“Alright, alright!”
Finn takes a deep breath and I get him some water. He chugs it down in three large gulps, and my mind becomes distracted, focusing on the way Finn’s neck moves and tenses as he swallows. I’m not sure why it’s something I’m finding mildly attractive right now, but it’s extremely inconvenient.
“Okay,” I say with a rough shake of my head. “When is this thing?”
“We head off as soon as you’re ready.”
I lean onto the countertop so I can properly take in Finn and all of his goddamn audacity. “Are you kidding me? Finley, am I ever going to find out things before they happen, or are you just dead set on surprising me with every little thing until this month is up?”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise.” He bends to stroke Ollie’s jet-black coat.
I know Finn said he’s unable to keep switching between pretending to date and our usual argumentative nature, but this is…an adjustment. He comes up with so many surprises—picking me up from work, leaving me food and doing my laundry—that it’s beginning to come across as if I’m always there, in the forefront of his mind, and that has my stomach rolling in a way that I refuse to portray as butterflies.
Finn taking something that other men have belittled and shut down, and clearly showing that if it’s important to me then it’s important to him, doesn’t feel like something driven by our bet. It feels much more purposeful than that. I hide the blush on my cheeks with a glass of water, taking tiny sips to buy my skin time to return to its usual paleness.
“So, what do you say?” he asks when it’s been a few minutes of quiet. “You feel up to pretending in front of my mom for a bit?”
In truth? No. I hate lying to Wanda, but this is what I agreed to do. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure why I agreed, but I’ve made my bed and Finn has made his.
“Are you doing this because of the bet?” I ask, taking him by surprise.
“To be honest, Cherry, I’d forgotten all about the bet.”
He forgot about the bet. Heforgotabout the bet.
“Let me go and get ready.”
“But you already look gorgeous.”
Time for another glass of water. I duck my head as I pass him to go down the corridor into my bedroom.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I’m waiting by the door in one of my usual cherry-print crop tops, distressed shorts, and my one and only pair of cowboy boots. My fingers tap on my cross-body bag nervously as I try my best to review our “story” in my head. Finn walks out of the bathroom and sees me by the front door.
“You good?” he asks.
“As good as I’ll ever be.”
He stops to watch me, taking in my expression, my tense shoulders, concern clear on his face. I take a deep breath and try my best to rid some of the apprehension from my face. Judging by the way he looks at me, I’m guessing it hasn’t worked.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “I’m just nervous.”
He closes the distance between us, his hand finding my waist, the other my chin. “You are my saving angel, I hope you know that.”
“Never thought I’d witness the day where Finley Southwick calls me an ‘angel,’” I jest. A nervous chuckle follows, and Finn replicates the sound.
His smile is sad as he says, “If it were up to me, I’d be calling you a lot more.”
My eyebrows dip. “Just thank you, Cherry.” His thumb swipes across my lower lip. “My Cherry.”
Finn’s eyes dip toward my mouth and they linger, taking in every detail—the slight fullness, the shine of my cherry gloss. I watch the way he stares so intently, his mouth slightly open as his breathing becomes heavier. He leans in closer, but the action looks involuntary, his attention entirely on me. I pull in a breath and hold it. I should move, I should put some distance between us and make it clear that this is solely a fake relationship, but for some reason my feet refuse to comply, and my stomach protests at the mere thought of doing so.
“Finn.” I’m breathless, his name no louder than a whisper, but I think it’s enough to break the tension for him. He frowns at my mouth, almost like the name I just said isn’t his. His eyes close and he rests his forehead against mine for a mere minute before pulling away. By the time I’m feeling grounded enough to open my own eyes, his usual smile has returned, his hands firmly at his side.
“We should go; we wouldn’t want to be late.” He sounds distant, but also as if he’s trying his best to put some kindness into his tone.
He reaches around me to open my front door before stepping away, and even though the summer sun immediately pushes its way into my house and coats my back in its warmth, the lack of closeness between us makes me feel cold.
