time and again until it was second-nature, until she didn’t think, just knew that was a place she could be safe and cuddle up with a book.
And his heart, the organ he’d thought numb and unfeeling, pulsed again.
“Um . . . did you want to come in for something to drink?” Shannon asked, stepping back.
Considering he was still standing on the threshold, a dozen apples and oranges—minus one—in his hands, that seemed like a good idea.
“Oh, can you leave that open?” she said, when he moved inside, started to close the door behind him. “I can’t see Ry unless it is.”
“Of course.”
He spied a tiny doorstop in the shape of a starfish and used his foot to prop the wooden panel open then followed Shannon into the living room. It was smallish, like his, but the large front windows opened the space up. That along with the white couch, the gray and aquamarine accents, gave the room a calming, luxurious feel, and Finn knew the decorators he’d paid a boatload of money to decorate his house back in L.A. couldn’t have done a better job.
In fact, if there hadn’t been family pictures on the mantle, he could have believed it was the staged beach house in Malibu he’d been touring to buy before he’d hightailed it out of town.
He frowned.
“You okay?”
“No kid clutter.”
“What?”
She had a rambunctious six-or-seven-year-old. A white couch with no stains on it, no Legos littering the pale gray carpet, no rogue banana peels or juice boxes or—
“What are you staring at?”
He jumped and spun toward Shannon, seeing she was watching him carefully. While he’d been staring off into space like a dumbass. Cool. “Who designed this for you?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning. “I did.”
“No. Who picked out the furniture?” Finn turned in a circle. “Who did the placement? The color scheme?”
Her frown went deeper. “I did.”
“But you have a kid,” he said, coming toward her and setting the basket on the glass coffee table—yes, a glass coffee table. “How is it that the couch doesn’t have stains? How is it that there aren’t toys scattered everywhere?”