Page 116 of Better Luck Next Time

“I hope so,” Finn said. “He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. The art school either.”

“Good. Sorch doesn’t like to admit it, but the whole thing disturbed her. After going to Lanier she even talked about leaving art, doing something else entirely. But it didn’t take.” He smirked. “Art’s in the blood, my parents say. You can’t deny it because youareit.”

“Yeah, I think that’s how my friend feels,” Finn said.

“Must be some friend,” Sean said, clapping him on the back.

“She sure is.”

Between what Dottie had said about the show and some cryptic hints from River, Finn suspected Adalia might have finally started working on her art again. He hoped so. He wanted that for her, as much as he wanted Hamilton Consulting for him. (He could already hear her teasing him—youwoulduse your own name—which, in all honesty, was part of the reason he’d done it.)

He took his leave and headed back to his parents’ house for dinner. It was already early evening, and his mother had suggested that he arrive by six o’clock for pre-dinner drinks and appetizers. Honestly. It was just three of them. What were they, the Vanderbilts?

But he needed to talk to his parents—to be straight with them about his intentions—and it would be best if he made a timely appearance. He’d texted his father beforehand to warn him, in no uncertain terms, that if there was another unscheduled guest, particularly if that guest was Charlotte, he’d speak in verse throughout dinner.

I’m pretty sure even Charlotte will notice that.

Grow up, Finn,his father had answered.

I’m working on that. Truth is, I need to talk to you about a woman. Might not go well if we have this conversation in front of someone you’re trying to set me up with.

His father hadn’t responded, which either meant that he had been planning another setup and would, hopefully, cancel it, or that he didn’t wish to dignify the message with a response.

There were no unfamiliar cars in the drive, which he took as a hopeful sign.

His mother opened the door for him, like she usually did.

“Your dad says you’re still seeing that woman you mentioned on your last visit,” she said after he kissed her cheek. She led him into the living room, which was conspicuously empty except for a platter of various appetizers, some fizzy-looking drink and a tumbler filled with what appeared to be bourbon. “I know you care for bourbon, so I took the liberty of ordering for you,” his mother explained. “Now, can you tell me about your friend?”

“Where’s Dad?” he asked, surprised.

“At work,” she said. “He’s going to be there until at least six thirty. I figured it would give us some time to talk privately.”

“Oh,” he said, caught off guard. When had they ever had a private chat? His father was the sort who had an opinion about everything and never shied away from expressing it. It seemed unlikely that he was aware of this arrangement—unless his parents had decided together that his mother had a better chance of gently discouraging him. Neither of them would get very far if that was their aim, but he’d listen to what she had to say and hope for the best.

“Well?” she asked. “I’d like to hear more about this woman who’s made such an impression on you.”

He took a hefty sip of the bourbon, trying to find words for what Adalia meant to him.

“Her name’s Adalia,” he started, savoring the sound of it. “She’s incredibly brave. She doesn’t see it, but it’s apparent in everything she does. In who sheis. Most people try to hide their emotions, their worries and fears, but she pours herself into everything she does. She puts it into her art, for everyone to see. She’s more herself than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“So she’s an artist,” his mother said with a furrowed brow, as if he’d said she were an exotic dancer. “What about her family?”

A smile twitched on his lips. “Dad would approve of her father, I bet. He runs a luxury real estate company in New York. He’s also a huge dick.”

“Language, Finn,” his mother said, but it lacked any heat.

“I’m in love with her,” he said.

He’d expected surprise or maybe an objection—something along the lines of:You don’t know what love is until you’ve met someone with a solid investment portfolio and an heirloom set of pearls.But she simply nodded. “I thought as much.”

“Wait…what?” he asked, shocked. “I’ve barely mentioned her to you before today.”

“When was the last time you ever told your father about a woman in your life?”

He honestly couldn’t remember. Maybe never.

“And I can see it in your eyes,” she said. An almost wistful look passed over her face as she took a sip of her drink. “You’re not the only one who’s ever been in love, although it might seem like it at the moment.”

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