“It’s less that and more the gap in your robe.”
My eyes jump down to my robe, which is indeed half open, one of my breasts almost fully exposed to the world.
“Fuck!” I spin around and close my robe back hastily.
When I turn back to face him, my hand anxiously trying to smooth my hair, he’s welcomed himself inside. He closes the door behind him and looks around.
He’s never been inside, I don’t think. I lived elsewhere the last time I held a house party of any kind and even then, I’m pretty sure he only came one time and left pretty early on.
When he sees that my robe is fixed, his eyes lazily trail down the length of me once before he turns toward the open-plan kitchen that immediately follows my front door. The kitchen stands on the left, while my living room sits on the right.
He turns to inspect the living room and nods. “Nice place.”
I eye him suspiciously. “What do you want, Finley?”
He shrugs but says nothing.
“Usually, when someone asks you a question, you answer it.”
“Usually, when someone sends you a message, you answer it.”
“A messa—” I pat myself down, but my pockets are empty. “My phone is in my room, and I was this thing called asleep.”
“I messaged you to tell you that I’m picking you up.”
“Why?” I follow him into the kitchen. He turns on the kettle and begins opening random cupboards until he finds my various glasses and mugs. For the first time in my life, I find myself embarrassed by the number of coffee cups with some kind of cherry pattern on them. God knows, he doesn’t need any more reason to use that stupid nickname.
“Because I promised my mother I would.”
He picks one with an alternating cherry-and-mistletoe pattern, smirking as he places it onto the countertop.
“I’ll ask again. Why?”
He shrugs again. “Because I’m a nice person.”
I snort. “Try again.”
He sends me a look. “You don’t think I’m a nice person?”
“I think you’re an asshole. I thought we’d established that ages ago.”
His movements falter: his hand pausing for the briefest moment before it continues reaching for the kettle.
I regret it immediately. I’ve done such a good job of pretending that night didn’t happen. I always thought that Finn and I would at least talk about it before deciding that it was a one-time thing, but the next time I saw him, he was more than happy to move past it without a single conversation, and so I was, too.
But it’s stuck between us, a lump in the throat that we ignore, even though it clogs my airway often enough.
Did it mean anything? No. But did it shake me to my very core? More than I want to admit. It’s just a shame it had to be with someone who makes my blood boil. Clearing my throat, I change the subject.
“Who invited you to help yourself in my kitchen?”
He shrugs.
With a shake of my head and a roll of my eyes, I head into my bedroom to get ready. The entire time, I’m oddly aware of his presence. Every clink of a spoon, every cupboard that opens and closes. I’m overly aware of his presence and I hate it.
I waste no time putting on a pair of shorts and a crop top. I run a brush through my hair and brighten my face with some blush and mascara. It’s supposed to be hot as shit today, so I’m trading in the usual sneakers for some gladiator sandals because ain’t no way I’m putting socks on my feet.
When I return to the living room, Finn is leaning back on my couch, head tilted back, eyes closed, his hands clasping onto a steaming cup of what looks like chamomile tea.
