Page 71 of Hard to Love

“I think we’re tied.” She holds her glass out to mine and I tap mine against it. “Cheers.”

“What are we toasting to?” I ask.

“To tonight.” She stands abruptly as the music changes from traditional mariachi to a slow, sultry Santana song. “Dance with me, Finn.”

She moves around the patio, closing her eyes and swinging her hips to the beat as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

I can’t take my eyes off her. I wouldn’t want to if I could.

It was so much easier having a damaged Stevie than the one dancing hypnotically in front of me. Damaged had me stepping back and putting the brakes on any and all lust. Damaged put me in check so I didn’t want her more. So I wouldn’t hurt her further.

Then she figured her shit out. She did it on her own and it made her all the more attractive because of it.

And now she’s standing there, her fingers waving to me to come to her, and I’m fucking useless at resisting.

“C’mon, Finn. Let loose with me.”

“I’m not good at dancing,” I warn, but my feet move toward her.

“I’m not good at a lot of things, but I do them anyway.”

The music continues and then she’s in my arms. Her body sways against mine. Her lips meet mine.

And tonight, everything just feels that easy.

The thought is almost comical after you consider the first week that we met, but it is.

The conversation.

The comfortable silence.

The wanting—her—every minute of every goddamn day.

STEVIE

I WATCH FINN FROM THE doorway of his office.

God knows what time it is, but the buzz of my margarita and the high from the sex we had when we got home has faded with the early morning hour.

He looks just as tired as I feel as he sits behind his desk in nothing but a pair of board shorts and some seriously mussed-up hair.

Yet he works, and I silently watch.

The man tugs on things inside of me. Wires. Strings. Last nerves. But I’ve laughed more than I can remember as of late. I’ve wanted to feel instead of wanting to feel numb.

I’m proud of you.

Those four words have rung in my ears far longer than they should and yet, they meant more to me than he ever could have known.

“Hey, what are you doing up?” he asks, startling when he sees me standing there before turning his chair to face me.

“Can’t sleep.”

“Are you telling me I didn’t do my job properly?” His sleep-drugged smile flips my stomach over.

I step into the room. “No complaints here.” He definitely tired me out in the physical sense, but my mind won’t shut off.

“But something is bugging you.” Instead of answering, I move into the room and rest my hips on the desk beside where he sits. “What is it, Stevie?”