Page 74 of Business or Pleasure

A grimace. “Yeah, if I’d been smarter, I never would have done it. But some part of me craved that nuclear family that I didn’t have. And I guess it led to The Nocturnals, so...” He keeps reading, pointing to one paragraph. “I don’t think I’d use the word ‘ostentatious,’ but aside from that—I love it. And you sound just like me.” His eyes leap to mine. “It’s kind of unfair that you don’t get to have your name on it, after all of this.”

I shrug, swapping out ostentatious for extravagant, forcing myself not to linger on the compliment. “It’s the job. That’s why you hired a ghostwriter.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I just wish...” Then he trails off with a shake of his head, and I bury myself back in the chapter.

It’s almost one in the morning when our sample is polished to the point where both of us feel good about it. This is also around the time my hotspot gives up.

“We have to have service somewhere in here,” I say, waving my phone around.

Finn’s on the other side of the room, doing the same. “Not getting anything.”

I hop up onto a chair and then onto the desk, hold my phone as high as it’ll go, hit send—

“It went through!” I yelp, the desk creaking beneath me.

Finn strides over, holding out his hand for a high five. Except that’s when I lose my balance, stumbling over my own feet and into his arms.

And there’s this moment when he’s holding me, when our eyes are locked and his expression is warm, open, victorious, that I’m almost certain is real. I swear I stop breathing as he slips his fingers into my short hair. I only start back up again to inhale him, that comforting, intoxicating scent that’s been screwing with my brain for weeks.

Then he slides me down his body, solid and firm, so slowly that I have to wonder if it’s deliberate, before gently placing me on the ground. Helping smooth my clothes.

It’s not just the hug. I’ve genuinely enjoyed this collaboration, and turning in those chapters reminds me that sometime in the not-too-distant future, all of this will be over.

Although the reality is that sometimes I get the feeling I could write an entire trilogy about Finn Walsh and barely scratch the surface.

“We should get ready for bed,” I say quickly, grabbing my stuff and racing to the bathroom. He’s already neatly unpacked his toiletry kit, razor, and travel-sized shaving cream next to the sink. An orange Rx bottle stands there without shame, exactly the way it should.

We switch so he can do the same, and then both of us sit down on opposite sides of the bed. Most of the time I sleep in an oversize T-shirt, but tonight my pajamas are the single matching striped set I own. He’s in plaid shorts and a thin white T-shirt, and it strikes me that while I’ve seen him without clothes on, I’ve never seen him this casual. The clothes immediately soften him, especially when I notice a small hole in his left sleeve.

I find myself wanting to get even closer. To tell him things I haven’t shared with anyone in a long time. He already knows so much about me, and yet I’ve felt I can never be truly close to someone until they know about my abortion.

I can’t think about what it means that I want to tell him.

“Tired?” he asks, and the bed might as well have a heart-shaped headboard and rose petals scattered across it. If that hug impacted me as much as it did, I’m only mildly concerned about how I’ll feel with his sleeping body a couple feet from mine.

I shake my head. “Must be all the adrenaline.”

I should be exhausted. The trip has been jarring—one day, we’re in the middle of a desert, and the next, in the middle of a blizzard. We’ve experienced all four seasons in the span of a month and a half.

“You okay?” Finn asks when he catches me moving my hands and wrists back and forth.

“Yeah, they just get a little stiff after typing for so long. A little sore.” I flex my fingers.

“Come here,” he says, patting the bed next to him, and I scoot closer. He reaches out his hands, and I don’t even pause to think about it before giving him mine.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he says, beginning to massage one hand with both of his. “Not just in a B and B in the middle of Ohio with dolls that are definitely going to come to life in the middle of the night, although that, too, but... together.” He winces at that. “Not together—you know what I mean. I guess I’ve just gotten so used to doing these things on my own that I forgot what it was like, traveling with someone else. It’s not the worst thing to have some company.”

“I can’t imagine doing all of this alone.”

My eyes fall shut. The way he’s touching me, fingertips moving in circles—it’s not dissimilar from the way I’ve taught him to touch me.

And are we just... not going to acknowledge sweetheartgate?

“You know, you’re kind of an enigma,” he says, switching to my other hand. “Or at least, you were at first. Are you any closer to figuring out what you want to do with the rest of your life, Chandler Cohen?”

“I’d like to go to the grave without ever having learned what an NFT is.”

“Wouldn’t we all.” Finn taps my knuckles. “I’m serious.”

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