Page 99 of How To Plot a Payback

Lavender

I ordered them pizza.

I had to. I insisted.

They fought me on it, but I put my foot down.

And frankly, they were so busy rubbing salsa off their clothes and rushing to their respective flats to find new clothes, they didn’t fight me too much on it.

But honestly, to watch five women go down like that, bowls of coleslaw and casserole dishes flying in a mass of hysterics, well. I wouldn’t have believed it could be done.

After gathering up the last woman and helping her to her door, Finn puts his hands in his pockets and turns on his heel to face me. “So. We’re going to need a new plan to introduce you to Bill.”

So, with apparently much explanation and forewarning about my presence, Finn and I make our way to the center of the courtyard, where we meet a few more tenants and help set up the projector. Finn proves to be much more technologically inclined than they are, and I prove to be terribly good at gathering patio chairs, and so within thirty minutes, we are all seated beneath the dimming pale blue sky. The courtyard smells thickly of hairspray and perfume (as each woman has apparently decided to give herself a dozen fresh spritzes), pepperonis, and a hint of daffodils, Dutch hyacinths, and early tulips—all flowers that border the walkways. Lights are strung merrily across the projector, and the cerulean pool glints as it laps lightly against the Spanish tile.

In short, it is twice as lovely as Grizzby’s on the patio with its three-month waiting list, and frankly, I can think of no other place I’d rather be.

Mrs. Teaberry insists we sit in the two folding chairs provided—and moments later every chair in the place is occupied and huddled around us, as if we are the center of a sunflower and they are the petals surrounding us.

One might even say boxed in. It would be absolutely impossible to get out.

Which is all fine, as everyone passes down offers of pizza slices about every two minutes.

But the best part of the evening is when the show begins.

“You know, I never watch this,” I murmur quietly, leaning over to Finn as pictures of Kye clowning around on top of a dining room table flicker on-screen.

His head tilts towards mine, so close I feel the curly hair tickle my cheek. A tingle runs through my body as I smell a woodsy cologne rising from his popped collar. Which means he has dashed inside his flat and put some on somewhere between putting up the projector and laying out the lights.

For me?

“This season?” he whispers, his breath warming my cheek.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot two elderly women watching us. And the only words I can use to describe their expressions are maternal glee.

“Any of it,” I whisper back. “I’ve never seen the show before. I don’t like to watch myself.”

And to my surprise he laughs, then turns to look me directly in the eye.

It’s the closest our faces have ever been. So close I can see little bright blue flecks in his tame green eyes. Light is dancing in them as he says, “You know, before I joined Neighbors, I didn’t either.”

“Shhhhh.”

We’ve been shushed. Actually shushed, by Mrs. Teaberry, who is watching the show—which is currently on a rather close-up view of my face—like she’s never seen these people before. Absolutely enraptured.

Finn grins and starts to say something else, but Mrs. Teaberry swats his arm.

His grin deepens and he lets thirty seconds go by before leaning over again, so close his nose pushes back my hair. “Better listen to her; otherwise we’ll end up having to listen to a play-by-play of all we’ve missed.”

I chuckle quietly, tilting my head to face him. “Of the show you’re writing and I’m in?”

“That’s the one,” he says, and settles in with his plate of pizza.

And that is when, over the course of the next half hour, I realize I’ve fallen for him. Really fallen.

Because there Finn sits as the show goes on, and with every single chuckle-moment, the group gives him a hearty roar followed by a dozen hearty slaps on the back. Questions bubble up at nearly every funny jab with, “I’d bet my marbles that’s a Finn joke,” and “That’s my boy!” With every romantic turn of events, the ladies grab their literal pearls or clutch at their hearts. You’d think he was Shakespeare. You’d think this supportive crowd was watching their son take gold in the Olympics.

And with every single pat and elbow jab and quiet or loud cheer, he gives a modest little smile and says a few modest little words.