Page 17 of Falling for Finn

“Forget it.” I give up, knowing this conversation is going nowhere. He’ll never admit I did him a solid or that he fucked up.

Finn goes to the truck and starts unloading my boxes.

I study the inside of the A-frame-structured home that looks like it was built a hundred years ago like everything else on the farm. There are many windows, and some overlook the patio area with a firepit and a view to die for.

Almost every flat surface is white except for the dark hardwood floors. He has a small kitchen, a tiny living room with a TV on the wall, a coffee table, and a small couch. My eyes trail up the set of stairs that leads to the loft. From what I can tell, it’s his bedroom. The only room with a door is the bathroom. There isn’t a lot of space, and the thought has me stressing out about where my painting supplies will fit.

“Great,” I mumble, wondering if it’s too late to tell Aspen I changed my mind.

After several trips, all of my things are in.

Finn glances around. “You have too much shit. Make sure it stays out of my way.”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m here to do a job, not kiss your ass.”

I start unpacking, which aggravates me to do it all over again. I take my time setting up my paints and brushes. Finn watches me for ten minutes but eventually goes into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear the water running. Now that he’s not micromanaging my every move, I decide to help myself to a tour since he was too rude to offer me one.

I sneak up the stairs to get a full view of his king-sized bed, which he didn’t make before he left this morning. Dirty clothes are on the floor, and his nightstand has half-full glasses of water. I carefully make my way to the bottom floor and plop down on the couch. I push my hand into the cushions, and they’re too firm. No way will I be able to sleep on cushions filled with cement, and I start to panic about what I’m going to do.

Without quality sleep, I can’t speed paint. It takes too much out of me physically and mentally. I’m frustrated as hell as I leanback on the hard sofa. I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart.

When the bathroom door swings open, I turn and watch as Finn walks out wearing a towel andonlya towel. I swallow hard, tracing the path the water droplets slide down his sculpted body. They fall down his inked biceps and chest, in the caverns of his chiseled abs, and continue down to that perfect V that points at his danger zone.

Heat rushes through me, and I swallow hard, then force my eyes away. I hate how my heart quickens, and I hope he doesn’t notice. I move to my canvas leaning against the wall and place it on my easel.

“If you’re going to stay here, you’ll have to learn to keep your eyes to yourself and not ogle me.”

“Fuck off. I wasn’t ogling you.” I was trying my best to erase that image that’s been carbon copied into my brain. The last thing I need when I’m providing myself a little self-care is images of him in a towel.

“Then what would you call it?”

I roll my eyes. “Just confirming that you’renotmy type.”

He gives me a smug look. “Right.”

“I noticed there’s only one bed.”

“Great observation. The couch is yours, Sunshine. Good night.”

“Whoa, I don’t think so.” I keep eye contact, but it’s hard not to linger lower.

He shrugs, then takes the stairs.

I scoff. “I can’t sleep on that brick!”

“You’ll be fine,” Finn says as I follow him up to his room. “I wouldn’t come up here.”

He moves toward his dresser and opens one of the drawers. Without warning, the towel falls to the floor into a crumpled heap. My eyes widen as I explore the muscles cascading downhis back and ass. I lose my ability to speak and groan before storming downstairs without a plan.

My heart slams against my chest, but I try to breathe through it.

“Good night,” he says, then I hear his faint chuckle, but I don’t find any of this funny. At this point, I’m convinced he’s trying to get a rise out of me. The lights upstairs flick off.

“I need a pillow and a blanket!” I shout.

A moment later, something flies from the loft and plops on the floor in front of the couch.

“Nice.” I shake my head, scooping up the items and throwing them on the couch. If I could put a curse on him, I would.

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