Maybe because you’re using her.
Bottom line: Finley doesn’t deserve to be a pawn in my messed-up need to keep my distance from my family.
Once we’re in the lobby, Roland shoulder checks me. “I’ve got the line set, King. It’s up to you to reel her in.” He winks. “And if you play your cards right, you’ll get laid out of the deal.”
I shoot him a dark look, but he doesn’t notice, likely because he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. He’s already headed for the elevator bank.
If Finley actually agrees to Hollybrook, there will be no sex. Convincing her to come is bad enough. Sleeping with her would be diabolical.
But I’m already burying my self-disgust and convincing myself that this can work. If I’m going to spend eleven days with my family, I should be able to do so without emergency trips to the chiropractor. My family will love Finley, and she’ll love them. It’ll be nothing but sunshine and candy canes.
If she agrees.
Like any good salesman, I just need to figure out what Finley wants.
A shadow crosses over my heart as I realize: convincing her makes me a stone-cold asshole.
And yet… I’m going to do it anyway.
Chapter Three
Finley
I cast a nervous glance to the clock over the Beans to Go exit. It’s the same time it was twenty seconds ago—1:28.
This is beyond ridiculous. Roland was clearly joking. I’ve known since day one he’s a smooth talker who could convince a rooster to lay an egg.
But Alex… he’s harder to figure out.
He’s quiet, but friendly. Then, several months after he started coming in, he suddenly seemed down. I had no idea why, and I didn’t ask. I could see he was hurting, so I did what I always do—I tried to cheer him up. I tried to brighten his day. Only with Alex, it felt different. It took me about a month to figure out why, and when I did, I could have kicked myself. I had a crush on Alex King—the stupidest thing in the world.
Guys like Alex King don’t date baristas.
I saw one of his girlfriends a year ago. She wore three-inch, red-bottom heels with a pencil skirt, silky blouse, and bright red lipstick. Her long, blond hair was perfectly styled, and she carried a handbag worth more than a semester of my community college tuition. She’d asked Maggie to validate the parking on her Lexus, then pouted when Maggie said no. Alex hadn’t been with her, but she claimed to be his girlfriend and asked if the “savant” who remembered everyone’s orders could make his along with hers.
Maybe I should’ve been flattered she called me a savant, but the disdain in her tone made it sound like she meant Forrest Gump.
“That’s me,” I’d said.
“Oh.” She’d looked me up and down, made a face of pure disapproval, then promptly ignored me.
I’d made their drinks, and she hadn’t even said thank you. Instead, she complained about a stain on one of the cups and demanded I remake the drink—not pour it into a fresh cup.
After that, I had a hard time talking to Alex. But then I realized I wasn’t being fair. The righteous me would like to think the people we date reflect who we are—but almost every guy I’ve dated turned out to be a jerk. Does that make me a jerk? Or just someone who attracts them? Eventually I figured out who they really were and kicked them to the curb. Should I have been judged before I figured it out? I’d like to think Alex didn’t know the real her, just like I hadn’t known the real them.
But meeting his girlfriend made it very clear the type of women Alex dates—and just as clear that I don’t fit that mold; I’m Finley O’Brien, barely scraping toward a community college degree after five years of night and online classes. I drive a twelve-year-old car and buy purses at Target when I’m splurging—Goodwill when I’m not. I live in low-income senior housing, with furniture scavenged from thrift stores and street curbs. I work two jobs and live on coffee and protein bars. And I’m not ashamed of any of it. Quite the opposite—I’m damned proud of myself.
But I’m also not delusional enough to believe in Cinderella stories. I’m firmly grounded in reality. When you’ve lived my life, you don’t get a lot of choices in life.
Which is why I’m confused.
I’m not exactly sure what Alex actually wants. Roland said he needs a girlfriend to go home with him for Christmas—so he doesn’t have to sleep on a sofa bed—which makes no sense.
I’ve spent the past two hours replaying every word, and I’ve decided it was a joke. Alex isn’t going to show up. And even if he does, I’d be stupid to listen.
But then again, I’d be stupider not to.
Maggie watches me, hands on her hips. “He’ll be here.”
