Page 54 of Lies We Tell (Thistle Cove 3)

it. It was like, thirty degrees and raining.” I raise an eyebrow. “Hence me painting yours and Ozzy’s nails because we were so bored.”

“But we got to hang out the whole time. It was fun.”

I snort and shake my head. “It was not fun.”

“What are you talking about? We ate junk food, Ozzy brought his gaming system, we binged watched 'The Office'…”

I pick up where he left off. “You guys harassed me, called me names, spent half the trip attacking and beating me up.”

“We didn’t beat you up.” But his lips curve in a small grin. “That was wrestling, besides, how else were we supposed to flirt with you?”

I roll my eyes and blow on my nails. “That was not flirting.”

“That’s how twelve-year-old boys flirt.” His eyes pin mine. “Promise.”

My heart flutters. It doesn’t take much, Finn talking about those days when things were good—pure—it makes my belly twist with delight. I pick up the bottle of nail polish. “You really want your nails painted blue.”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

There are a few reasons, like, I’m pretty sure he’ll peel it off two seconds after I put it on. “Whatever. Give me your hand.”

He rests his hand on my bare knee—I’m wearing shorts—and try my best to ignore the heat of his touch. I dip the brush in the cobalt blue paint and start with his pinky. His nails are rough, but clean, and the pads of his fingers tough. A quarterback’s hands. Strong, worn, skilled.

He’s patient while I work, swiping paint over his nails one-by-one. I rest his finished hand on my knee and pick up the other, going through the process again.

“You know, I wanted to flirt with you back then too, I just didn’t know how. I was caught somewhere between being flattered and offended by your attention.”

He laughs. “We were pretty obnoxious.”

“That year, on New Year’s Eve, when our parents kicked us out and made us walk down to the pier—I really hoped you’d kiss me.”

His eyebrow raises. “Seriously?”

My cheeks heat. “Yeah.”

“I would have been terrified to do that.”

“You? Scared?” I wipe my nail under the edge of his to clean off where it smeared.

“Hell yes. Flirting with you, in my own way, was one thing. Admitting it to you? I couldn’t take the rejection.”

“How do you know I would have rejected you?” I ask, challenging him.

“Because I know you—or knew you. We weren’t ready yet.”

“When did you know you were ready?” Even if he chickened out and never asked me to the dance and the prank with Rose happened and we’d all stopped talking, he claims he liked me back then. I want to know.

He runs his palms over my thighs, taking care not to mess up the paint.

“I started having fantasies about you,” he says truthfully.

“Fantasies?” I know my eyes are bugged out. “What about?”

“I had this whole thing worked out. I’d be in my room. And you’d be in your room. And you’d start to undress, forgetting to close your shade. Or at least you pretended to forget, really, you wanted me to see. You’d take off your shirt, then your bra, and in my fantasy, you’d look over, letting me know that you knew I was there.” He swallows. “Then you’d wave me over and we’d both come out on the roofs and kiss.”

“Like—I’d go out there without a shirt on and kiss you floating in the air?” I can’t help but laugh. “That’s not only impractical, it’s physically impossible.”

He shakes his head, but I see the pink tint of his ears and it’s freaking adorable.

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