Page 11 of Hearts Adrift
“A person I have to schedule. A person who will have to take time out of their day to come and do this.” His jaw sets as he takes a long breath and glares at the window. “A person who will most likely beme.”
“The key broke in the front door …” I start.
“And I’ll have to fix that, too,” he steamrolls on top of me. “The key worked just fine this morning. My sister used it to bring your welcome basket and check everything.”
“I’ll pay for the lock. And a new key.”
“It’s not about the—Is this what you’re used to doing? Just flinging money at people? Toss a check here? A check there? Fix this and that with checks and more checks?”
Wow, he really hates me. “No one really uses checks anymore,” I inform him helpfully.
If Finn’s face wasn’t red before, it sure is now. He takes a step toward me, which is saying a lot considering how close we already are. And the glare he gives me could sauté my nipples straight off of my chest.
It’s the first time I get a real look into his eyes. They sparkle unexpectedly. I don’t know if that’s because he’s gone from zero to ragingly pissed in a second, or if it’s just evidence of his passion.
You have to understand, I’m addicted to passion.
All the dead eyes I’ve peered into through my career—the passionless directors just doing a job, executives in suits who don’t give a shit about the art until the money rolls in, the producers and investors, costars cast because of their parents or connections and know nothing of the craft, all of them soulless and dead in the eyes. I recognize right away when there’s firebehind them.
And right now, all I see is fire.
Bright blue fire in this guy’s piercing gaze.
I feel his breath on my lips when he speaks. “And this ‘hole in the wall’, I believe you just called it, happens to be a very special place to me.” His voice is low, almost hurt. “Would’ve been nice if you’d treated it with more respect.”
“You have the most beautiful eyes.”
He freezes in place.
I think my words just put out all the fire I was admiring in his eyes a second ago.
Now all I see is confusion.
“Sorry,” I murmur quietly. “Was that too much? I get that sometimes. Comes with the whole actor thing.”
He swallows.
Throat dancing up, then settling back down.
“Actors make terrible friends,” I go on. Did we just become even closer somehow? “Always stuck in our own heads. I have none, by the way. Friends. Real ones, at least. This is my working theory as to why.”
A bead of sweat drips down the side of his head. He hasn’t blinked once since I complimented his eyes. Like he just realized he can wield them like weapons.
Or a shield.
I’ve also become acutely reminded that he’s shirtless. And that I’m shirtless—and everything else-less, too, save for this nothing towel that’s all too ready to drop again.
Just two men in a kitchen with a broken window.
And tension filling the air with every breath.
Undeniable, unbearable tension.
“Wanna stay for a bit?” I ask.
He inhales sharply, startled by the question. “What?”
“Have a snack with me.” I tighten up the towel around mywaist and head to the fridge. “It’s so lonely here all by myself. Maybe you can tell me why this is special to you, this place I promise never to call a ‘hole in the wall’ ever again. See? I learn.” I open the fridge. It’s empty. I shut it. “Who needs food? Let’s just hang out.”
