Page 45 of The Boss I Can't Stand
“Thanks,” I said, internallyaww-ing at the sweetness of the gesture. I ate it while I thought through his question. “You know what, I’d actually love to do a rom-com set in the eighties. Neon. Shoulder pads. Spandex. Big hair. Bowling alleys.”
“Bowling alleys?” He laughed. “Where the hell does bowling come into a rom-com?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just what I think of when I imagine the eighties. I adored bowling growing up. Probably because there wasn’t much else to do out in Garnett.”
“Kansas was kind of lacking in the extracurriculars, huh?” He shook his head as I laughed. “I’m really trying to envision you bowling.”
“I was actually pretty good,” I said. “It was the only sporty thing I was ever any good at.”
“I played tons of sports in school,” Finn said, which didn’t surprise me. “Also joined some clubs.”
Oh this was good. “Sports I can see given your…” I waved my hand at his body suddenly embarrassed. “Physique,” I finished and then plowed ahead so he wouldn’t question that. “What kind of clubs?”
He sat back with a smirk—the very one that did strange things to my insides that should never happen—but then he thankfully let it go. “Usual stuff—astronomy, film, pottery, Spanish, debate.”
“Hold on there, cowboy. Buried one in there. Pottery? Why don’t you have any of your pieces around the penthouse?” Well, anything personal. The place was a damn museum to austerity.
“That was a long time ago and I only participated in everything I could because they gave me a good reason not to have to spend a lot of time at home.”
I wanted to dig deeper into that. Anyone who spent time with them could see the relationship was strained between Finn and his mother, but what I didn’t know was why.
The way he acted around her…it wasn’t like he was mad at her, exactly, but more like he didn’t quite trust her. There had to be a story there, and I wanted to learn more about it. But before I could ask, before things gottooreal, he gestured to my plate.
“You finished your food.”
“I did.” I hadn’t even realized. “They really do make the best French toast.”
“Guess that means the date is officially over,” he pointed out.
My thoughts skittered back to the script that had been written for us. This was the part where we were supposed to lean in and kiss. For real. Not just a little peck. He wasn’t actually going to go in for the kiss though, was he?
But then he was moving, and my pulse exploded, blood rushing in my ears, because I couldn’t kiss him like this…not if it didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t lie about that, not even to myself. Before I could try to explain, Ro burst back into the room, clapping, and Finn pulled back.
“Amazing!” she said. “That looked so natural! If we stick to the script a little more, you two will knock it out of the park during the real thing.”
The real thing, I thought as reality came knocking, reminding me that playing pretend was all this would ever be. There was norealreal thing. Not for Finn and me.
17
FINN
The block of clay collapsed beneath my hands as I pressed my frustrations from the workday into the chunk, smoothing it out repeatedly until it softened, becoming warm and pliable under my touch.
I’d gotten my first taste for pottery in high school and taken several classes over the years, and though I enjoyed using a pottery wheel from time to time, I preferred hand-building for the sheer physicality of it—the way I couldn’t think about anything else while I concentrated on it. My sculpting was the closest thing I had to meditation. When I was creating, nothing else mattered.
Only the process of creation—not the final result. I always smashed a piece when it was finished. Always. They were too much of a mess for me to want to keep them intact. I was no artist—far from it. I just liked the process.
“Knock, knock.” Sierra’s voice cut through the silence, and I froze, mid-motion, as she stepped into the room. My heart skipped a beat, as she glanced around my private studio, her eyes widening in surprise.
I’d made a mistake when I mentioned pottery to her this morning and I glossed over it thankful that she didn’t press. Now here she stood in my private space. I knew she’d never seen this room of the condo before.
Because I’d never invited her and because I usually kept it locked. Her standing there, staring at me, left me horribly exposed. Lord Meowington went racing beneath one of the shelves, unnerved by the new addition to the room.
“What are you doing in here?” I jumped to my feet, instinctively wiping my hands on my pants. The remnants of soft, warm clay against my palms now felt too messy, too revealing. This was the one space I never let anyone else see, except for the blessedly discreet housekeeper who carted off the trash bin of smashed sculptures, because this was one thing—one personal thing—I’d never intended to share.
“Sorry,” she said, taking in the clay I’d been free-forming on my bench. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I was just looking for a place with a big enough table to work on.” She held up what I assumed was to be the corset of a burlesque costume and a container full of rhinestones.
“I’ve got a lot of bedazzling to do, and the kitchen island is covered in paperwork.” She stepped toward a shelf of sculptures, some of them half-finished, some of them complete but in the process of drying. Smashing them was so much more satisfying when they were dried. “Did you make all these?”
