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“I get it. That’s why I have the AV tech job.” He hands the book back to me, and I shove it in my bag, thankful he didn’t find the sketch of himself and see how freaking weird I am. “My mom paints,” he continues. “She’s actually very good. Her stuff sometimes ends up in local art shows. I’m sure she’d love to see those.”
I chuckle and look away. Not wanting to linger on the fact that he just said I should show his sketches to his mother.
Like, meet his mom.
“That’s really cool.” I’m not sure how to respond. The late hour starts to weigh on me, making my bones feel tired, and I think about driving home–or falling asleep right here. The latter is probably the safer option.
When I turn, Finn’s gaze fixes on mine. There’s no smile on his face, only a strange heat in his eyes that makes my stomach dip and swirl, catching me off guard. I can’t look away.
Without thinking, my lips part, and Finn reaches up slowly, like he’s debating what he’s doing the entire time he’s doing it. A warm finger tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and my breath catches, our eyes still locked into whatever moment this is.
I should definitely go to bed. My moral compass is worse than it was at the wedding. I’m not thinking clearly, and I’m having all sorts of weird thoughts about what Lennon implied earlier.
Those long fingers remain tangled in the strands of my hair. The fingers that just played music–crafted something beautifulfrom nothing. With my heart pounding in my ears, I try to think clearly.
“I’m tired,” I announce, breaking some of whatever tension was stretching between us.
Finn clears his throat, pulling away and leaning back against the wall. There’s a soft smile on his lips, and if he feels awkward about what just happened, he doesn’t show it. “You can stay here if you want.” He shakes his head a little, running his fingers through his hair. He looks nervous–the only sign of what just happened. “In the guest bedroom,” he clarifies.
Simon stretches out on the carpet in front of us before laying down and rolling over to expose his belly.
“That would be nice.”
Finn gets out his phone, scrolling until he stops and reads something there. He types a quick message and pockets the device before speaking. “Do you want to get a tattoo tomorrow?”
“What?”
“It’s on the bucket list, and I know a guy.” He gestures to himself. “Clearly. I’m sure he could squeeze us in. We’re good friends.”
A smile splits my face, the idea sending a thrill through my blood. “That would be so fun.”
Finn stands up and offers me his hand.
I take it, standing and stretching to ward off some of my exhaustion. My eyelids start to feel heavy, and I begin to wonder if staying awake until four a.m. is the stuff of the past. I’m probably getting too old for this. “Are you sure you want to keep hanging out?” I ask, planting myself in front of him as he looks down at me. Something in his eyes tells me the answer before it even passes through his lips.
“Absolutely,” he says. “I kind of want to get a new tattoo, anyway. It’ll be fun.”
I chuckle then, toying with the fabric of his basketball shorts that I’m still wearing. “We just officially met like eleven hours ago, and we are going to get tattoos together?”
His smile widens, something flashing behind his hazel eyes. “Actually,” he says. “I have a better idea.”
“What?”
“We can still get you your tattoo, but I bet Ryan would let you use his gun.”
My brow furrows as I try to follow his train of thought. “What do you mean?” I ask.
Finn clears his throat again. “I saw your sketches, Ellis.” He runs his hand through his hair. A nervous tick, and I watch the tendons in his arms flex. “Why don’t you give me a tattoo?”
“Me?” I practically shriek the word, eyes wide as I try to figure out if he’s serious.
“Sure,” he says. “I already have plenty. What’s one more? It’ll be fun.”
I eye him suspiciously. “You’re not giving me my tattoo, are you?”
Finn chuckles and turns toward the door, opening it to reveal his bedroom beyond. I try not to focus on that detail too much–especially now that he knows I find him attractive, and I know that he’s thought about palming my ass.
“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’ll leave that to the professionals.”
