Page 80 of The Hot Shot
Sitting huddled together under a blanket in front of a crackling fire seemed like an equally bad idea, so I had announced my intent to head to bed. Unfortunately, Finn decided to come with me. Not that I can fault him for it. Wearesharing a room and itislate.
Now I dither yet again in the little en suitebathroom, rubbing coconut oil over my dry elbows and brushing my teeth twice. But a girl can only stall for so long without making it obvious.
I find Finn tucked up in bed reading on his iPad, and thankfully wearing a T-shirt and whatever he has on under the covers. The bed looks dainty beneath his big frame and broad shoulders. The space left for me to lie beside him is a tiny sliver of bed real estate that promises prolonged bodily contact.
Well, fuck.
Finn looks up and studies me with a passive expression on his face. I can tell he’s examining all angles of this, trying to figure out how to put me at ease, wondering if I’m about to bolt. The idea calms me, and I lean against the bathroom doorway.
“I expected your room to be covered in plaid and gleaming with school trophies,” I tell him.
“Plaid?” He snorts. “I’m of Irish stock. We call them tartans, and you won’t be finding them on me walls.”
“That is the worst Irish accent ever.”
Finn grins, his eyes impossibly blue against the sky-colored sheets. “My parents remodeled the house three years ago. It’s double the size now and every room has been redone. Glenn and I took what we wanted out of our rooms and packed up the rest to stuff in the garage.”
“Ah, the end of childhood,” I say with an expansive sigh. “It’s always so wonderfully brutal.”
“I’m guessing your parents did the same when they bought the tiny house?”
“Pretty much. Only they sent me a box of what they thought I’d want and gave the rest away.”
“Jesus. They didn’t warn you?” Finn scowls, which somehow causes his biceps to bunch. It’s a good look for him.
“We are talking about people who named their daughter Chester because they thought it was a good meet-cute story.” I shrug, hugging my chest tight. “My parents are loving, generous, and flighty as fuck. I was the one who remembered to take out the trash, buy groceries, and do the laundry. They taught me to dance the waltz and finger paint on walls.”
Finn’s blue gaze rests on me, and I shift my weight onto my other foot. “They aren’t horrible,” I ramble on, aware that my voice is far too shaky. “But reliable, they ain’t.”
When he speaks, it’s in a gentle, even tone. “Are you going to get in this bed, Chess?”
I stand a bit straighter and huff out a breath. “That’s all you have to say?”
His lips part as if he’ll speak, but then he closes his mouth before opening it again. “In the spirit of friendship, I feel I should point out that your nightshirt is transparent when backlit by the bathroom light.”
I jump out of the bathroom doorway, flicking off the light as I go. With a glare, I hustle my ass into the bed, sliding under the cool covers as Finn laughs low in his belly.
“Asshole.” I pull the comforter up to my chest. “You could have told me sooner.”
“The struggle was real,” he admits, turning to face me. His impish smile fades.
“How else was I going to get you in bed?”
With a sigh, I snuggle in, trying to get comfortable amidst the pillows. Finn turns off the bedside lamp and then settles down as well. We’re so close, shoulder to shoulder, his knees bumping mine, my cold toes wiggling over his, that there is no escape.
I should be panicked, but it feels nice. Safe. At least in this moment.
Finn’s voice is a murmur in the near darkness. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Chess. It couldn’t have been easy. I’ve always wondered...”
“What?” I whisper thickly.
Finn rests his head on his hand. “You’re so strong.”
“Hardly.”
“You weren’t intimidated at all by us when we showed up at your place, hollering and acting like a bunch of rowdy boys.”
“You’re a bunch of overgrown puppies.”
