His thumb continues its path, tracing invisible patterns. This feels intimate in ways it definitely shouldn’t. And I’m beginning to understand how rows of women end up in bed with him. At the same time.
Thank God I’m not one of them.
I lift my phone and take pictures. Click. Click. Hands, framed like a stock image. Romantic intimacy, brought to you by strategic discomfort. I check the preview. Our intertwined hands fill the frame.
‘Got it?’
‘Nearly.’ I take three more shots, then scroll through the photos. They’re perfect. Intimate without being showy. The kind of casual affection that can’t be faked.
Except we just did.
I start to pull away, but he tightens his fingers slightly around my hand.
‘Theo.’
‘What?’
‘Thank you. For doing this.’ His voice is different. No more swagger or deflection.
I tip my chin half a notch, and he’s watching me. His pink hair catches the ring light, bright enough to hurt if I stare too long. But his eyes are serious and grateful. I did not expect that.
‘Don’t worry about it, Finn. That’s my job.’
‘No, it’s not. Your job is social media and being an assistant. This is… I don’t know. A sacrifice?’
The back of my neck burns. ‘I want to keep this job. No, I have to keep this job. It’s all I’ve got, and I didn’t lie when I said that I love it.’
His thumb still strokes across my pulse, and I realise he’s been doing it unconsciously all the time.
‘I think you might work too hard, Theo.’
‘Someone has to keep this place running,’ I retort, trying to regain my composure. ‘Especially when certain rugby players are busy creating international incidents and incriminating headlines.’
He winces. ‘I messed up. I know that.’
I glance up and find him not smirking for once. ‘Yes, you did. But we’ll fix this mess.’ His hand lets go, and I stand up to put distance between us. I rub my palm on my skirt, but the warmth stays exactly where he left it. ‘I…erm…should edit these.’
‘Course.’
I lean against my desk and busy myself with my phone, cropping and filtering. Finn stays quiet in the chair, man spreading away, as I work.
‘What’s the caption?’ he asks.
‘I was thinking… How about “Turns out, even I can’t fuck everything up”?’
‘Aye, sounds like me.’
‘Hashtag secondchance.’
He laughs. ‘You could probably rebrand Satan.’
‘Isn’t that what I’m already doing?’ I busy myself by packing away the ring light. ‘Okay, we stick to the plan. Small doses of public affection. Build the story gradually.’
‘Gradually, huh?’ He gets up and stretches, arms behind his head, his slow, self-satisfied grin built to rile me up. ‘Cool. Just let me know when it gets too much for you. Wouldn’t want you blushing through the whole thing.’
Then he saunters off.
And my face? A raging tomato again.
