Page 76 of Hard to Love

“Mm-hmm.” She stares at me through the screen and I all but squirm in my seat. “Tell me, after you two get down to it, where do you sleep?”

“What do you mean, where do we sleep?”

“I mean, are you falling asleep in his bed or are you in your bed or . . . where?”

I laugh nervously. “We don’t really make it to either bed. We kind of have a habit of having sex in different places.”

“Different places?” she asks because now I definitely have her attention.

“The couch. Outside on the deck. The floor. The shower. You know, places.”

I’ve got to note all these important firsts . . .

And oh, how we’ve noted them. This time I don’t fight the grin but just stare right back at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Humph. Then maybe you’re right. Maybe this is just a thing between you. A man will only let you fall asleep in his bed if shit’s getting serious.”

“Thank you, oh wise relationship counselor,” I say with every ounce of sarcasm I have.

“At your service.” She mock bows. “But seriously, he’s treating you right? Because there was a while there where I wasn’t sure if he was a bastard or—”

“He’ll tell you himself he’s a bastard,” I murmur, “but it’s all a lie. He’s really a great guy.”

The thought echoes through my head long after Vivi ends our video chat. Her words, her questions, ride shotgun right beside it and I wonder if it’s something we should address—how this ends.

I’m pretty sure I’m scared to ask because I already know the answer.

This is sex. This is just sex.

It’s become the words we utter every single time we have it. Kind of like our mantra so we each understand what this is, so that neither of us thinks otherwise.

But I wonder if I say it and he repeats it because it’s what he wants or because he thinks it’s what I want.

I wonder what would happen if it wasn’t said at all.

With my glass of wine in hand, I stroll through the darkened house. A few lights are on in the kitchen and the breeze floating through the family room tells me the windows are open, and that’s where I’ll find Finn.

He makes a striking figure where he stands at the railing. There is tension in his shoulders, and I wonder what athlete or organization is causing troubles today.

“Want to talk about it?” I ask as I walk up beside him.

“Is it that noticeable?”

“You always come out here, stand at the railing, and stare at the ocean when you’re stressed about something.”

“Huh,” he says. “I didn’t realize I was that predictable.”

“I wonder what it is you do when you’re in Manhattan when you’re stressed.”

“I sit with a whiskey in a chair and look at the city moving nonstop below.”

And I can picture it. His empty condo behind him decorated in dark hues much like this house is. Finn sunk down into a stuffed leather couch with his head leaning back, his shirt unbuttoned some, and a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers.

I suddenly feel a pang of longing to see that in person, but I shake it away as soon as I realize what it is.

“So what did your client do this time?”

“It’s what I can’t do for him. I can’t make him better than he is. I can’t make him want to be better. I can’t wipe his attitude away so that teams want him. I can’t control the uncontrollable while he can and yet, he just thinks I’m trying to tell him what to do and disrespect him.” He blows out a long breath.