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F O R T Y S I X
- Finn -
We were in a heap on the couch, our clothes strewn about like driftwood across the floor.
“You’re the best Valentine I ever had,” Maeve said, her head resting on my chest as her fingers traced swirls on my arm.
God, she’d felt good wrapped around me, her long legs draped over my back as I buried myself inside her. It occurred to me that she was the best sex of my life, but I cast the thought away. Told myself I was being dramatic.
“That was a clever ruse,” she said, her voice a dreamy sigh. “I really thought I wasn’t going to see you till later.”
It wasn’t really a ruse, I thought. I just missed you. Couldn’t wait to see you. “We can still go to the bar if you want,” I said, knowing the chances of us leaving her place that night were slim to none.
She raised her face. “You’re kidding, right? I still can’t feel my legs, much less climb up on a stool.”
“Is that why you haven’t sniffed out your present?” My eyes fell along the soft tendrils of her deep brown hair. I loved how it framed her face, how different she looked and acted when she let it down. It was impossible to guess what the future held for us—if we even had one—but I hoped she would always think of me fondly. I would certainly always think of her…
“What present?” she asked, scrunching her brow.
I lifted my chin towards the Victoria’s Secret bag by the door, and she followed my line of sight.
“Totally forgot you didn’t arrive empty handed,” she said, turning back to me. “What is it?”
“A lingerie set and a bottle of Welch’s sparkling grape juice.”
Her shapely lips dragged to one side. “That’s so sweet.”
“I know. But to be clear, the panties are from Otis.”
Her laugh rattled my chest. “He does owe me.” She glanced at the bag and then back at me again. “Thank you.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. At the end of the day, it’s really a present for me.”
Her eyes sprang into little crescents. “Not the grape juice.”
“True,” I said, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear and feeling a tightness in my chest at the thought of sharing my big news.
“What?” she asked, sensing there was something on my mind.
“I did a thing today.”
Her brows piqued. “Oh?”
“I went to the School of the Art Institute and talked to a member of their admissions department.”
“Really?” she asked, her smile brightening.
I nodded, my head sinking into the pillow behind me. “I was hoping you might help me choose what to include in my portfolio?”
“Of course.”
“There’s no guarantee I’ll get accepted, but—”
“You totally will.”
“It’s not that simple,” I explained. “They need test scores, too, which I don’t have.”
“That’s an easy fix,” she said, as if she was oblivious to how hard it was for me to admit that. “I know someone who found an awesome tutor for their idiot kid. Not that you’re an idiot. But if she could help this kid pass, she could help anyone.”
