Page 45 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

“No,” I muttered. He’d never said anything before about my aversion to crossing his threshold.

“Dad, we’re loaded,” Max yelled.

Finn sighed and locked his eyes with mine. “We’ll talk later.”

By then, I’d better have a grip on my emotions. What Finn and I needed was an adult conversation, and with the way my heart was racing and my temper spiking, there was no way anything rational would come out of my mouth.

I retreated inside and spent thirty minutes tidying up. Every time I walked by a window, I’d steal a glance outside.

The kids were smiling. Finn was too. His was wide and bright, full of pride and encouragement as he taught the kids.

Those smiles weakened me. His put my temper on ice.

Finn caught me watching from a window and grinned. It was the same grin he’d flashed me on our first date, the one that was carefree and confident and so irritatingly forgivable.

That grin was the reason I walked over to the kitchen counter to dig my phone out of my purse.

And ordered pizza—enough for four.

“They’re out.” I joined Finn on the living room couch, making sure to leave plenty of room between us.

“Thanks for letting me stay for dinner and to hang out with the kids.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for all the work you did in the yard.”

He leaned forward on the couch, his forearms braced on his thighs. He’d worn jeans tonight, an old pair frayed at the hems. They’d gotten thin from so many washings and were threadbare at the knees. He’d taken off his shoes, lounging in the living room with bare feet like he lived here.

“I think you should go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You can’t stay.”

“Why?”

I gaped at him. “Because we’re divorced.”

“Me staying doesn’t change that fact.”

“Then because it’s foolish.” Ever since Randall had said that word, it had been stuck in my head.

“Probably.” Finn chuckled and stood from the couch. Then he held out his hand.

I shied away, sinking deeper into the couch.

He laughed again, then bent and swiped my hand off my lap so fast, I didn’t even have time to blink before he’d hauled me off the couch.

“Finn.” I tugged my hand, trying to get free, but he held it tight as he pulled me down the hall and to my bedroom.

When we were both inside, he let me go and closed the door.

I went to the end of the bed and sat. “This is not why I invited you to stay for dinner.”

“I know that.” He sat by my side. “And I’ll go in a few minutes. But we need to talk about the letters.”

“I don’t want to talk about the letters.”

“Why not?”