Tom knew a trap when he saw one, so he busied himself adding cheese to his bowl. His memories of Josie from the bar on Wednesday were of a stacked redhead with a big laugh, which was certainly a contrast to the black-haired sylph sitting across from him, her pert nose, pointed chin, and graceful collarbones creating a riot of delicate angles.
He forced a lazy smile and gave an “easy come, easy go” gesture. “Eh, redheads aren’t generally my type.” He saw the question flit across her face:Whatisyour type these days?But before she could ask it, before he was tempted to tell her that his type had only ever been petite, sharp-jawed, black-haired women, he took his first bite of chili. He didn’t have to fake the moan of appreciation he gave as the spicy-meat-and-tomato goodness exploded on his tongue.
“Oh my God.” He all but submerged his head in the bowl in his haste to inhale all its deliciousness, and Finn offered him the first full smile he’d seen from her all day.
“There’s plenty more.” She gestured to the stove, and he immediately stood to grab seconds. “You seriously didn’t sleep for two days to grade papers?”
He grimaced as he sat back down, although inside he was pleased that she was picking up the conversational ball. “I’m a TA for the Intro to Macro class, and I’d been putting off a mountain of grading, plus I have an editing deadline on my dissertation, which I’vealsobeen putting off. The perfect storm before the perfect storm.” He gestured to the snow that still swirled outside the windows before turning back to his bowl.
“Ah. More bad luck,” she said.
That drew another actual smile from her, and he felt a curl of pleasure unfold in his stomach. He was safe and warm and inside, his socks were dry, and Finn Carey was smiling at him like she used to. All in all, it could be a worse blizzard.
Oh, look at that. A sliver of optimism. He decided to chase that rare feeling. “So. I answered your questions. Now you need to answer one for me.”
She froze as he set his spoon down and gravely folded his hands together.
“Do you have coffee for the morning, or should I throw myself into a snowbank right now?”
Her lips twitched. “I have coffee. Fresh grind pour-over. Hope that’s okay.”
Tom picked up his bowl again to dig in. “With this kind of hospitality, Huckleberry, I may never leave.”
Five
Finn stood at the sink with her hands in soapy water, considering all the ways her day was unraveling. She’d spent the afternoon hiding in her room getting no work done and grappling with the urge to yell at Tom and to hug him and to demand that he tell her all the stories about his life that she’d missed since they’d stopped confiding everything to each other eight years ago. And then he’d sat across from her at dinner, all charming and smiley, and that impulse had grown too dangerous and far too tempting. God, he was the worst, reminding her of all the things she used to like about him. Time to hit the brakes.
“So about tonight. I assume you’re good sleeping in Josie’s room again?”
She addressed her words to the dishwater, but Tom joined her at the sink, reaching for a towel and starting to dry the dishes she’d set to the side.
“Actually, no. I feel a little weird about it.”
That made two of them. But she clamped down on a wave of irrational jealousy to point out, “You slept there last night.”
He took a bowl from her and ran the dishtowel over its clean, dripping surface. “Yeah, but last night I passed out at the foot of the bed on top of the covers, like a dog. And now I’m some random guy she only exchanged a few sentences with who’s sleeping in her sheets? It feels wrong. I was thinking I should maybe take the couch.”
Her TV-watching couch? In the middle of her living room? Nope. No way was Finn letting that happen. He couldn’t sleep out in the open. She didn’t want to see what he looked like asleep, didn’t want to know whether those full lips parted in relaxation, didn’t want to hear his deep, even breaths. Didn’t want to picture Tom at rest every time she sat on the couch’s overstuffed cushions in the future. Best to keep all that behind Josie’s bedroom door.
“Don’t be dumb,” she told him briskly. “You already slept there once, and we don’t have a ton of extra blankets to make a bed on the couch. Josie won’t care. She liked you enough to bring you home in the first place.”
Was that a blush she saw heating his skin? It was hard to tell in the low lighting.
“Itoldyou, nothing happened. We just—”
“Oh my God, will you stop? I said I believe you,” she almost shouted.
His whole body vibrated as if someone had struck his breastbone like a gong, and for a moment he looked so stricken that she wanted to smooth a hand through his curls and tell him everything was all right. But before she could act on something so foolish, he spun and stalked to the window.
For a moment she wondered if he was thinking about their old fight, but that didn’t quite fit. It had never been a matter of truth versus lies or her believing him. It had all been about what he’d done and how much it had hurt her.
Still, he stood like a statue, silhouetted by the muted glow of the streetlights outside, and she felt unaccountably drawn in by his solitude. Unsure if he’d welcome it, she crossed the room to stand next to him. Incredibly, fat flakes were still tumbling across their field of vision.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to leave tomorrow morning.”
“Agreed,” she said. “They were predicting another eight to ten inches by Friday morning.”
She was standing close enough to feel his body tremble, yet when she turned to face him, it wasn’t distress she saw, but suppressed laughter. “What?” He pinched his mouth shut and shook his head, so she turned her full scowl on him. “Seriously,what?”
