‘You will not believe this.’ She launches herself at us for a group hug.
Finn stiffens for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into it.
‘It’s better than any of us could’ve dreamt. Got the confirmation this morning. Time to make it official.’
Charlie is not a hugger. So whatever this is, it’s huge.
‘Sit.’ She flaps a hand at the client chairs. ‘Before I combust on the spot.’
Finn slouches beside me, knee brushing mine. I focus on the stray thread unravelling from his hoodie sleeve instead of the way his thumb traces circles on my thigh. Having Finn Lennox in my workplace is a bit like bringing a tiger to a tea party. A very hot, cuddly, welcome tiger.
It’s wild how much I’m feeling this. Him, the proximity, the low current of whatever this is between us. I didn’t expect to let anyone in ever again, least of all this hot mess of a flanker. But I can’t stop it. I can’t stop what breaks loose inside when he touches me, or the way my pulse picks up every time he’s near. The continuous drip of something that might be love.
That word.
Big and heavy and scary.
But yeah. There’s a possibility that I might be in love with Finn Lennox.
I should be focussed on what Charlie’s about to say. I should have a guess, at least a whiff of a hint. I’m her assistant, for fuck’s sake. But I’ve got nothing. No memo, no whisper, no clue. And I don’t know whether to laugh or panic.
‘Spill it, boss,’ I say. ‘You’re making me a smidge nervous.’
Charlie beams and slams a thin folder onto the desk. ‘Tell me you like croissants, because you’re moving to France. RC Marseille-Provence wants you, Finn. As in right now, mid-season. They’ve made an offer.’
The office is suddenly airless. I grip the edge of my chair, nails digging into the faux leather.
Finn blinks rapidly, his mouth slightly open. ‘Marseille? A French club?’
‘Oui, a French club!’ Her eyes go wide with glee.
My brain whirs, trying to process this bombshell.
France. Finn in France.
The words refuse to connect properly, like mismatched puzzle pieces.
Marseille. France. As in, not here.
My mind races, piecing together the cryptic calendar entries, the hushed phone calls Charlie had taken over the past few weeks.
‘How did I not hear about this?’ The question spills out before I can filter it. ‘Were those the appointments with C. Dreyfus?’
Charlie’s smile falters slightly. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m so sorry. I couldn’t say anything until it was official. Super top secret, need-to-know basis and all that jazz.’
‘Right.’ I nod mechanically.
Logically, I get it. She couldn’t tell me. I’m Elite Edge’s social media manager and assistant. Not privy to high-level negotiations. Still, a microscopic needle of hurt pricks deep in my chest.
Finn’s eyes dart between us, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. ‘Hold on. I’m missing something here. Why now? Why me?’
Charlie perches on the desk and crosses her ankles. ‘Their star flanker tore a ligament in his knee. Season-ending injury. French Top fourteen clubs can sign players outside the transfer window under “joker médical” rules. Essentially an injury replacement.’
‘And they want…me?’
‘They need a hard-hitting, high-profile flanker who can make an immediate impact,’ Charlie continues. ‘Someone who draws press attention both on and off the pitch. They’re known for taking on…less disciplined players.’
I watch his profile, the slight furrow between his brows deepening. His knee has stopped its casual brush against mine. Now it’s bobbing.
