Page 34 of Where We Belong
The smell of moss and clean sweat emanating from him makes me grit my teeth a little tighter as I cross his path.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Finn says as he walks up to me.
“What?”
“Go to the laundromat. Mr. Gervais hasn’t cleaned the place in at least fifty years. It’s nasty.”
“Well, since there’s no magic washing machine in the forest, I don’t have many other options.” Although he has a point. The first time I went to the laundromat in town, I gagged once or twice at the grime that had clearly spent decades accumulating on the appliances.
“Just come to my place.”
I freeze halfway to my car. “I’m sorry?”
“Believe it or not, I do have a washing machine. Just come do your laundry there.”
Go to Finn’s place? After I had the weird belly jitters looking at him just minutes ago? I don’t think so.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.”
I finish my walk to my car, but as I put the basket on one hip to manually unlock the door, someone steals it from my arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask Finn’s retreating back.
“If you’re not going to accept my help, I’m going to force you to.”
“Finn.”
He doesn’t answer, only continues to walk toward his truck parked in front of the main house.
“Finneas!”
“Continue playing that name game, darling. I don’t mind. It just means you’re thinking ’bout me!”
This man. This goddamn man.
I run after him, and when I reach him, I try to wrench the basket out of his hands, but clearly his arms are stronger than his core, because it doesn’t budge.
“You’re a brute,” I say as he puts my stuff in the back seat of his truck.
“And you’re a brat. Now hop in.”
After lots of huffing and puffing, I end up listening to him, but my frown doesn’t budge.
“See?” he says as we clip our seatbelts. “Wasn’t so hard?”
“This is, like, half kidnapping.”
He laughs out loud as he starts the truck. “Sure thing.”
We make the short drive to his place—which really is right opposite the gym—in silence, soft country music playing from the radio. Once he puts the truck into park, I jump out to grab my laundry basket first. I don’t need him to sneak a look into my stinky training clothes any more than he probably already has. Thankfully, he doesn’t fight me on this, instead walking straight to a door on the first floor that opens right onto the street and unlocking the door.
“Make yourself at home,” he says as he holds the door open for me.
I take a few careful steps inside, unsure of what I’ll find in there. The few guy apartments I’ve seen in my life belonged either to crappy one-night stands or to guys from the gym who’d hosted parties, and throughout all these occasions, not one man has proven to be clean.
But surprisingly, this place is. The apartment is all open space, and while there’s a pair of socks in front of the couch and a few plates in the kitchen sink, it’s…neat.
“Wasn’t expecting that,” I blurt out.
