Page 89 of Business or Pleasure

twenty-four

LOS ANGELES, CA

When Finn meets me at the airport with a sign that says Chandler Leigh Cohen, the first thing that occurs to me is that I’ve seen his handwriting a hundred times, scrawled in autographs across the country. But for some reason, seeing the way he printed my name strikes me as this personal, intimate thing. No two letters are quite the same size, his Sharpie having tilted slightly upward. I can tell he spent time on it, not a dashed off I’d rather be unusual on a photograph before the next fan in line.

His hair is a little longer and probably in need of a trim, eyes turning bright when he spots me, sliding off his sunglasses for a brief moment before putting them back in place. I don’t blame him—an airport seems like the worst place to get recognized. I wonder if he’ll need to keep doing it after the reunion airs. He’s wearing a shirt I’ve seen before, blue plaid, and something about that familiarity has me urging my knees to stay solid as I make my way over to him in baggage claim.

“You didn’t have to meet me in here. I know LAX is a hellscape.”

“Exactly. It didn’t feel right for you to go through it alone.” Then there’s this moment where we’re not sure how to greet each other. I see it play across his face—hug or handshake? I stick out my own hand, and he slides his palm into mine. “Good to see you again,” he says.

And then I burst out laughing. “That was weird, wasn’t it? The handshake?”

Finn looks visibly relieved. “Extremely. I missed you,” he says, a little shyly. “I know it’s only been a few days, but—I missed you. It’s probably also weird to say that, huh?”

“You probably just missed having someone to tease about sleeping with socks on,” I say, trying not to think about what I missed you does to me. Because god, it’s such a lovely, almost painful thing, to be missed.

After Thanksgiving, I made a decision. I need to know if this is real, which means telling him my feelings are no longer solely professional. And the thought of doing that, the fear of rejection, makes me want to throw up right onto the baggage belt.

Unfortunately, things don’t get any less awkward on the drive to his house, especially because I want to reach over the console and sink my teeth into his upper arm. Drag my mouth along his neck and down his chest. I have a hotel room in LA, but I wanted to see his place, get some time in to talk about the next section of the book. The last few chapters.

Finn starts waxing poetic about his Prius while we’re stuck in traffic, and I nod and mm-hmm along. “You, uh, don’t really care about cars, do you?” he says after a while, and I give him a guilty smile. “Me, either. I don’t even know why I felt compelled to say all that.”

When we pull up to his place in Los Feliz, I can’t help it—I gasp. “Excuse me,” I say as the house comes into view, an elegant Craftsman painted light green, with a neatly manicured lawn framed by rose bushes. “I think you neglected to mention when you were filming Cameos to make a few extra bucks that you live in a mansion?”

Finn runs a sheepish hand down his face, the auburn stubble there. “I’ve had it since season three—that was the height of it for us. My agent cut me a great deal, and I just lucked out and bought at the right time.”

“The rest of us could use some of that luck, please.”

At that, he laughs. “I know I could sell and make a profit, but I can’t see myself getting rid of it anytime soon. And I guess I just thought...” He trails off, tapping the steering wheel as he pulls into the garage. “That I might raise a family here someday.”

The way that tugs at my heart.

The way that, just for a split second, my horrid brain conjures images of myself as part of that family.

“I have to admit, I’m a little shocked,” I say.

“The Hollywood culture isn’t for me, but I love this house. I wanted a place that would feel like a little oasis away from it, without being too disconnected.”

I wheel my new suitcase inside, marveling at his vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. It’s full-on Architectural Digest porn, down to a bowl of limes and gorgeous built-in bookshelves. The taste is more mature than his childhood bedroom, but because it wouldn’t be Finn otherwise: in the living room, an actual sword is mounted on the wall in a glass case.

“We have to talk about this,” I say after kicking off my shoes, worried about tracking dirt onto his cherrywood floors.

“So, you have to keep in mind that I was in my early twenties when we were filming The Nocturnals. And aside from this place, I didn’t have a strong sense of the value of money.” He dusts an imaginary speck from the glass. “It’s Gandalf’s sword from the movies—this one was used in Return of the King. I won it at auction with a few of my first paychecks.”

“You won a sword.”

“Glamdring,” he says, biting his lip to hold back a smile. “That’s its name.”

And why does that make me fall even harder?

Then there’s another strange moment. A silence. I don’t know what happens here, what to do with my hands now that I’m no longer holding on to my bags. If we were a real couple, I’d be tugging him down the hall to his bedroom.

Finn clears his throat. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

I tell him some sparkling water would be great, and we make our way into the kitchen. A rack of cast-iron pans hangs from the ceiling; a trio of succulents perch on the marble countertops. As he hands me a can of LaCroix and I catch sight of his pantry, my heart swoops low in my chest.

A Costco-sized box of those applesauce pouches. No—two of them.

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