Page 45 of Tipping Point

“It’s nothing.” Finn shoos her away and rubs his neck. His hair is untied and hanging over his forehead. It’s lush.

He takes a big pull on his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Is that my elastic?” I point at his wrist.

“No.”

He reaches up and ties his hair up. His forearms ripple as he twists it around. He’s watching me watch him and I look away, clearing my throat.

“I wanted to explain,” he begins tentatively.

We’re both thinking about the last time we spoke. Back in Monaco when I fetched my backpack and realised he hated his life. His anger at my realisation of how cold he was.

How cruel.

“Look, Finn. I shouldn’t have been there. As a rule I never…get involved on a personal level. I’m supposed to observe only. Me being in your private space, I crossed a line.”

He just looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“So, uh…” I’m reaching for something to talk about. “You going to the ball?”

He grunts, then, “You?”

“Were filming, but I don’t know if I’m going. I need to rent a dress and I don’t know where to find one yet.”

“You can do that?”

“What?”

“Rent clothes?”

I snort.

“Not everyone can afford luxury clothing, Finn. Especially not black tie.”

He mulls it over.

“I can help.”

“You didn’t know that you can rent ball gowns all of a second ago and now you can help?”

“I’ll buy you one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look…” He holds up his hands in peace. “Let’s say it’s my way of making it up to you.”

“I can’t accept. I’m sorry. No-” I push on when he makes to speak. “It’s okay. We’ve moved past it. It’s behind us.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“No,” he states.

“Finn.”

“What happened to ‘Irish’?”

I blanch.

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