Page 73 of Hard to Love

“Yeah, it’s how we first met, isn’t it?” he asks rhetorically. “You took the dare. You met me. And here we are.” He shrugs. “You’re not mad, are you?”

Because he can’t see me, he misses the cheesy grin on my face. “No. Not at all.”

And even minutes later when I snuggle in on the couch in his office, the click of his fingers on his keyboard as he keeps working lulling me to sleep, that cheesy grin is still there, still plastered on my lips.

What does it mean if you find a guy who keeps a sentimental token of what might be called your disastrous first date? Some might say a keeper, but this is Finn. Finnegan Alexander Sanderson. And something tells me that Finn isn’t a man who wants to be kept.

FINN

SEX IS A WEIRD THING.

It’s awesome obviously, but it’s also weird.

Like when you’re seeing someone, you have sex, and then have a valid excuse to leave. Like your own house. Your own life. It allows you to get a break from the person. You don’t answer the phone if you don’t want to talk. You don’t respond to texts if you’re afraid that you’re going to get sick of them too soon.

It connects you but then can also drive you apart. Sometimes you use it to do that on purpose.

Or at least I have.

So how are you supposed to handle the person when you’re living with them?

Even more so, what if that person is living with you, having sex with you, spending more time with you than you’ve ever spent with someone before, and you still aren’t sick of them? What the fuck does that mean?

That’s been my train of thought as I take a long jog on the beach to clear my head.

My conclusion?

Does it fucking matter? I’ve slept with her to try and get over her.

That clearly didn’t work.

Now I’m sleeping with her knowing she’ll leave for the Open and then that will be that. Fling over. Time well spent. Mind-blowing sex had.

Stop fucking overthinking everything and just go with it.

So why am I picking up my pace to make sure I’m back at the house for when she gets home?

I jog down the street and purposely pretend to look at my watch as I move past Kristen’s house, ignoring her just like I’ve ignored the numerous texts she’s sent over the past few weeks.

I’m sure she’s more than curious who the woman was in my house. I’m even more certain the SUV with the dark, tinted windows, which pulls out from behind my gate every morning and arrives back every evening with Stevie inside, has Kristen even more desperate to understand why I’m ignoring her.

By the same token, I’ve let numerous clients use my house over the years so the neighbors should be used to the blacked-out windows and secrecy.

The only difference is I’ve been here the whole time too.

I punch in the gate code, my phone already in hand as I begin scrolling through the emails that have come in since I started my workout. One after another after another. Some bullshit. Some simply noise. Very few are pressing.

At least I’ll have the evening off, and then my mind goes to Stevie and what trouble we can get ourselves into.

Not a bad way to spend an evening.

And isn’t that funny? A few weeks ago, I’d consider a night alone with one woman, in my house no less, to be a sign of the apocalypse.

That’s not how I spend my nights. Typically, they involve my laptop, a glass of expensive whiskey, and maybe a game on TV. Other nights involve a woman, some time between her thighs, and then an excuse to leave.

But never this.

Never me looking forward to how I’m going to relax at home with a woman. In my house. Without being able to bail after having sex.