Page 101 of Better Luck Next Time

“Do you want to call him?” Finn asked, his disappointment obvious.

She understood why he was disappointed. She couldn’t greet Jack at the door dressed in Finn’s shirt and nothing else, and if she got dressed again, some of the magic would be gone. “What about the sardines?”

He gave her a long look. “What’s your level of tolerance for the smell of rotten fish?”

She cringed. So far her cat had torn up his cushion, there were two big tufts of white fur on the couch, plus about a thousand small strands, and now his house was going to stink like a barge. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you mentioned you had them…”

Was this fate’s way of trying to tell her to go home? Maybe she should. Jack had sounded off on the phone, like something else was up with him besides losing their pets.

Grinning, Finn said, “I’m willing to sacrifice my olfactory nerves if it means you’re going to cook in my kitchen wearing my shirt.”

And she was lost. “Open the can, Finn. We have some cooking to do. Maybe we can use the blindfold next time.”

The remark brought to mind what he’d said earlier. He’d wanted to look into her eyes, and he had. When had a man ever looked at her like that while he was inside her? It meant something, and it both terrified and delighted her.

He released a groan and closed the distance between them, not stopping until their chests were pressed together, his mouth hovering over hers. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

She grinned. “That’s a two-way street. Now someone needs to open the sardines.” She took a step backward. “Not it!”

He laughed. Pillow stuffing was strewn from the living room to the kitchen, and they were about to unleash an unholy stink in his immaculate house, yet he was laughing.

“Again,” Finn said, walking backward and giving her plenty of opportunity to enjoy the view of his broad shoulders and the well-sculpted chest and abs he hid under his business shirts. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Sure enough, he opened a cabinet and pulled out a tin of sardines.

“Maybe I should sign Tyrion up for some dog training classes,” she said distractedly. “If he escapes, then I can train him to come when I call him.”

“Good idea,” he said as he opened the can. The smell immediately permeated the room. “And maybe we can tame Jezebel. Might be a good project.”

Something about the way he said it prodded her insecurities.

“You said you’ve fostered for Maisie before,” she said carefully. “Why did you just foster?”

“Having a dog didn’t seem to fit. I worked long hours when I owned Big Catch, and I did a lot of traveling.”

“How long did you foster?”

“A month,” he said in a tight voice. “A corgi named Kiki.”

She’d had Tyrion for less than a week, and if Maisie called and said she was on her way to pick him up, she’d take him and go into hiding.

How had he given up his dog after a month?

Seeing her painting in his room had jarred loose some of her all-too-familiar insecurities, and finding out he’d had a dog for a month and then just given her away only made it worse. She could see that he didn’t want to talk about Kiki, so he hadn’t given her up glibly. Still, her doubts had been let out of their cage, and they were no more willing to go quietly back in than Jezebel would be.

Things had been so perfect with Finn, and she couldn’t help wondering when the bottom would fall out, because it always,alwaysdid.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Finn still had groceries from the last time he’d gone shopping with Adalia, and they managed to throw together a meal that incorporated rice, pinto beans, and a suspicious jar of mint jelly that Finn’s (now-deceased) grandmother had sent him in her yearly Christmas basket five years ago. (It hadn’t expired—miraculously it wouldn’t for another two years.)

She hadn’t put on any other clothes, and neither had he, and the whole process of cooking had been like a dance, leading up to what was sure to be an epic round two. (She had loosely tied the blindfold around her neck as a tantalizing hint of what was to come.) Jezebel and Tyrion had put the whole pillow misunderstanding behind them and were having aLady and the Trampmoment with some of the shredded chicken he’d set out for them, which was sort of gross but also kind of adorable. So he wasn’t sure why something felt off.

It had happened after they came downstairs, he knew that much. Had it been his question about Alan? Sure, he probably shouldn’t have mentioned her ex-boyfriend while they were lying together naked, but he’d felt so close to her in that moment. He’d felt like he could finally vault over the final obstacle wedged between them. But he’d thought wrong. She still hadn’t answered him. He’d tried to subtly (and not so subtly) nudge her back toward the question several times during the dinner preparations, but no dice. He’d even asked her whether she’d made up with her brother Lee. She’d said yes and promptly changed the subject.

Now, as they sat down to dinner, he thought it was probably time to adopt a more direct line of questioning. Glancing at her through the candlelight—he’d left the candleholders out after their last dinner, and sap that he’d become, he’d even bought new candles for them—he felt a strange combination of emotions. He was happy, certainly, but that happiness was tinged with the fear that it might be taken away at any moment.

Was she trying to keep him at arm’s length?

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