Of course he lived like this, without distractions or junk.Just engines, records, and maps, as if plotting his exit.
In the kitchen, the battered round table looked handmade, like someone had taken a chainsaw to a slab of timber and called it done.The three chairs didn’t match—all different heights, all equally sun-warped.Probably left out as rubbish that he’d dragged through the red dirt on the back of the Harley to make their home here.
There were no appliances, not even a microwave or a toaster clogged up the kitchen benches.Only a battered kettle beside the gas stove.
The fridge, though—that was new.Huge, too.A beast of stainless steel that held water bottles, tomato sauce, a half-loaf of bread, and meat in the freezer.That was it.
‘Figures,’ she mumbled in her worst Finn impression.‘Food fairy’s day off, huh?’
The pantry held even less.Besides his tins of killer coffee that could be used as motor fuel, there was lots of salt, cracked pepper, and a surprising selection of herbs and spices.Even more surprising was the neat row of homemade preserved goods, the old-school kind.Mango, beets, beans, chutney, and something suspiciously pink.
And all of the labels were neatly written.Most definitely feminine.
Her eyebrows lifted.
So there really was a food fairy.Who probably wore slippers and an apron that said,Bless This Mess.
The jars reminded her of her grandfather’s farm.Mornings with porridge and bottled peaches she’d helped pick with her cousin over summer, back when things had still made sense.
But she wasn’t here to psychoanalyse Finn.Or judge the kitchen.Or figure out why someone who lived like this still had room for canned fruit.
She was here to work.
Down the hall, she found two doors—took a guess and kicked one open with the side of her boot.
An enormous bed with black sheets stood centre stage.One pillow dented, the other untouched.A few duffel bags were stacked like deployment gear ready to roll.Another half-unzipped pack had clothes spilling out.
She backed out fast.
Definitely not the spare room.
‘Other door,’ came Finn’s rough voice behind her.
Where the hell did he come from?
Finn leaned his shoulder against the hallway wall like he’d been there the whole time.
You’d think she’d be used to how he looked by now—all six-foot something, bristling with ink, muscles, and attitude—that still made her pulse jump.
‘Spare room’s yours.’Finn pushed the other door open and flicked on the light.
She squeezed by him in the narrow hall.So—soincredibly close as he stared down at her like she meant nothing.
She told herself it was fine.They were professionals.And this hallway was like being crammed into a lift with strangers.And he was just a man with a Harley in his living room, a bed with black sheets, and enough red flags to start his own parade.
The spare room had bare walls, of course, and one window.That was it.Perfect for what she needed.
She dropped the file box on the floor, and started unpacking like his presence, and the fact that they were alone, didn’t bother her.
Finn didn’t cross the threshold.He just stood there with one shoulder against the doorjamb.One foot in and one foot out, as if between enter and exit.
She’d noticed that earlier, the way he’d hovered outside the interrogation room.Like he was always mapping his exits, even in his own house.
Was he like this because of her?Or was it something he just did?
Taryn got busy, laying out the first page that trembled slightly in her fingers, as flashbacks of him kissing her senseless had left her second-guessing everything.And with him, blocking the door should she want to run, only made it worse.
‘Need anything?’he asked.
