by Elise Faber
They got there early enough for her to see Rylie off to the playground and for her to finish her coffee before the first bell rang.
And then she went out to gather her third graders.
Who were miraculously lined up in the proper spot with mostly smiling faces and non-snotty noses.
No one threw up.
No one had to go to the principal’s or forgot their student ID number. No one even talked back.
It was the best day ever.
And one that was punctuated by her and Ry scoring matching socks at Sock-a-Palooza that were silky soft and patterned with penguins wearing sunglasses.
It was the best day ever . . . until she walked up to her house and saw the For Sale sign planted in front of it.
Ten
Tears and a White Couch
Finn
He saw Rylie and Shannon emerge from the front of her house, walking up the little path that led from the narrow street that all of the cottages’ garages backed up to.
He’d taken a dip in the ocean, his towel draped around his shoulders, salt water dripping down his spine in cold rivulets that felt much icier since the sun was setting and the afternoon breeze was picking up.
But one look at Shannon’s face and the ice on his spine wasn’t from the ocean.
He jogged over. “What is it?”
A shake of her head. A forced smile. “I’m fine.”
“Shan—”
“I’m fine.”
Sharp now.
A tone that normally would have him backing off. Except . . . the sadness was back. He’d watched it fade to the background over the last week, over peanut butter milk and blue waves. He’d seen it settle as they’d walked by each other on the beach, when he’d brought her a cup of coffee to thank her for the banana bread.
He’d just started to get to know this woman—
And he felt like he was seeing her again for the first time.
Fuck, what had made her so sad?
“I’ll see you later, Finn,” she said.
“Mom and I are having a tradition.”
A twitch of Shan’s lips, the sadness still there but tempered by her love for her daughter. “We’re making a first day of school tradition.”
“Socks and pineapple!” Ry cheered.
More smiling. More sad.
God, he shouldn’t care so much. He shouldn’t be infatuated with this woman who wasn’t even divorced yet, who had her own life to sort out while he was sorting out his. He had his life; she had hers.
He shouldn’t care she was sad.
But he did.
“Shan—”
His watch beeped, signaling a call redirected from his cell.
“You should get that,” she said, pointing at his watch. “Ry and I will catch up with you another time.”
Finn silenced the call. “How was it?”
Brows drawn together. “How was what?”
“How was the first day?” he asked.
“It was awesome,” Ry said, dancing around. “I’m in class with my best friend, Lizzy, and Mrs. Montgomery is nice, and I have my own desk organizer with all of my own things in their own spots.”
That made him glance up from the dancing child and into Shan’s eyes.
Real amusement trumped sad.
“Are you insinuating that because my house is very organized and neat that I have something to do with my child’s appreciation of desk caddies?” she asked.
“Yes.” A beat. “You have a white couch.” His lips twitched. “And matching baskets.
She laughed. “Clearly, that means an obsession with organization.”
He lifted a brow. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” she admitted, lips curving. “As you well know, since you’ve set foot in my house.” She brushed a hand across his chest.
He froze.
Because her palm sliding across his bare chest . . . fuck, it was the lightest, most innocent touch, and she might as well have slipped her hand in the front of his swim trunks and wrapped her fingers around his cock.
Then she seemed to realize what she’d done and took a hurried step back. “Sorry. I— Uh . . . you had a fly. Um—”
His watch beeped again.
“You should get that,” she repeated, skittering back. “Come on, Ry. Our pizza’s getting cold.”
“Mr. Finn can eat with us,” Ry announced.
For the record, Mr. Finn was fine with that. He silenced his watch.
“We’re doing our tradition,” Shan said. “Remember? Just the two of us.”
That was probably the one thing Shannon could have said to get him to not take Rylie up on her offer. Because this was her time with her daughter, and she’d worked all day. Not to mention, she was upset and . . . there was just no way he was going to insert himself into a situation where he didn’t belong.
He ruffled Rylie’s hair. “We’ll do pizza another time,” he told her. “This is Mom and Daughter time.”
Blue-brown eyes widened. “Oh! Mom and Daughter time is the best! Can I paint my nails to match my new socks?”
Shan chuckled. “Not sure I can manage penguins, sweetheart.”
“I meant blue, Mom.”
“Well, obviously I can do blue.” Shannon winked. “Maybe even sunglasses.”
He wanted to see how she could possibly do sunglasses on tiny fingernails. He wanted to eat pizza and see the penguin-printed socks.
But this was Mom and Daughter time.
And his watch buzzed again.
“You really should take care of that,” Shannon said, then wrapped an arm around Ry’s shoulders and continued walking.
Finn waved, turned for his own house.
Later, he would wish he’d turned the other way, wished he’d gone onto the street and seen the For Sale sign.
He could have put things to rest in a heartbeat.
But he didn’t turn the other way.
Instead, he went into his cottage, called his agent back, who was hounding him to make decisions about the piles of scripts.
All were shit.
He picked one anyway.
Then he ordered a pizza of his own.
He was still sitting on his deck, hours later, the sky dark, the sound of the waves constant and soothing, dredges of his pizza on the table in front of him, when he heard it.
Footsteps.
The screech of a chair leg.
Finn turned his head, already knowing what he’d see.
Shannon.
She shook out a blanket, draped it across her lap.
Then went still. So still that if he hadn’t known she’d come out onto the deck, hadn’t seen her with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have known anyone was out there at all.
And he found himself frozen in place, not wanting to break whatever solace she’d found, not wanting to intrude . . . while also wanting, needing to study her. To trace her silhouette with his gaze, to note its peaks and valleys highlighted against the moonlight.
What was it about Shannon that was so fascinating?
Was it pure hero complex? Yes, he’d enjoyed and taken pride in the fact that he’d lightened her load, at least for a few days. Was it that he was attracted to her? That was an irrefutable truth. She was beautiful, but he had seen more classically pretty, more curvy, more thin, more tall, more short, more . . . women that could logically be stated fit all of those ideological standards.
Hell, he’d spent the last decade sharing the screen with many of them.
Was it her daughter?
Ry was light to her heavy, bright to her dark, and yet, he’d seen those glimpses of light and bright in Shannon, too. Before life had mostly squashed it out.
Her husband was a dumbass.
He knew that without a doubt.
His pull to Shannon herself? That was a mystery.
One he should probably leave unsolved, and yet, one he also knew he wasn’t going to leave unsolved.
Especially when he watched her shoulders curl
in on themselves, saw her body bend in half, almost crumpling, a sob trailing across the sand to his deck to hit his ears.
He was on his feet and striding toward her before he processed the movement.
Then he was on the bottom step of her deck.
Then he was at her chair.
Her eyes flew up to meet his. “Finn.”
He didn’t stop to think, didn’t say a word. He didn’t know what had made her sad that day, couldn’t make her ex not be an asshole. The only thing he could do was hold her close, let her cry, and then dry her tears when she was finished.
“Finn,” she protested when he lifted her in his arms.
The protest died out as he sat down, bringing her flush against his chest, legs stacked across his lap. “Shh,” he murmured, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. “You don’t have to tell me why you’re crying. Just—just let me hold you while you do.”
Silence.
Then a heart-wrenching sob, louder, and so painful that his own heart felt flayed open in response.
Her forehead dropped to his shoulder, tears streaming down her face, soaking into the cotton of his T-shirt. Her arms fell to his waist, and she cried.
Finn held her. For a long, long time, he just held her.
And when the sobs stopped, after he’d wiped her tears from her cheeks, Shannon didn’t move from his arms. Just dropped her forehead back to his shoulder and lay limply in his embrace.
So, he continued to hold her.
Until her breathing evened out, until she fell asleep.
He continued to hold her until the moon began to set. He held her until goose bumps lifted on her skin, until she shivered.
Only then did he stop holding her.
But he waited until he’d tucked her under the covers of her bed before he did so.
Eleven
Pancakes
Shannon
“Mom!” Rylie yelled, careening in through the bedroom door and slamming the heavy wooden panel into the wall in the process.
She winced but not as much as she would have if she hadn’t installed the plastic disc onto the wall that protected it from rogue knobs—a common occurrence when living with an almost seven-year-old, unfortunately.
This wince came from knowing the wall was safe, but remembering her actions of the night before.
God.
She’d lost it in Finn’s arms.
Why had she gotten married so young?
If only she’d gone crazy in college, then she could say her worst memory was a drunken one-night stand with a really jerky guy.
Instead, she’d gotten married to the really jerky guy.
“Mom!” Rylie said, coming over and tugging back the blankets. “I want pancakes before school. And Mr. Finn wants them, too.”
Shan froze. “Mr. Finn?”
“Uh-huh. He was asleep on the couch, but I woke him up.” She spun in a circle. “Do you like my outfit? Lizzy and I are going to match today.”
“Wait, Ry.” Shan sat up, pushing off the bed. “Mr. Finn—er Finn is here? Why?”
“Silly! You let Mr. Finn stay on the couch because he got locked out of his house.” Ry’s face screwed up. “He’s going to call a . . . doors man to let him in.”
“A locksmith?”
“Yeah. A locksmith.” Rylie nodded firmly. “So, can we have pancakes, Mommy?”
Shannon’s eyes flicked to the clock, saw that unfortunately they had plenty of time for her to shower, dress, and still make pancakes.
“Mr. Finn is on the couch?”
“Nope,” Ry said. “He’s on the deck.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll make pancakes. But I need to shower first.”
“Yes! Pancakes!” Rylie ran off then skidded to a stop at the bedroom door. “I’m going to wear my new socks today. Are you?”
“Sure, baby.”
Then she was off, yelling, “Mom said yes for pancakes, but she needs to shower!”
Shan quickly pulled together an outfit and brought it into the bathroom with her, taking the world’s quickest shower because there was something unnerving . . . okay, she would be lying if she said it was only unnerving to picture Finn standing on the deck, knowing she was naked under a stream of water.
Would he like what he saw?
Making a disgusted noise, she yanked the knob to the right, shutting off the water and then stepping out of the stall.
Her body was fine. She was thin with some curves, but she also had stretch marks from Ry’s pregnancy, and her boobs were . . . well, they’d had their perkier days. And Finn filmed movies with gorgeous actresses and models, women who probably didn’t have stretch marks—or even if they did have them, then they at least had a team of makeup artists, wardrobe people, and lighting technicians to make them look their best.
She was—
“Yeah, no,” she muttered, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I’m so not doing this.”
She tugged on her favorite pair of jeans, the ones that hugged her not-so-Hollywood curves but made her ass look fabulous. She added a pale blue blouse that brought out the color of her eyes, put on her new penguin socks, slipped into her favorite and ridiculously expensive but comfortable flats, then slapped some minimal makeup onto her face, threw on a necklace, swiped a brush through her hair, and called it good.
Long ago, she’d given up wearing anything really nice and expensive (her shoes aside, since she needed her feet to be comfortable in order to get through the day), even though her third graders were neater than the kindergartners she’d begun her teaching career with, it had only taken one experience with glitter, white glue, and feathers to teach her that lesson.
Also, let it be noted that she no longer used glitter in her classes either.
She tossed her towel in the hamper, along with her jammies, and left the bathroom.
Pancake time.
Correction: girding her loins against Finn Stoneman time.
He was standing in the hall, leaning back against the wall, his head perfectly placed between her wedding picture and one of her and Ry—two guesses for which picture she was wishing she’d shit-canned in that moment, and it wasn’t the one that had her and her daughter in matching flowy dresses, waves crashing over their ankles.
He smiled. “Morning.”
“Why’d you sleep on my couch?”
The smile faltered, and seriously, she got it. Her tone was sharp, but that was mostly because the man was fucking ridiculous.
How in the hell did someone look so sexy this early in the morning, after sleeping on her couch, without changing his clothes or brushing his teeth? How did he look so freaking sexy standing in her hallway, slightly rumpled, stubble on his cheeks . . . and she repeated. Too. Fucking. Sexy.
Ugh.
He pushed off the wall and came close.
Close enough that his spicy scent washed over her. Close enough that she felt the heat of his chest through the thin material of her blouse. Close enough that she could see he had a ring of gray in those honey-colored eyes.
He brushed his thumb lightly over her cheek.
Shan’s lips parted, breath catching.
“Not swollen,” he murmured.
“Wh-what?”
“Your eyes are the same gorgeous blue as always,” he said. “Not swollen. Not red.”
That thumb drifted lower, brushing over her jaw, drifting along her bottom lip.
“I—uh—”
“I slept on your couch because you and Rylie were asleep, and I didn’t know where your spare key was.”
She frowned.
“So I could lock up.”
More frowning.
His thumb dipped lower, sliding forward, bringing his palm in contact with her skin as he cupped the side of her neck. “Because after I put you in your bed, I wasn’t going to leave you and Rylie asleep in an unlocked house.”
“But this is Stoneybrook.”
One brow came up. “And is Stoneybrook a fictional utopia where nothing bad
ever happens?”
“No,” she admitted.
“So, I wasn’t leaving you unprotected.”
“Finn, the worst thing that has happened in the last couple of years is Pepper nearly getting mowed down by an old lady because that old lady was trying to read the sign Pepper was holding and got distracted.” Her lips twitched. “But that’s Pepper’s Chaos Magnet—her words, not mine.”
“Pepper’s Chaos Magnet.” He grinned. “Yeah, that’s fitting.”
She shrugged. “See? You could have easily left.”
“No, I couldn’t have.”
A huff.
“There was no way I was leaving you and Ry vulnerable,” he said mulishly. “So, just drop it, okay?”
“No, I will not drop it,” she snapped. “You have your own life. I don’t need you to rescue me or—”
He bent and slanted his lips across hers.
Morning breath.
He should have had morning breath.
That was the only logical thought that went through her mind before his mouth settled on hers, before his tongue drifted across the seam of her lips, and slipped inside, before she tasted him—coffee and mint. Before that tongue slid against hers and she got lost in the feel of him.
Two men.
She’d kissed two men in her life.
Brian.
Finn.
And this was like her first time all over again.
Heat slid down her spine, not in an explosion, but rather in a licking, consuming forest fire, burning slowly, combusting everything in its path. Flames coalescing and spreading outward along her skin, up her nape, drifting down to her thighs, in between.
Slow. Ever-increasing. Incineration.
And what a way to go.
But then Finn lifted his head, removed his hand from her throat.
“What—”
Rylie appeared in the hall. “Mom! Pancakes!”
Shannon shook herself. “Get the bowl, baby. I’ll be right there. Finn—”
He kissed her again.
This time wasn’t slow. It was a sparked fire from lightning, flames exploding from the simplest contact. Lips immediately parting, her hands gripping his shoulders, sliding up into his hair, her body flush against him.