I settle onto the rattan love seat across from Nikki and Sybil, as Nikki cranks her own smile up to dazzling. “Sothisis what took you so long, Emma. I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to get the bartender’s number after all.”
“Nope. No man buns for me.”
Finn gives a wry chuckle and settles into the seat next to Willow.
“True.” Nikki nods. “You’ve always had a thing for guys with shorter hair. Who was that actor you loved fromGrey’s Anatomy?”
“Jesse Williams,” I supply easily, but I regret it the moment I see the catlike grin on Nikki’s face.
“Right! Actually…” she says, as if the thought is just occurring to her, “Finn, you look a bit like him.”
Yup. I walked right into it.
“Oh, really?” Finn raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “Is that so?”
Finn doesn’t look anything like Jesse Williams, unless you count the fact that they’re both biracial, and built, and generally hot as hell.
“So I guess your type is someone a bit more like Finn,” Nikki says, her wide blue eyes the picture of innocence, “wouldn’t you say, Emma?”
I don’t know what game Nikki is playing at, but I’m putting an end to it.
“Finn could be theactualchief of plastic surgery at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital, and hestillwouldn’t be my type. Never has been. Never will be.”
The playfulness disappears from Finn’s face, and he says, “Wow, okay. Noted.”
Tension hangs in the air. I fumble for something to do, and suddenly realize that I have no way to turn my hard-won lime into lime wedges. “I forgot a knife. I’ll be right back.”
Leaning over from his chair beside the love seat, Finn gently removes the lime from my hand and produces a small pocketknife.
“Don’t worry. I know you can be a little single-minded when you’re on a mission,” he says.
“Do you just carry knives with you everywhere you go?”
“It’s helpful to have a tool on hand.”
“Well, thank the Lord we found you,” I say sweetly.
He rolls his eyes but lets the insult roll off him as he quickly halves the lime, then cuts it into quarters.
“Here you are. Can’t have a tequila shot without lime.” He repeats my words from earlier and flashes me a smile. The sea breeze ruffles his shirt in a way that makes my stomach clench.
Sybil, Nikki, and I take our glasses, and Finn reaches for the remaining fourth.
“That’s Sybil’s bonus shot,” I nearly growl.
“Finn can have it,” Sybil says.
“You two are going to play nicely this weekend, right?” Willow asks Finn and me, a crease of worry forming on her brow, as if she too is remembering the shouting match that occurred four and a half years ago.
“Of course,” Finn says quickly.
“Sure,” I grit out.
And Icanplay nice with Finn. We’re grown adults, after all. I’ll just treat him like a demanding client with exceptionally bad taste—politely, yet firmly, pointing out when they are dead wrong. Still, might be best to stick to just one more drink. Three-Drink Emma can’t be trusted to remember the “polite” part, and we don’t need a Katie Dalton wedding repeat.
Finn swirls the dark gold liquid and brings it to his nose. “You know, you should really be sipping this tequila—not shooting it.” I’m not a particularly violent person by nature, but I look longingly at the still-open pocketknife sitting on the table and then at a vein pulsing in Finn’s neck.
“Come on, are we doing this or not?” I lick the side of my hand, sprinkle on a little salt, and pass it to Nikki. When she’s ready, I raise the glass, “To Sybil!” And we both take the shot.
