Brilliant.
Her traitorous brain instantly replayed that phrase, with Finn pinningherto the wall.Legs around his waist.Mouth on his.As if they’d skipped every logical step between banter and good manners.
Wait!Had she said that out loud?
The silence dragged long enough to make her question reality.
Finn just looked at her.Like he was receiving signals she didn’t mean to send, in some bent-out-of-shape, primitive form of Morse code.The kind only cavemen and men like Finn Wilde could read.
Fantastic.Now she was fluent in horny cavewoman now.
The air between them wasn’t normal anymore, it was more like it was waiting to catch fire.
She cleared her throat.‘I said the page.For the wall.Paperwork.’
Nope.That wasn’t even close to what she had said because, frankly, she’d forgotten everything but Finn.
She risked a glance.
Finn had remained still, yet the air in the room had shifted a few degrees warmer.Especially when his gaze slid over her, slow and intense in a quiet look that was anything but casual.
And then, because Finn Wilde was infuriatingly unreadable and probably evil incarnate in at least three doctrines, he said, ‘Right.Paperwork.’
She handed him the page.
Again, the brush of fingers, while he kept that neutral expression.Like she tried to do…
Well, she hoped she did.
Yet the tension thrummed between them like a pulled wire, stretched and waiting to snap.
She turned back to the wall like it was the only safe place in the house, while her regretful list ofwhat not to sayto Finn Wildegrew.
Her eye caught the record player in the lounge.‘You do realise those records are supposed to be played, and not get treated like vintage drink coasters?’
‘Touch my vinyls and I’ll tell Tanisha you chipped her cactus cup.’
She stared him down.‘You do realise that only makes me want to do it more, right?’
‘My house.My music.My rules.’
She arched a brow.‘Give me five minutes and a Bluetooth speaker, and I’ll have this place pumping with something that’ll make your eyebrows fall off and have the troopy cry.’
‘I bet you could,’ he muttered, sorting another stack of paperwork.
She grinned, reaching for her workbag.
‘Save it, Fed.’Dropping his wad of papers on the floor in a neat stack, he left the room.
Soon there was a soft click, a low crackle of static, then the unmistakable sound of a needle hitting vinyl.
The first chords rolled in—slow, smoky, deliberate.
Chris Stapleton’sTennessee Whiskey.
Of course, he’d own something country.While it was doubtful she had anything close to the country music genre on her playlists.
But she knew this song.
