“Is that not burning your hands?”
He answers me with his eyes still closed. “Nah.”
“Right.”
I’m about to grab myself a glass of water when something catches my eye on my coffee table. An extra mug of tea and a glass of water sit side by side on coasters.
Something flutters in my stomach and I mentally swat it away. I’m not sure what to think of this. It’s oddly sweet for Finn. Well, when it comes to me it is anyway. With me, Finley doesn’t do nice, he does competitive. Who can offer the harshest insult? Who can make the best cup of tea? One time, who could bring their hand closest to the flame of a lit candle. Really don’t recommend that one. I still have the scar in the palm of my hand.
But making cups of tea for me without me having to ask? That’s the kind of stuff he does for his family, for his friends. Finley and I aren’t friends.
“Why did you do this?” I ask him.
He lifts his head, sees me pointing at the drinks on the table, and takes a sip of his tea. “Were you not going to make yourself one the minute you were ready to go?”
“No.” Yes.
“Sure thing.” He takes a sip. “Sit and drink.”
I stay standing.
He watches me and his stubborn look intensifies. Finley Southwick doesn’t tell me what to do. Ever.
“Oakleigh.”
“What?”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Seriously? We’re at this point now?”
“We’ve always been at this point.”
He sets his tea down on the table and holds his head in his hands.
“Please sit down, Oakleigh,” he begs, his voice muffled by his hands. “I need to talk to you.”
Anxiety spikes within me. Maybe my slip-up earlier is coming back to bite me in the ass? What if he thinks that an unintentional reminder of that night serves as an invitation to have the talk I’m so glad we avoided? I don’t want to talk about it. Not when we can just do exactly what we’ve been doing and play ignorant.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Finn.” I sigh as I pick up the glass of water and take a sip.
He sits up. “Talk about what exactly?”
“That night.” I agitate the fibers of my blue rug with my toes. “I know I brought it up earlier, but that doesn’t mean that I want to talk about it.”
A frown mars the smooth skin beneath his eyebrows and around his eyes. The corner of his lips contort until he’s grimacing at me. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
Oh. Well, now I just feel like an idiot.
“Right.”
Awkwardly, I sit on the very edge of the couch, as far from him as I can possibly get. I pick up the tea and take a sip. The warmth of it slides down my throat and warms me up from the inside. Not that I necessarily need warming up. It’s a hundred degrees outside.
We sit in silence as he watches his mug, the cogs in his head whirring so loud it’s almost as if I can hear them.
“Well?”
