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“Look,” he commands. “It’s not nearly as high as you think it is.” He points at the void beneath his feet. His inebriating cologne fills my nostrils as I inch closer to him to peek over his shoulder.
A wave of nausea immediately washes over me. I don’t know what the hell he’s on, but we have very different definitions of “not that high.”
“You do realize I’m not leaving until you get off that window?”
He flashes a lazy smirk.
“Then pull up a chair because you’re not going to bed anytime soon.”
With that said, he motions to the leather sofa by one of the tall bookcases in the library. The taste of defeat fresh on my tongue, I make my way over to the sofa and plop down onto the cushion.
I don’t know how he can just sit there in a T-shirt, with the night breeze blowing all over him. I’m wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeve Duke University sweater I stole from my brother, and I’m freezing.
A thousand questions flood my mind when I see him tip back the bottle of booze he placed on the window frame.
“Are you drunk?” I ask.
“No.”
“Are you stupid?”
He laughs. “Probably.”
Silence descends over us.
“I wanted to apologize.” His deep voice cuts through the air.
Did I hear that right?
My gaze lifts to him, but he’s not looking at me, his focus drilled into the night.
“Can you say that again? I didn’t record it,” I tease.
“I wanted to apologize.” He deadpans and looks at me. “Did you get it?”
A laugh climbs up my throat, but I keep quiet out of self-respect. I shouldn’t be laughing at his jokes. I haven’t forgotten what he did to me after I gave him the bracelet.
“I shouldn’t have lost my shit two days ago. I’m sorry.” He breathes out.
“By all means, keep going,” I prompt.
He bites back a smile. “Afraid that’s all you get.”
I know we’re joking, but in that moment, I almost wish I had recorded him. No one will ever believe Finn Richards apologized to me, the house sitter he’s been trying to get rid of since day one.
“I’m sorry, too,” I confess. “My birth mother died when I was a baby and I only have one thing left of hers. If someone touched it, I’d lose my mind…”
I watch as he flings his legs inside.
He leans back against the window frame, one of his arms braced on his knee and his right leg huddled up to his chest while the other hangs down on his side.
Fuck, he’s gorgeous.
With the moonlight hitting the right side of his face, outlining his tattooed biceps and flawless features. His dark brown hair is an eternal mess, strands cascading down in front of his eyes.
“What is it?” he asks. “The thing you have of your mom’s?”
“An old Radiohead T-shirt with the lyrics of “Creep” on it.”
