“Pays to be.”
Three words. That seems to be his limit for most responses. I’m starting to think of it as the Finn McGrath Conversation Ratio: for every paragraph I speak, he offers a sentence. Maybe two if I’m lucky.
But his eyes tell a different story. They track my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Not threatening—assessing. Like he’s cataloging information, building a profile, trying to figure out what kind of creature has invaded his carefully ordered world.
I know I should find it unsettling. Instead, I find myself wanting to pass whatever test he’s silently administering.
The tour continues through the living area, and I let myself really look at the furniture this time. In the chaos of our initial meeting and the urgency of dinner, I’d noticed the craftsmanship in passing. Now, with Finn standing silently beside me, I can appreciate the full scope of what he’s created.
The coffee table is a single slab of wood, its natural edge preserved, the surface polished to a mirror shine. I crouch down to examine the base and find it’s not a base at all—the legs grow organically from the same piece, shaped and carved to look like they’re emerging from the earth.
“This is one piece,” I breathe. “You carved this from a single tree?”
“Fallen oak. Lightning strike, three years ago.”
I run my fingers along the grain, feeling the subtle texture beneath the polish. “It must have taken forever.”
“Eight months.”
I look up at him, trying to reconcile this information with the gruff, monosyllabic man standing before me. Eight months of patient work, transforming destruction into beauty. That’s not the hobby of someone who just wants to pass time. That’s art. That’s devotion.
“The bookshelf too?” I stand, moving toward the built-ins that line the far wall. “And the chair by the fireplace?”
He nods.
“Finn.” I turn to face him fully. “This is incredible. You’re not just building furniture—you’re creating heirlooms. Things that will outlast all of us.”
Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of vulnerability, quickly shuttered. “It’s just wood.”
“It’s not just wood, and you know it.” I gesture at the room around us. “Everything in here has a soul. I can feel the care you put into it. The attention.” I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “My ex never understood why I spent hours on a single dish when I could just order takeout. He thought it was a waste of time. But I think you get it. The process matters as much as the result.”
Finn is very still. Those gray eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get it.”
The moment stretches between us, charged and thick.
The lights flicker.
We both look up at the ceiling. The bulbs stutter, struggling against whatever the storm is doing to the power systems outside.
“Generator should—” Finn starts.
The lights go out.
Complete darkness. The fire in the hearth has burned down to embers, casting barely enough glow to see shapes and shadows. I can hear Finn breathing somewhere to my left, can feel the warmth radiating off his body even though we’re not touching.
“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get candles.”
I hear him move away, confident and sure-footed in his own space. A drawer opens. A match strikes. And then there’s light—soft, golden, flickering—as Finn lights a candle and turns to face me.
In the warm glow, his features look different. Softer. The hard edges smoothed away, the guardedness in his eyes replaced by something almost gentle.
“Power might be out for a while,” he says. “Storm’s hitting the panels hard.”
“That’s okay,” I say softly. “I don’t mind the dark.”
His eyes hold mine across the flickering flame. The shadows play across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. He looks almost uncertain—this man who seems so certain about everything else.
