Matt and Jude exchange a look. “Maybe,” Jude says. “I wouldn’t say I’ve freaked out before, but I have skipped a date with a girl I knew was looking for commitment.”
Finn had shut the marriage topic down when I’d asked for details. He said he hadn’t loved her like a husband, but was he trying to play it down so I wouldn’t know I was a rebound? I nod a little too hard, my head swimming from the alcohol. “That makes sense. His texts were so schizo.”
“Texts?” Benny asks. “No way. You need to talk to him face to face, or at least on the phone. Texts are too ambiguous.”
“They were really sweet at first,” I say, “and then when I didn’t respond, he got weird.”
“So you rejected him,” Jude says.
“No I didn’t, I was just busy at work—”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Well, no. I didn’t really say anything. I was upset.”
Matt makes a face. “When was his divorce?”
“Recently, I think.”
“My older brother was traumatized after his divorce,” he says. “It’s been three years and he still hasn’t been on a date.”
“So basically,” Cara says, “this guy’s trying to get back out there after a devastating divorce, and you go and blow him off.”
“I blow him off?” I think back to his six text messages—and my single two-word response. Do I have this all wrong? Was I the jerk? “Oh my God. Do you really think that’s what happened?”
Jude nods. “Definitely. Girls think we have it so easy, but the truth is, getting shot down by someone you really like fucking sucks.”
A wave of guilt—or gin, more likely—courses through me. I had burst into tears when I thought Finn had rejected me just a few hours ago, so of course I can understand why he’d be hurt. “What do I do?” I ask. “Call him?”
“No. You bruised his ego. You need a grand gesture.” Cara points at me. “You should go over to his place.”
“But he told me not to come.”
“Of course he did.” Benny nods. “He’s proud. You have to prove you’re really interested and not planning to screw him over.”
“Just planning to screw him,” Cara chirps.
“If a hot chick showed up on my doorstep to screw in the middle of the night,” Matt says, “I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“Really?” I ask.
Jude puts his hand on the back of my stool, his fingers mere inches from my ass. “If he doesn’t invite you in, he’s a loser. Better to find out he’s a loser now rather than later.”
I take another generous sip of my drink, feeling suddenly warm. I want to remove my sweater like I had last night for Finn’s camera. For Finn. And having Jude’s hand near me is reminding me of Finn’s, all the things they did to me . . . and to himself.
Did I make a mistake assuming he was no longer interested? I have limited experience with men as it is—I know virtually nothing about divorce. I should’ve been more sensitive. I slide off my stool. “I’m going over there.”
The four of them applaud. “Good girl,” Cara says. “If he turns you down, come right back here. We’ll be waiting.”
If he turns me down, I’m certain I won’t be going anywhere but right to bed so I can crawl under the covers for the rest of the weekend and drown myself in tears.
15
Outside, the cool air is refreshing, but not jarring enough to kill my buzz. I don’t even put on my coat, just wave down a passing cab and give him Finn’s address. On the ride over, I lower the window, unusually warm from the alcohol. I take off my mittens. I ask the driver where he’s from. When I’ve exhausted all the ways to distract myself from what I’m doing, I get out my phone. Looking at Finn’s photos of me makes me feel close to him. They have more likes and follows, but no comments.
As we get closer, my confidence wavers. Finn specifically told me not to come. If it was because I hurt him, I want to show him he has nothing to worry about. It could be something else, though. Something he doesn’t want to share. The only thing he’s been secretive about is his divorce—could this have to do with his ex?
The cabbie looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Well?”
We’re at the curb in front of Finn’s. I pay and get out of the car. The building has a keypad. I debate whether to wait for someone to come in or out. Buzzing his apartment seems almost more intrusive than just knocking on his door.
I’m not experienced in showing up unannounced. I’ve been on the receiving end of it, though. Just this afternoon, I talked to my dad about not respecting my wishes, yet here I am, doing the same thing to Finn.
This feels wrong. I open my messages and pull up our conversation from earlier.
I’m downstairs. I’ll go if you want, I just wanted to see you. And talk.
I don’t know how long I want to wait for a response. He might be asleep. Or worse, out. My Uber app tells me there’s a car two minutes away. As I’m trying to decide a reasonable time limit for my desperation, a bubble pops up to indicate he’s typing. I hold my breath until his message comes through.
You’re here? At my place?
I don’t know what to think. He doesn’t seem happy, and this is starting to feel less “grand gesture” and more “desperate stalker.”
I’m sorry. I can go. I’ve been drinking & my friends said all these things & now I’m here.
I’ve barely hit send when his response comes through.
Come upstairs
It’s too late to change my mind, because the door to the building clicks as he buzzes me in. I ride the elevator up to the sixth floor. Right as I approach apartment 6A, the door opens, and Finn steps out in only sweatpants. I have to swallow to keep saliva in my mouth. His abs are in full effect tonight, and they’re even better than I remember.
He runs a hand through his hair, pulls the door almost closed behind him, and whispers, “Hey.”
“Oh my God. You were sleeping.” This just keeps getting worse. “It’s late.”
He smiles a little. “It’s barely eleven, but, yeah. I was out like a light.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry to show up like this, I just, I was confused, and your texts were so—”
“It’s fine. You’ve been drinking?”
“I don’t normally drink, not like this. I just had a really bad day—”
“I told you not to come.” He glances behind him. “But if you’re drunk and alone, I’m not going to send you away.”
I’m an idiot. This is why I don’t drink—my judgment sucks. I’m about to apologize when I realize Finn is whispering. “You’re trying to be quiet,” I say, my remorse fading. “Why?”
He looks down the hall, his eyes distant. “Listen, I . . . I have to tell you something.”
My heart stops. I really am an idiot—a blind, trusting, rash idiot. “You’re not alone.”
“No.”
My stomach revolts. My martinis are about to get way dirtier. “Shit. I . . . I can’t believe I came here.”
“Let me explain—”
I can only see this situation getting worse, and I don’t want to stick around to watch it crash and burn. I step back.
“Stop.” He lunges for my arm but misses while trying to keep his apartment door from shutting. “It’s not what you think. Come inside, and I’ll explain everything.”
I freeze out of pure shock. “Have you lost your mind? You want me to come in where she is?”
“No.” He rubs an eye with the heel of his hand. “Look. Fuck. I didn’t want to do it this way. It’s so damn complicated.”
“Do what?”
“It’s my daughter. She’s inside. Sleeping.”
“Your . . . what?” I’m not breathing. My brain, fuzzy from the alcohol, takes a few seconds to catch up. “You have a daughter?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but she’s in my life, and I was afraid you’d freak out. I planned to say something eventually, but that plus an ex-wif
e? I didn’t think you were ready for all that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, that’s a lie. I’m the one who wasn’t ready.”
I go to him. “Oh, God. I-I’m sorry. We’ve only known each other a couple weeks, of course I don’t expect you to spill your life story right away.”
His forehead wrinkles, his eyes darting over my face. “Really?”
“Yes, really. God. I’m so embarrassed.”
He half smiles, the lines in his face easing, a dimple denting his cheek. “I wasn’t going to tell you over a text. Plus, I felt like a huge ass because I forgot I had Marissa tonight. What kind of dad does that?”
“Marissa?” I ask.
He nods. “She’s eight. It’s not my usual weekend with her, but my ex went to a concert in the city, so I said I’d watch her tonight. It slipped my mind because . . . well, you know.”
“I do?”
“You,” he says. “You’ve stolen all my sense since I met you. You’ve dominated my thoughts.”
I melt a little. He must notice, because he slips an arm around my waist to pull me against his body. “You look good tonight.”
“I’m wearing practically the same outfit I was last night.”
“That’s why I like it.” He runs the tip of his nose along the bridge of mine. “I can’t let the door shut. It locks automatically. Come in.”
As good as it feels to be back in his embrace, he was right when he said his personal life is complicated. This is the last thing I expected to find tonight. “I should’ve respected what you said. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. My friends convinced me to come here.”
“Who are these friends?” he asks. “You haven’t mentioned any yet.”
“Oh, they’re not really friends. It’s just Benny, my assistant, and a friend of hers.”
“Well, I’m glad that—Benny?”
“Short for Benedicta.”
“I’m glad Benny talked you into it. I really did want to see you, I just didn’t think it’d be a good idea to explain things like this.”
“I understand.” I tilt my head up, angling for a goodbye kiss I probably don’t deserve. “I’ll let you get back to her.”
He just tucks some of my hair behind my ear, distinctly not kissing me. “Kendra’s picking Marissa up first thing in the morning. God forbid she lets me have her for longer than twelve hours during her weekend.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. Stay tonight. You can sleep late while I hang with Marissa. She’ll be gone by the time you get up.”
“No. I’m not here to butt into your life.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “I think I like your butt in my life.”
“I can’t—”
“I insist.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. It’s tempting, and thankfully, I know how persistent he can be. Otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “It’s probably too soon for . . . all of this. But you’re here, and I don’t want you to leave.”
Crossing paths with Marissa sounds terrifying—for all of us—but I showed up because I wanted to spend time with Finn. That hasn’t changed. I smile. “All right. I’ll stay.”
He glances over his shoulder. “She’s asleep.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
He takes my hand and leads me through the apartment. It’s dark and still, as if they’ve been snoozing a while. Jenga blocks are scattered on the coffee table. We pass through the hallway and I remember the other closed door that isn’t his studio or his bedroom. It must be hers.
When we’re in the master, he gently closes the door behind us. “You’re probably not even tired.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m a good sleeper.”
“I know you are.” He grins, walking over to his dresser. “You wear a men’s large, right?”
“Excuse me?”
He laughs, holding up a gray t-shirt. It’s several sizes too big, but he tosses it to me. “It’s all I got.”
I sneak a sniff while his back is turned. Freshly-laundered Finn. “Can I, um . . . use your bathroom?”
“I’ve seen you naked,” he teases. “Not a fraction of the times I plan to, but still.”
Sure, right after I’d gotten him good and horny with my mouth. Now, we’re just standing here in the moonlight, and I’m supposed to get naked without any reservations? “I’m still a little shy.”
He gestures for me. “Come here.”
Gripping the t-shirt, I close the small space between us.
“I like you shy. And not shy.” He drops a smooth, lingering kiss on my lips. “And everything else you are or are not.”
I smile against his mouth. “For a photographer, you’re not half bad with the words.”
“I’m not half good, either. I’ll leave that to you.” He turns me by my shoulders to the bathroom. As if I could forget where the shower is after this morning’s peep show.
I change quickly, folding my clothes on the counter. I fix my hair and squeeze his toothpaste onto my finger before running it through my mouth. Instead of drinks with Benny, I’d been planning to run home and grab some things before coming here for the night. Change of plans, though.
A daughter. An eight-year-old daughter. Finn must’ve had her young. Younger than I am now. By my age, he would’ve had a toddler at home. I widen my eyes at myself in the mirror. A toddler!
I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that he’s a dad. He’s had a history, a marriage, and a baby with another woman. It’s too soon for me to decide if it means anything to me, which is just as well. I don’t have time to process it now.
I come out of the bathroom in nothing but Finn’s t-shirt and a thong. I’m glad the hem sits well down my thighs. If I’d known I’d be here tonight, I would’ve worn booty shorts to hide the dimples in my ass.
Finn is splayed on the mattress, his arm behind his head. He takes one look at me, rolls his eyes, and looks away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stopping at the foot of his bed.
“That’s the kind of thing you’d wear right after we’d, you know. So it makes me think of . . .” He turns on his side, away from me. “I don’t want to have sex while she’s in the apartment.”
“No, of course not,” I say quickly. “I didn’t expect that. At all.”
“Good.” He doesn’t look back at me. “Get under the covers and pull them up to your chin.”
I laugh.
“I’m not joking. If I see a sliver of skin, I can’t be held responsible for breaking my own rules. Again.”
With what’s beginning to feel like a permanent smile on my face, I pull back the bedspread. Finn shifts over until there’s enough space to fit Canada between us.
“Are you decent?” he asks.
“Not yet.” I tent the covers over us and mirror his position, folding my arm under my head as I turn onto my side. Except that I can actually see him.
Finn’s still in his sweatpants.
Still shirtless.
There’s an adorably sexy smattering of freckles on his shoulders. I trace some with my finger, skimming my hand across his back and then down toward his waistband. “My mom used to do this when I couldn’t sleep,” I tell the space between us.
He doesn’t respond, but I hear him breathing. A car passes outside.
I graze my nails up and down his skin. “I never told Rich that. Or anyone, I guess.”
“You’ve never mentioned her.”
My instinct is to shut down the topic, but Finn shared with me tonight. Now it’s my turn. What’s more—I want him to know. This is an enormous part of who I am. “She died when I was fifteen.”
“That’s when you went on the antidepressants?”
“Yes.”
When I graze his shoulder again, Finn reaches back and scoops my hand into his. He brings it to his mouth, kisses my palm, and releases it. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that what your tattoo means?”
My ears warm. “Yes. I wanted to memorialize her life, not her death. She loved birds.”
“Is it a certain kind of feather?”
“No—that’s the thing. She had birds growing up, all different kinds. She named them after colors. Baby Blue, Pink Polly, Lily Lavender. That’s why the feather’s colored in pastels. But she didn’t care about species or even their actual colors—she just loved them all.”
I resume scratching his back. I can’t believe I’m going here with him. I don’t like talking about it for a number of reasons, and I usually only do it when I have to. I could blame the alcohol for my loose lips, but I’ve already lost my buzz.
“She must’ve been young,” he says. “Was she sick?”
“Car accident.” I swallow. “I was in the car.”
“Fuck. Were you hurt?”
“The other car. Not hers.” My heart pounds. I’m sure Finn can hear it in the silence that follows.
He turns around to face me. “What?”
“We can stop here,” I warn. “It’s not exactly my finest moment.”
“Were you . . .”
“I wasn’t driving. Thankfully, I guess, although it doesn’t change the outcome. My, I don’t know what he was, my short-lived boyfriend, I guess—he was.”
“Drinking?” Finn asks.
“Yes.” It pains me to say it. I could’ve stopped Bobby from having even one beer. I could’ve spoken up after his second, or when he got his car keys from his pocket. I didn’t want him to see me as childish, though. “I wasn’t that kind of kid,” I say. “I really was good until I wasn’t.”
“I believe you,” he says. “What happened?”
I go back to the beginning. “I grew up in Westchester, where my dad still lives. My parents had high expectations, but I always met them. Usually at the expense of a social life.” That’s putting it mildly, but Finn doesn’t need to know just how unpopular I was. Growing up attending Broadway shows, I’d had it in my head I wanted to be a famous playwright like Samuel Beckett, so I joined the drama club. It was the only hobby my parents hadn’t forced on me, and through middle school, I took it seriously. I wrote plays and practiced my lines alone in the cafeteria at lunch, not caring that people snickered and called me a freak behind my back. “Like I told you, I was a little overweight, and I only had a couple friends. I never got asked out. And then Bobby came along.”
Tempt Me: A First Class Romance Collection Page 14