“Call it a hunch,” Finn says cryptically.
He leans back on his heels and stuffs his hands in hispockets. “It’s after midnight. I think we should just crash in the room I got, and try to catch up with her first thing tomorrow morning.”
My entire body starts tingling, my mind already drifting to the feeling of Finn’s hands around my waist in the elevator and his thigh pressed between my legs…
The sounds of a Rat Pack cover band spill out into the night each time the door to the casino opens, and the golden glow of the marquee lights shimmers around us. For a second, everything melts away—Nikki, Jamie, Sybil, pregnant Willow holding down the fort back at HQ… they all fade away, leaving nothing but Finn and me. His body pressed against mine at the roulette table. The hungry look in his eyes when he saw my new outfit. The way he opened up to me at dinner. The scorching kiss in the elevator. All the mistakes I’ve made with Finn have been in moments like this. Moments that feel too good to be true. Brimming with starlight or drunk on fresh victory. I’m not going to make the mistake of sharing a hotel room with him. Theactuallove story belongs to Sybil and Jamie. I can’t let myself get distracted, imagining things will be different with Finn this time around.
“It’ll be too late by then,” I insist. “We should just go now.”
“Are you sure?” Nikki asks. “I’m going to stay here for the night and catch the flight back with Jamie and the guys in the morning. You can crash with me, Em,” she adds, like she knows I don’t trust myself to share a hotel room with Finn.
“I’m sure. I’ll pound some coffee and be good to go. Finn?”
Finn doesn’t look especially excited about the prospect of getting on the road again, but he says, “We could make it to Albuquerque by morning if you’re set on going.”
“Then it’s settled. We’ll power through, and just get to Sybil.” I start doing the math in my head. It’s an eight-hour drive… then a two-hour flight to LA… “We could be back in Malibu by late lunch tomorrow—in plenty of time for the rehearsal dinner.” It rings hollow in my ears though. I’ve kept moving the goalposts further and further back for Sybil, and now I’m not sure I can see the field anymore. But Finn is still here beside me, and for the life of me I don’t understand why.
Nikki makes us promise to keep her updated regularly, then follows Jamie’s path toward the hotel rooms.
“You grab the coffee, I’ll go check us out of the hotel and call for the car,” Finn says.
Luckily, there’s no shortage of twenty-four-hour places from which to source caffeine. I return to the front entrance of the casino a few minutes later and hand an insulated paper cup to Finn, who takes a sip with a grimace.
“I hope Sybil appreciates the sacrifice you’re making for her,” I say. “You don’t mind if I take a couple dozen photos of Finn Hughes drinking this death-beverage, do you? For posterity’s sake.”
“Ha ha,” Finn says, pushing my phone camera out of his face.
The valet brings the Singer around, and Finn pulls open the door for me. It’s a simple gesture, but despite all my protestations about staying focused on finding Sybil, the action of sliding into the passenger seat in my new outfit feels like heading home after a date, anticipating whether or not it’ll end with a kiss—or something more.
After taking off his jacket and throwing it in the back seat to get crumpled anew, Finn joins me in the car, where welapse into a comfortable silence—unusual for us. We are so used to debating and playfully—or genuinely—arguing, that there’s something surprisingly intimate about the quiet. I rest my arm on the thin center console between us. Finn moves to shift gears, and the soft cotton of his shirt brushes against my forearm.
I expect him to pull his hand away, but it settles beside mine. I feel the slightest brush of his pinkie before it loops over mine. A thrill rockets through me. I don’t understand how the slightest movements of Finn’s fingers can have such a powerful effect on me. His eyes are still on the road, but he has a soft smile on his lips. Despite how late it is, and the weakness of the coffee I’ve only had a few sips of, I feel like I’ve drunk half a dozen Red Bulls, and the floating feeling from the elevator is back. But now it’s ten times more intense because this is—or could be—real.
I leave my hand right where it is and stare out the window into the starlight.
18
VERY EARLY FRIDAY MORNING
(One day before the wedding)
IT’S AN HOUR ORso into our drive toward Albuquerque—making good time but still not caught up to the little floaty blue tracker pin—when I force Finn to pull over at a rest stop so I can use the bathroom. I return to find him leaning against the side of the car, looking exhausted. He never did have more than two sips of the coffee I got him.
“Let me drive the rest of the way,” I say. “I at least got a nap earlier.” He smirks at me, and I instantly regret reminding him—not that he’s aware of the lurid contents of my nap-time dream… I hope.
“Um, not a chance. The terms of the bet were that you only get to drive this thing if we were leaving Vegas with Sybil in tow. And that is very clearly far from the case. In fact, I’m pretty sure you owe me one official compliment. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a few minutes.”
“That bet was made prior to the knowledge that Sybil would have crossed state lines again, and should thus be rendered moot. Besides, I’d like to avoid ending up in a ditch, and I can tell you need the shut-eye. Meanwhile, I’m buzzed,” I say, holding up a Diet Coke I grabbed from the station on the way out.
A smile quirks at his lips. “Fine. You win, not because of the merits of your argument but because I forfeit with a plea of sleepless insanity.” Pulling the keys from his pocket, he spins them once, and grabs my hand. “I can trust you, Emma, can’t I?”
“Of course.” The keys jingle quietly as he sets them in my palm. Both of his hands cup mine, and my body sways toward his as if drawn by an invisible force. He lets go and heads around to the other side of the car.
I grip the keys tightly enough to feel the teeth bite into the heel of my palm. “Just keep it between the lines,” Finn says, sliding into the passenger seat, and I exhale. Finn can trust me. But can I trust myself? We haven’t spoken about or even directly acknowledged our elevator make-out. The sudden twist of Sybil now heading east has captured our focus, putting a pause on the attraction that had begun bubbling over between us. But it’s like a pot of water warming on the stove—I may have put a lid on it and turned the heat down to a simmer,but I know it’s only a matter of time before we reach the boiling point again.
At least for now, though, there’s a quiet calm between us. Within five minutes back on the road, Finn slumps against the window and drifts off to sleep.
Moving from gear to gear, I remember how much I miss driving. There’s no need for it in New York, and I’ve never driven anything as smooth as this Singer. The gear shifting is even more precise than a regular Porsche, the throttle is incredibly responsive, and the steering is almost intuitive. It’s the kind of car my dad always lusted after but could never afford.
