Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Uncomfortable? God, there’s so much uncomfortable between us, I feel like I’m choking. I rub the back of my neck. “No. I’m sorry if I was abrupt. I’m no good at this.”
Her smile is wry and bittersweet. “Well, who would be?” She moves toward the front hall, and I hustle to open the door for her. Britt pauses and looks up at me. “Take care, Finn.”
I can barely look at her anymore. It’s wrong of me, I know. But feelings rarely listen to reason. “Goodbye, Britt.”
I close the door and lean against it, wanting Chess back here more than my next breath. But she’ll probably ask questions. And I don’t know if I have it in me to give her the answers.
Chess
One of my favorite things about the French Quarter is that you can always find a bar, no matter what time it is. And not some dank, gloomy dive—although there are plenty of those, but ones with high, pressed tin ceilings, walls of windows, and cute mixologists like my new friend Nate here who kindly slides a perfect Sazerac in front of me.
I take a cool sip and listen to Ella Fitzgerald muse about being bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It’s almost enough to soothe the weary soul.
“That’s an awfully big sigh,” Nate observes as he wipes his spotless mahogany bar.
I’m no longer a fan of nosy Nate.
“I wasn’t aware I sighed.” I take another sip of my drink. Good man, Nate, despite being nosy.
“Practically blew back my hair,” he jokes. I eye Nate’s shaved head, and he laughs.
“I need a short-term place to live.” Sadness swamps my chest. I don’t want to find a new place. Which just proves I really need to find one.
“You just moved here?” Nate asks.
“No. My place burned down.”
“Man, that sucks.”
I think of Finn running into the ER to find me, the way he brought me home and made me feel like it was my home too, for as long as I needed it. Then I think of Finn up there right now with Britt, and the way he looked at her. They have a history, and it clearly isn’t a simple one.
My cocktail chokes me going down, a sticky sweet burn on my tongue. “Yeah.”
Nate moves closer, until he’s standing opposite of me. “I can keep an ear out for you, if you want to give me your number.”
I stare up at Nate with his shaved head, gauge in his ears, and cute suspenders over his shoulders. There’s interest in his eyes.
“You want my number?”
The interest turns to heat. “I’m great at consoling.”
I bet he is.
Finn is better.
Finn is in his apartment with a supermodel.
I hand Nate my phone, and he punches in his number. Not even a glimmer of anticipation in my belly.
“So,” he says, happier now. “You want another drink, pretty little lady?”
Pretty little lady? I’m regretting my decision more and more. “Another drink and I’ll be buzzed. Better give me a menu.”
“Let’s get you fed, then.” Nate grins. I know he thinks I’m lingering because of him, but I can’t return to Finn’s anytime soon. Short of walking around, I have nowhere else to go, which utterly sucks.
I eat my dinner and chat with Nate and a few patrons who sit down at the bar until my butt is numb and I’m fairly certain I’m leading Nate to a very wrong conclusion.
When he’s occupied, I leave some money on the bar and slip out into the fading light. And then I do walk around, until it’s dark and I can’t stall anymore.
At Finn’s place, I turn the lock to his front door as quietly as I can.
Please don’t let me hear them. Please let them be in his bedroom. God, the horrible prospect of seeing them makes me pause, my heart thundering in my chest like cannon fire.
Like a thief, I creep in. The living room is dark, and I heave a sigh of relief as I ease my way toward my bedroom.
“What are you doing?” Finn asks from behind me.
With a stifled yelp, I pivot and press a hand to my heart. “Jesus, sneaky much?”
Finn raises a brow and gives me a pointed look.
“I was trying not to disturb you.” It’s only now that I notice the TV is on, pressed to Pause on one of his games. Finn is in sweats and an old Nike T with the words Just Do It splashed across his broad chest.
“I’m disturbed that you’re tiptoeing around like some cartoon villain,” he says with an eye roll and then heads for the couch, a sports drink clutched in one hand.
Setting my purse down on the side table, I follow him. “I wasn’t tiptoeing. I was being quiet.”
Finn snorts and plops on the couch before peering up at me as if I’m full of it.