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Chapter 19
He charmed and disarmed me. I cocked my head. “Are we dating, Finley? Is that it?”
“Under the circumstances, I think ‘dating’ is the least of what we’re doing.”
“We could have a slumber party in front of the fire.”
I saw him go still. “Are you serious?”
“Why not? We’d have Cinnamon as a chaperone. And this room is so warm and cozy now, those two bedrooms are not at all appealing.”
His slow, lazy smile made my toes curl in my wooly socks. “I like a woman with a plan.”
“What if I go brush my teeth while you drag the mattresses in here? Then after that, the bathroom will be all yours.”
“Works for me.”
When I watched him leave the room, I exhaled a big whoosh of air. I was playing with fire, no doubt about it. Ruefully, I thought of all the beautiful nightwear I owned back in my condo in Atlanta. I loved feminine silks and satins and lace. For Scotland, though, I had chosen practical over pretty.
Oh, well.He’d already seen me now in my unexciting pj’s. At least I could brush my hair and add a spritz of scent at my wrists and anywhere else it might be discovered.
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. The glass was old and mottled, with a crack across the top left corner. “What are you doing McKenzie? Be smart about this.”
I often gave myself pep talks before important occasions. Seldom, though, did I have such an urgent need to throw caution to the wind.
Ten minutes was more than enough time to take care of my bedtime routine. I stayed an extra five, for no other reason than to see if I could stop shaking. It worked. Mostly.
When I returned to the other room, I gaped. Finley had made quick work of his assigned task. He’d situated both mattresses in front of the fire so that our feet would stay toasty warm. He had transferred all the sheets and blankets and tucked them neatly in place. The only thing that surprised me was the four-foot no-man’s-land between the two mattresses.
He gave me a terse nod and disappeared into the bathroom with his backpack.
I knew I didn’t have long to make a decision. Did I want to keep boundaries in place, or did I want to fool around with Finley?
In the end, I chickened out. I left the mattresses as they were.
When Finley reappeared, he grimaced. “I have to take the dog out. We’ll be quick.” He reached for his rain slicker, put it on, and pulled up the hood.
For once, Cinnamon was not visibly eager to explore the outdoors. She went with Finley, but they were back in no time, both of them soaked and miserable. Finley used the old blanket to dry the dog. Cinnamon reclaimed her spot on the hearth while Finley shook water droplets from his coat and put it back on the peg by the door.
At last, he approached the fireplace. I had claimed the mattress on the left. He removed his shoes, took off his belt, and crouched to slide under the covers.
I turned on my side to face him. “How long have you had her? The dog, I mean.”
Finley yawned and stretched. “A year and a half. She was six weeks old when I bought her.” He turned to face me. “Do you really want to talk about my dog?”
His blue eyes were shadowed. I had turned off all the lights, so our only illumination was from the fire. I studied his face, trying to decide what it was about him that drew me so strongly. He was an interesting contradiction: part artist, part entrepreneur. Unflinchingly masculine.
His sexual appeal was overt. I’d seen more than one woman at the dance last night giving him the eye. Though he was friendly and charming, he carried himself with reserve. I wondered if anyone in Portree knew the real Finley.
“Maybe you should ask me questions,” I said, conceding defeat. He would tell me only as much as he was willing to tell, no matter how many times I pressed him.
He mimicked my position, sprawling on his left side to face me. “I suppose this is old hat to you…slumber parties and all.”
“My first one,” I said simply.
“You’re kidding.” His eyebrows shot to his hairline.
“It was the whole ‘mingling with riffraff thing,’ remember? Slumber parties were far too bourgeois for my parents. They’d send me on supervised play dates at the Met in New York. Or enroll me in continuing ed classes at Emory in Atlanta. Free time was not a highly valued commodity in our household, especially not free time that involved playmates who weren’t ‘our kind of people.’”
