‘Forgiven. You’re cute when you’re all ruffled and bossy.’
Unhelpful observation: compliments from self-serving numpties still register.
I drag the chair into position. ‘Sit,’ I command, pointing at it like I’m directing a disobedient labrador.
Finn angles his head just enough to make room for doubt but complies, dropping into my office chair with casual grace. His knees splay wide, taking up space in that uniquely male way that screams territorial dominance.
Of course he’s a man spreader. But to be fair, there’s a lot of man to spread in his case.
MacMickin, stop!
‘Now what?’ he asks.
‘Now I sit and we look besotted. It’s what couples do.’ I smooth my skirt. ‘Nothing personal, only a job.’
‘Sure. No one’s enjoying this.’
I position myself on his right thigh, perched at the edge, maintaining maximum distance. Spine locked, shoulders on high alert. I’m technically sitting. Emotionally? Mid-exit.
One of his thighs is enough to serve as an ottoman.
‘You know, you’re surprisingly uncomfortable with physical contact,’ he murmurs from behind.
‘I’m not uncomfortable. I’m professional.’
‘There’s a difference between professional and rigid.’
‘There’s also a difference between relaxed and inappropriate,’ I counter.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks. Yet something about his observation needles me. Am I rigid? Perhaps. But rigid has kept me safe when everything else crumbled.
‘Relax, List Girl.’
I sigh and scoot back, letting my weight settle. His thigh is… Jesus. Solid and unreasonably comfortable. The muscle beneath me tenses, like he’s bracing on instinct. For stability, probably.
Completely normal. Totally fine.
It’s just a leg. A giant, irritatingly perfect leg that feels like it was sculpted for this situation. His thigh’s all heat and muscle, hard and thick. I know the rest of him is also… I mean, I’ve seen the photos. Oh my god. I can’t believe I’m thinking about his…equipment. Here. Now.
The seam of my tights drags in just the wrong spot. I reposition again, but that only makes things worse.
I am never mentioning this to anyone. Ever.
‘Better?’ I ask and my voice sounds a tad wobbly.
‘Getting there.’ His breath strokes the side of my neck. ‘Put your hand on your knee.’
I place my hand on my left knee, palm up. Finn covers it with his own, fingers curling naturally around mine. His thumb rests against my wrist, where my pulse quickens for no reason.
‘Now look at our hands,’ he instructs, voice lower than before.
I do. His large hand, tanned and inked, cradling my smaller one with its red nails. We strike the right note between intimate and protective. Most importantly: convincing.
He moves his thumb, slowly stroking back and forth across the pulse point below my palm. The contact is featherlight, but it sends a jolt up my arm, straight to somewhere I pretend isn’t reacting.
‘What are you doing, Finn?’
‘Making it seem real. That’s the goal, right?’
