Page 40 of Better Luck Next Time

“You’re leaving?” she asked, surprised at the depth of her disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I have a dinner to go to tonight.”

“Oh.” The way he’d said it was so vague, like he didn’t want to say who he was meeting. Was it a woman?

She felt suddenly awkward and off-balance. “So about the art show…when do you want to get started with the planning?”

Something flickered in his eyes, and suddenly he seemed more guarded. “How about we meet for coffee on Saturday afternoon?”

“Not for margarita pitchers?” she teased. Then her face flushed. “Sorry if I embarrassed you. And I’m sorry if I got…out of hand.”

He grinned. “You didn’t.” He swallowed and lowered his voice. “Thank you for trusting me with your secret. I swear I won’t tell a soul. I mean that.”

“Thanks.”

He started to say something, then stopped, and she almost teased him that the man who could talk about anything now seemed tongue-tied. But he spoke first.

“You’re not going to use it, are you?” he asked quietly.

Her pulse kicked up. Was he going to be pissed? But there was no anger or disappointment in his eyes, only understanding.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But you all went to so much trouble.”

He slowly shook his head. “You have enough baggage with your art without adding any more to the mix, so no guilt, okay?” he said as he reached up and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “This was about giving you options. You do what you need to do to make yourself feel whole, and to hell with everyone else, okay?”

Tears filled her eyes again. “It’s not that easy, Finn.”

“But it is,” he said insistently. “Alan stole something from you, and you need to do whatever it takes to get it back, Addy.” He gestured to the group of people watching them. “They all feel the same way. They’ll understand.” He gave her a sad smile. “Just like I understand we can only be friends.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek before pushing open the gate.

Wait. What? Why could they only be friends?

“Finn,” she called after him. “Didn’t River bring you here?”

He held up his phone, giving her a cocky grin. “Uber.”

It struck her that she’d spent the better part of the last week wishing Finn would go away, that he’d stop hounding her about her art. But now that she wanted him to stay, he was walking away from her.

Chapter Fourteen

Finn’s father had gotten to the restaurant before him, because of course he had. His dad had once told him it was a power move—a way to keep the other person on their toes.

Too bad his father pulled the maneuver with family as much as he did with his business partners.

“There he is,” his dad said, standing and offering his hand for a shake. If Finn’s mom had been there, she would have hugged him, but this was a business trip, and even though she could technically travel with his father, she never had.

Oh, I have my bridge club and the gardening society, she’d say.

In reality, though, Finn thought his parents didn’t much like each other. It almost felt like they’d had a role in mind and found the person to fit it. They coexisted without much fuss—he’d never heard any explosive fights between them, but he couldn’t remember any signs of affection either. The most he’d ever seen was a quick peck on the lips.

That wasn’t something Finn wanted, not ever. Some strategies that worked for business didn’t work for life. Never would.

He found himself thinking of Adalia—of the look on her face when he’d told her that he knew they could only be friends. It had seemed almost regretful. Or did he just want to think that?

No, he was good at reading people. Most of the time. And if he was totally honest with himself, he’d partially said it to see how she’d react.

After a hearty handshake, he sat opposite his father. A waiter came around and asked for his drink order, and he requested water. It only partially had to do with the margaritas at lunch and at dinner last night. He wanted to keep his wits about him. He had the feeling his father was here to sell him on something, and Reed Hamilton was the kind of man who believed in a hard sell.

“How’s Mom?” he asked, picking up a menu.

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