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- Finn -
“So what type am I?” she asked, her brown eyes narrowing on me.
“I’m sure I don’t know you well enough to say.”
“And you? Are you the classic love ’em and leave ’em musician type?”
I let my head fall to one side and gave her my most dashing smile. “I’m whatever type you want me to be, baby.”
She groaned. “I walked right into that.”
I liked her. She was funny. Extremely Type A, but maybe she’d relax a bit if she let her hair down. I hadn’t seen a ponytail that tight since Becca Marsh gave me my first blowjob. Maybe that’s why I found this woman so intriguing. Maybe it had nothing to do with the way she drank Scotch or the way her sassy eyes sparkled like she was the smartest person in the room.
“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before,” she said, turning her crossed legs towards me.
“I get that a lot,” I shook my beer in the air so Brian would know I was ready for round two. Or three, if you count the one I had during the show.
“I’m obviously mistaken because you don’t recognize me.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Her brows rose to attention.
“I think we may have met once upon a dream.”
Her curious expression soured. “I appreciate you making an effort to flirt with me since I just got dumped, but you really needn’t bother.”
“It’s no trouble,” I said, nodding at Brian as he set a fresh beer down in front of me. “On the contrary, it’s my pleasure. When you’re a gifted musician like myself—your words, not mine—it gets tedious batting off the excessive female attention.”
“Wow.”
“So it’s a thrill to converse with someone who’s more of a challenge.” I turned towards her, leaning one arm on the bar. “Trouble is, I can’t decide if you’re as genuinely uninterested in me as you pretend or if you’re just playing hard to get.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
“Everyone’s playing something.”
She blinked at me. “I should be going.”
“If you say so.”
She swallowed.
"I’d never suggest you’re not capable of making that decision on your own.”
“You’re making me regret telling you that.”
“I hope not,” I said, fixing my eyes on hers. “I don’t regret a second I’ve spent talking to you.”
“Look—”
“Finn,” I said, filling in the blank.
“Right. Finn.”
“You don’t have to mull it over like that. It’s not Chinese.”
