Page 72 of Hard to Love

“I was afraid to ask earlier but now I can’t stop wondering.”

“Ask what?”

“About her.” He raises his eyebrows at my comment. “I deleted all social media off my phone so that I don’t get distracted from training. After my interview last week, has she done more press? Has she gotten more attention? Is she still out there?”

Finn reaches out and puts a hand on my hip. “She tried to the first day or two after, but your interview pretty much put water on her fire. The only people willing to give her the time of day are the same magazines who have cover stories about how an alien impregnated a seven-foot-tall woman so . . . yeah, everything pretty much lost steam after your interview.”

“At least I did something right,” I murmur as I pick at the edges of my nail polish.

“Hey?” he asks, his hand shaking my hip. “What else is going on?”

I twist my lips as guilt eats at me. “I thought I was going to regret saying some of the things I said in the interview. That I was going to regret my decision to not talk to her, but other than hoping I’m nothing like her, I haven’t questioned it at all.”

“Then you made the right decision.”

I stand there hearing his words and know he understands better than anyone. “Sorry. I’ll let you get back to work. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m so tired, I can’t even see straight,” he says and laughs before he does something completely unexpected when he rolls his chair over in front of me and rests his forehead against my stomach. His sigh is heavy, and for the first time, I realize just how much Finn has given up or put aside by bringing me here.

He has a full client list to tend to—some he probably needs to visit in person—and yet he’s here, tending to me. Making sure no one finds out my whereabouts. Giving me the space and time to live my life without the cameras in my face—something I asked for when he first brought me here.

“You need an assistant,” I say.

“I have an assistant. And an intern and a secretary . . . I have a whole office full of people in Manhattan but it’s me who people want to deal with so that makes it hard to not answer the calls.”

Guilt eats at me for taking him away from that—his life, his work, his routine—and yet I can’t imagine being here without him.

“I understand that. And it makes you who you are.” I run my fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp to try and help him relax.

He grunts in response.

“What’s your real name?” I ask out of the blue.

“Huh?”

“Is Finn short for something?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s one of those dorky two-in-the-morning questions that float through my mind.”

“Finnegan Alexander Sanderson.”

“That suits you.” And I’m not sure why I care to know, but I repeat it in my head, over and over, almost as if it’s something I might forget when our time here is done.

He shrugs, and I chuckle when something tucked in the corner of his desk plotter catches my eye.

Have a one-night stand.

“How did you get that?” I ask, completely stunned that he has it.

“Get what?” Finn asks lifting his head.

“My Cards O’ Fun card.”

“It was on the hallway floor. It must have dropped out of your suitcase when you were getting your stuff,” he says resting his forehead back against me. “I thought it was funny so I kept it.”

“Funny?”