by Elaria Ride
Ugh.
I shudder and chastise myself.
I’m not sure why I’m thinking so much about Mike, of all people, after I’ve had the best sex of my entire life.
I take a deep breath, even as I feel my clit begin to tingle again just thinking about it. Fuck, that had been hot… so much hotter than I knew sex could be. It was the stuff of contrived romance movies and dirty magazine articles passed around homeroom.
As such, I’ve never believed any of that existed, not really. It had seemed too good to be true, that things could just click with another person… that sex could be anything more than a somewhat enjoyable — albeit largely biological — experience.
But now, I’m not sure what I believe.
And that’s freaking me out.
All I really know is that I’ve never experienced pleasure quite like that, never felt that connected to anyone I’ve slept with.
I glance over at Finn. His jaw is set as he stares at the road, his enormous hands wrapped around the steering wheel.
Those same hands had just slid up my back, just cupped my ass while he’d gone down on me, just held my hips in place while his cock had slid in and out with an almost punishing intensity.
I know it’s not just the sex, either… it’s the way he’d caressed me, the way he’d been so attuned to my body, the way he’d waited, so patiently.
A thought rushes, unbidden, into my head: It had almost felt like making love.
Shit.
What the fuck is my problem?!
I can’t afford to have thoughts like that. I barely know this guy! Who the hell do I think I am, putting all of my weird mental baggage onto him?
I shake my head, a little disgusted with myself as we pull into the parking lot of Gian’s. I’ll be glad for the distraction of a good meal, that’s for sure. Fortunately, Gian’s is the nicest restaurant in town — and they’re known for their generous portions. If things gets awkward, I’ll just ask for another breadstick.
Finn parks the car and unbuckles his seatbelt, and I do the same. Almost without thinking, I reach over to my door handle and prepare to leave — but Finn places his hand on mine from across the seat.
“Let me do that, ok?” His voice is back to that low rumble again, that one that had just coaxed me into the best orgasm of my life.
I blush. “Sure.”
He chuckles and exits the car before heading around to my side. I pull the mirror flap down for a quick once-over. Surprisingly, I don’t look too… debauched. I fix a few stray curls and say a silent prayer of thanks for waterproof foundation and eyeliner.
A second later, I feel a rush of cold air as Finn opens my door. I gather my purse in my lap and offer him what I hope looks like a demure smile… and not one that betrays the odd thoughts I’m doing my best to keep locked away.
“Ready?” He gives me a smile of his own and extends a hands to help me down.
I gladly take it; he hadn’t been kidding. This truck really is high.
As Finn lowers me to the ground, I find that — for the first time in my life — there’s an actual benefit to being as short as I am. I also avoid thinking too much about how easily his palm covers mine, about how gently he moves despite his imposing size…
He closes and locks the car behind us and juts out an elbow for me to grab ahold of. I accept with a smile. Finn leans in protectively, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. Fuck. There is it again — that warm, flooding feeling I’d felt stirring back in the truck.
But I refuse to bring any of that up. Or dwell on it. After all, I’m supposed to be a hardened New Yorker, one who doesn’t have time for nonsense like feelings.
Instead, I do what I do best: deflect and distract.
“So, did you mother enroll you in etiquette classes?” I blurt, determined to look straight as we stroll across the parking lot.
He laughs. “It’s funny that you think we have things like etiquette classes on Biggal Mountain. It’s… pretty rural.”
“Really?”
I hadn’t expected that; I’d honestly assumed he’d been formally trained. Finn carries himself with an almost professional level of decorum and respect.
I clear my throat before continuing. “I guess you just seem…”
“…more cultured than you’d thought?”
I blush as he articulates my unspoken conclusion; I guess I’m the one who needs etiquette classes. No shock there.
“Sorry. I guess I’m just not used to…”
He arches an eyebrow and holds open the door for me. “Manners?”
I giggle through a bashful smile. Yeah… he does have a point.
We step inside the warmth of the restaurant, and I take a deep breath. Ah… this place smells amazing. Like always. I love the way the faint smell of marinara flows through the air, the way you can almost taste the bruschetta, no matter where you are. The decor is also adorable, from its white linen dressings to its black lattice seats to its potted candles, set neatly at each table. There’s a large mural on the far wall outside the kitchen, one that depicts a toga-clad woman serving wine in front of an azure waterfall.
All-in-all, it’s as close to a New York Italian joint as I’ve come across since I’ve been here. That would probably make me a little homesick if they food weren’t absolutely spectacular.
Something else occurs to me, though, as I catch sight of the hostess podium a few yards away. The place isn’t as crowded as I’ve seen it before. I’d worked in the food industry long enough to recognize a pre-closing when I see one.
“Aren’t we… late for our reservation?” I ask, glancing around a little nervously.
Finn laughs again and removes my shawl before draping it on the coat rack. “Let’s just say I have an understanding with the owner.”
I cock my head, curious, but he just gestures for me to proceed. He’s clearly not willing to give anything away… yet. Which is fine by me. I can’t deny I’m enjoying how these little butterflies have sprouted in my stomach; if an element of mystery just heightens the feeling, who am I to deny it?
We approach the hostess stand and Finn dings the bell.
An instant later, I figure it out; a tall, muscular man with sandy blonde hair approaches from the rear of the restaurant, a black napkin draped over his arm.
Oh, come on now!
I turn to Finn, my hands on my hips. Even if I hadn’t seen the photo on Sylvie’s desk a million times, I’d recognize Harrison Bosco, of all people. He’s the restaurateur Bosco — which is a very important distinction, since there are so many Boscos with so many different jobs. I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t put this together until now. Sylvie must have casually mentioned that Harrison “runs an Italian restaurant” at least ten times.
Nice one, Marina, I think ruefully. How many Italian places actually exist on Biggal?!
The answer is one. Exactly one.
Wow. I’m a dumbass.
But still, Finn had been a little duplicitous about the details of our date.
“You didn’t mention that your brother owned the place,” I murmur as Harrison grabs some menus.
Finn gives me an affable shrug and caresses the small of my back. “What can I say? Use connections when you have them!”
“What’s this about connections?” Harrison booms, stepping forward. His handsome face splits into a broad grin, but without waiting for an answer, he grasps one of my hands in his. I feel Finn stiffen beside me as he wraps a protective arm around my waist.
Harrison’s eyes twinkle as he watches the exchange.
“Ah, yes,” he says, grinning even more widely. “And this must be the lovely Marina. Enchanté.” He bends over and places a kiss across my knuckles, clearly expecting me to dissolve into a tittering, female mess.
But he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.
I remove my hand from his grasp, hoping to convey my point without being too… rude.
Spoiler alert: I do not succeed.
“I’
m Marina, yes,” I say plainly, meeting his stare. “And I’m not exactly used to being kissed by someone I’m not even dating.”
I hear Finn snort beside me as he loosens his grip around my waist. Harrison only greets me with stony silence, and for just a second I worry I’ve been a bit too brash for these friendly country-folk.
But then Harrison leans back and gives me an appraising once-over. He doesn’t look offended. It’s almost like he’s… impressed?
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says thoughtfully, scratching his chin. “Sylvie and Jessie weren’t kidding. She is perfect you.”
Finn groans and covers his face with his hands, but Harrison doesn’t seem affected. Not in the slightest. Instead, his face morphs into the portrait of professionalism.
“Come with me,” he says, beckoning forward.
I give him one last lingering smirk and trot along. Finn follows along behind me, his hand still pressed to the small of my back.
I continue walking in the indicated direction, but I start to get a little confused. There doesn’t seem to be anything in the area we’re being ushered to. All that I can see is a few scattered leftover chairs, the server stand, and… oh.
Well, now I feel a bit silly. Harrison extends an arm over his head, parting the sides of a cream-colored, floor-to-ceiling curtain — one tucked away in the far corner. Apparently, the curtain (which largely blended into the walls) has hidden a romantic little table set from the prying eyes of the other patrons.
Wow. I swallow and take in the scene.
Harrison may be a little smarmy… but I have to admit, the table setting is quite romantic, all intricate black metalwork and tulle-covered chairs.
Our host beckons me forward and prepares to pull out my chair, but Finn places a hand on his brother’s arm and gives him a pointed stare. The two of them stare at each other for a minute, and I can’t help but roll my eyes; I suppose this is the Bosco family version of a stand-off. Harrison’s taller, but just barely… probably 6’5” to Finn’s 6’4”. Their faces are quite similar, but they have a few deliberate differences — like Harrison’s cleft chin and Finn’s higher cheekbones.
Nevertheless, after a few weird minutes of this, Harrison relents with a tilt of his head and a curt nod. The conclusion of this weird interaction is unspoken, but nonetheless understood: You owe me.
With an expression of vindication dancing across his face, Finn steps forward to pull out my chair — himself — before he walks around the table to take his own seat. I’m about to ask what the hell that had been about, but when I turn to face our host again, he’s back to his professional self; any sibling rivalry has been forgotten in an instant.
I feel a tiny pang of jealousy that I never had a close sibling of my own to experience that with. My closest cousin (Fernando) is several years older than me. We never had much in common beyond being vaguely related. A shiver races up my spine as I think about how important it is for Marco to experience that… a sibling close to him in age.
Harrison clears his throat, ripping me from that oddly insightful line of contemplation.
“We have three courses for you today,” he says, folding his hands, “each accompanied by a wine pairing. Are there any special requests or dietary restrictions?”
I snort and glance down at my stomach. Buddy, does it look like I have any dietary restrictions?
“No,” I emphasize, stating the obvious.
Then, from out of nowhere, I feel Finn’s warm stare from across the table. I lift my head to peer into his eyes. They’re confident. Reassuring. It’s almost like they scream,“Don’t worry. You’re beautiful.”
Harrison clears his throat again. “Well, in that case, I’ll have your first course out shortly.” I can’t help but note the air of playful condescension in his tone. It’s not mean, not necessarily — more like he’s enjoying torturing us, just a little. Like a sibling prank that I’ll never really understand.
Then as Harrison wanders away, I hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like, “Make goo-goo eyes all you want. Just don’t go giving hand jobs beneath the table.”
Finn rolls his eyes. “Sorry about him. Ya know what they say. You can’t pick your family.”
I laugh and take a sip of my water. “I don’t have much family, actually, so it seems lovely to me.”
Finn pauses. “Really?” His voice seems sad, distant even, like he’d never considered what it might be like to live without a sibling.
I nod. “My mom passed away a few years ago. My closest cousin still lives in Brooklyn, and we text a lot, but most of my other relatives are back in Puerto Rico. My dad was never in the picture.”
I’m very matter-of-fact about the whole thing, but I can tell it makes Finn a little uncomfortable.
“Oh.” He looks down at his hands. “Sorry… about your dad. That must have been rough.”
I shrug, not particularly bothered. “Eh. Can’t miss what you’ve never had.”
Finn cocks his head, considering, but I can tell he doesn’t really know what to say.
Which is fine with me, because I do. I need to ask a question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since Sylvie had brought it up this morning —
“Here’s your first course and wine pairing!” Harrison announces, sliding the curtain open with a particularly dramatic flair.
This time, I can tell he’s deliberately trying to turn the tables on Finn. Harrison spends a great deal of time exaggerating the details of the wine and the antipasto pairing, making notes about each flavor profile, and providing lengthy comments about the specific locations of each imported item. And the whole time, his eyes twinkle with the mischief I recognize so clearly from my time with Sylvie.
Yup… Harrison’s trying to keep us distracted for as long as possible.
But Finn knows how to play the game — and play it, he does! His face remains stoic, impassive, as he folds his arms over his chest. He fixes Harrison with a bored stare, but acts for all the world like he actually gives a shit about the basil leaves — which (according to Harrison) are traditionally grown India. This ability to tolerate bullshit is one of those skills that just skipped me, maybe because I never had a sibling to play it with.
By the time Harrison finally steps away and slides the curtain again, I’ve already had an entire glass of wine… which perhaps explains the bluntness of my question, the one I’ve been meaning to ask for ages.
Still, I help myself to yet another glass — liquid courage can’t hurt— and blurt, “So what’s up you and fat chicks?”
Apparently, though, Finn had not been anticipating that question.
With a sputter and a choke, he manages to grab his napkin just in time to prevent a spray of Merlot from staining the white linen tablecloth. I wince. Oops.
I reach a hand by means of apology, but Finn waves me away as he regains control of his breathing.
“Sorry,” he says, still coughing a little. “Just… wasn’t expecting that question!”
Interesting…
I peer at him with an analytical stare. Is he seriously so removed from the bullshit of the outside world that he doesn’t know how weird it is to prefer bigger women? Without thinking, I cross my arms over my chest. Finn’s eyes are instantly drawn to my cleavage. His head snaps in the direction of my breasts so quickly it’s almost comical. For some inexplicable reason, I’m reminded of the way hearts appear over the head of Pepe le Pew as he chases after a lady skunk.
I snort, shaking my head. If there’s anyone alive who’s going to make me recall random cartoon references from my childhood, I suppose that person is Finn Bosco.
“Eyes up here, Finn,” I say gently, lowering my head to meet his stare. “You were about to explain about being a chubby chaser, remember?”
He clears his throat and shakes his head. Good. Glad he snapped out of it. And I’m finally about to get some answers.
Finn takes another sip of wine and winces as he stares at something over my head. It l
ooks like whatever he’s about to say is making him a little uncomfortable. He sighs, spreading his palms in surrender.
“Ok, ok,” he relents, “you got me.”
Then Finn pauses, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “So actually,” he adds, staring down at his plate, “I don’t like the phrase chubby chaser.”
Wait, what?
I cock my head, confused. “But that’s what you are, right? Into fat chicks?” I take a bite of my warm bruschetta.
He chuckles and scoops some onto his plate, too. “Well, yeah. I’ve only ever been into women with natural curves. That goes without saying.” He takes a bite and waves his hand like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“But,” he explains, wiping his mouth. “I hate being called a chubby chaser, because I’ve never heard the phrase skinny chaser. Or brunette chaser. You know?”
Oh. I pop a tomato into my mouth. I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that.
“Anyway,” he says, shrugging. “Sylvie wasn’t lying— and don’t pretend she hasn’t filled you in on all the details of the men who live here. Everyone on Biggal Mountain kind of… has a thing. For women of size. I mean, I dated a skinny girl, but…” He trails off, making a face.
Haha! What the hell?!
I cackle and lean in closer.
If he were anyone else, I’d say he’s full of shit… but for some reason, I believe him.
Still, that doesn’t mean Finn’s completely off the hook. I know it’s a bit arrogant, but I can’t help the grin that’s spreading across my face. As someone who has spent my whole life being looked down on and bullied and teased by skinny girls, I’m going to enjoy every single detail he can provide… even if it makes me a little evil.
“Tell me about this girl,” I demand, a catlike smirk spreading across my face. “The one who didn’t do it for you.”
Finn sighs in defeat, but I see the corners of his lips twitching. Yes… he’s enjoying this as much as I am.
“Well,” he starts. “Most people would think she’s beautiful. She’s petite. Blonde. Blue-eyed. You know the type.”
I snort. Yes. Yes, I do. She’s the type who called me names in high school, the type who — even today — body shames me on social media with veiled references to how often she hits the gym. Sylvie’s actually the only skinny girl I’ve ever been friends with — the only one who treated me like I was deserving of her time.