Millie
The door clicks shut as Finn leaves me snuggled between the girls. I offered to stay with them until they fall asleep, mostly so I could steal a quiet moment to untangle my twisted jumble of emotions.
Finn designed an entire night based solely on something he knew I wanted to do. He set it up with Maggie, bought me an apron, and laughed while we rolled croissants together.
And I loved every minute. But I can’t stop the overwhelming feeling that something has shifted tonight.
When Ave’s and El’s breaths are steady and deep, I slip quietly from the bed and down the stairs. I search for Finn in each empty room until I find one I’ve never seen open. A pair of French doors off the living room are spread wide, leading to a study lit by a single lamp.
Bookshelves line three indigo walls. The last wall holds a large window overlooking the moonlit front yard, and a broad wood desk sits in front of it.
My gaze flicks to the ceiling, and I smile up at the black surface sprinkled with hundreds of tiny white stars.
When my attention moves to Finn, my smile falters. He’s all confident, relaxed masculinity as his broad shoulders cover the entire back of the plush armchair he’s seated in. His sleeves havebeen rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. Shadows hide his eyes, but I can tell his gaze is on me as he lifts a glass tumbler to his lips.
Right now, the invisible thread feels like a tug-of-war rope, yanking me toward him while I dig my feet into the dirt and try to pull back.
I force my voice to say, “I’m going to call Lena to come get me.”
He tilts his head, and a wave of dark hair falls over his forehead like it refuses to be tamed. “Can we finish our game first? We got interrupted earlier.”
“Okay.” I drop into the chair across from him, and the soft velvet seat caresses my skin. The tension in this round has already escalated, and we haven’t even started yet. This version is completely different from the one at Maggie’s: Game of Firsts After Dark.
He swallows a sip of his drink. “First thing you thought when you met me.” His eyes are a dare, like he knows I might resist answering this one. He has a smug grin that tells me he thinks I’ll miss a point here to keep my secrets.
But he doesn’t know how competitive I really am.
I think about that first day, when I saw him charging toward the elevator with a tight expression, like a sexy-professor fantasy come to life.
“I thought... I thought you were a grumpy asshole who wouldn’t get into the elevator with me. You looked like the idea of sharing a small space was offensive.”
His eyes stay glued on me, unchanging as he brings the glass to his mouth for another drink before placing it back on his thigh. “I knew that if I got on that elevator, I’d either ruin your day with my mood or have a miserable time not flirting with you.”
My floozy heart thumps heavily in my chest. Theba-dum-bumpblasts through my body, shooting warmth to every square inch of skin.
“Finn,” I whisper. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
His brow furrows with confusion. “Why?”
I throw my hands in the air like the reason should be obvious. Why do I have to say it out loud?
“Because you’re one of the people hiring me for the promotion I’ve worked toward for months.” I shake my head. “You’ll judge my interviews and decide if I deserve the job. I don’t want to be a person who slept her way to the top, and as a woman, evenlookinglike I did is damning.” I sigh out a deep breath before adding, “And my traitorous heart is already so far past the friendship line, that if we went any further with this conversation, I’m scared of how it would end.”
He shrugs. “I’m not.”
A scoff bursts out of me. “Of course you aren’t scared. No one blames the man in situations like this.”
“No, Millie. Listen.” He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the nearly empty tumbler hanging between them. “I’m not in charge of your job. I’m not one of the people deciding who gets it and who doesn’t. I dropped out of the interview committee.”
My breath halts in my chest. “What? When?”
A muscle flickers in his jaw. “The Monday after you taught me how to make pizza.”
My stomach drops to my feet. That was almost four weeks ago. Nearly a month that I’ve spent hating myself for wanting the man I couldn’t have.
“Why?” I whisper the words, almost afraid to hear the answer.
His lips kick up in a devastating smirk. “Because when you looked up at me after we spilled your coffee, with those little butterflies on your shoulders and your bright, sparkly eyes, I wanted to slide my hands into your hair and drag you to my mouth.”
