Page 42 of Better Luck Next Time

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “I was actually hoping you’d be willing to visit a few artists’ studios with me after this. I kind of, sort of made a few appointments.”

“There’s the Finn I know,” she said with a wink. “Strong-arming me into it.”

She didn’t say it like it was a bad thing, but it made him think again of the studio they’d set up—the one that hadn’t been right for her.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, honestly. “I can go without you if you have plans.”

“I know. I want to go with you.”

She said it in a way that told him she was more interested in his company than in the outing, per se, and he felt that now-familiar glow inside of him.

“Good.” He paused, fidgeting with his pen. “You know, you inspired me to talk to my dad last night…about the whole Duke thing.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll bet that pissed him off.”

He grinned at her. “It did. Especially when I told him the main thing I’m working on right now is a charity art show. He thinks I’ve gone nuts.”

Even more so because he’d admitted it was tied to a woman. He hadn’t given his father any details about Adalia, but his dad had seemed flustered by the whole thing. He’d reminded Finn that there were plenty of women in Charlotte too, which Finn had acknowledged, saying the census had estimated the city was over fifty percent female.

“And have you?” she asked, playing a little with the edge of the notebook, her fingers brushing against his hand, the points of contact sending sparks through him.

“Maybe.” He gave in to the temptation to take her hand, noticing, as he had before, that despite her skin’s softness she had a few calluses, a couple of scars. Artist’s hands. He made himself release it after giving it a squeeze. “But I think I kind of like it.”

“What are you going to call this art show, anyway? Shouldn’t we come up with some sort of name? ‘Charity art show’ might be accurate, but it doesn’t really paint a picture.”

“How about Finn Hamilton’s Art Extravaganza?” he suggested, struggling to keep a straight face.

She tilted her head. “Or Finn’s Not a Jerk, Here’s Proof?”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny. How about the Asheville Art Display?”

“Simple but to the point. I like it.”

The first appointment he’d made was at three o’clock, so they spent fifteen minutes or so talking about the various arrangements Finn had already made for the show, and then another twenty playing a game of ‘Who are you?’, although he made Adalia laugh so hard at his story about Bernard, whose wife had left him for a one-legged trapeze artist, that the barista asked them to quiet down.

“You know,” Adalia said in a dramatic whisper, “I gave names to a couple in Buchanan the other day, and I was right about the woman. Her name really was Fiona.”

“Get out.”

“No, this totally happened.” She took out her phone and tapped into her Instagram app before handing it over.

But the woman’s name wasn’t what he focused on. The photos all had a warm glow, a hominess that perfectly channeled Buchanan Brewery. River had always said it felt like a grandparent’s basement, but then again, River had Dottie in his life. Finn had never seen his grandmother’s basement, and she would have been affronted if he’d asked. To him, Beau’s brewery had just felt like a place where he was welcome, a place where there were no expectations. (Admittedly, Beau had gone a little too far with the no expectations thing, but the man had been endlessly stubborn when it came to taking business advice.)

“Wow, did you do more of these posts?” he asked. “They’re really good. The copy too. This is the kind of branding people pay consultants to do.”

She seemed almost embarrassed when she showed him the other two, both posted yesterday, and he thought maybe he understood why. This might not be the kind of art she wanted to do, but itwasart. She was putting herself out there after striking out.

Kind of like Finn with this art show.

Hopefully, they’d have better luck this time.

“Each of these already has an insane number of likes,” he commented.

“I thought the response was pretty good,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Jack seems pleased too.”

Jack.

Finn had run through that phone call a few times since Thursday, but he’d decided he definitely, certainly, one hundred percent was not going to say anything to Adalia. He was already in it with Maisie. She’d texted him at five in the morning—he suspected she’d done it purposefully to wake him up—saying,What did you do???? River has manufactured some supposed illness for Hops, and he wants to come see me tomorrow morning. You better not have squealed.

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