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Chapter 23
Finley was sitting on the top step of his porch when I drove up. Cinnamon lifted her head, determined it was me, and went back to sleep at his side.
I climbed out of the Jeep feeling grubby and windblown. It appeared as if Finley had showered recently. His dark hair was still damp, and he smelled like the shower gel I had found in my bathroom.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked.
The words were not at all accusatory, but some odd note in his voice brought my defenses up. “It was lovely,” I said. “I did the usual touristy things and took several hundred pictures. I’m beat.” I hesitated, not quite meeting his gaze. “I think I’ll shower and have an early night.”
I thought I could slip past him up the steps and disappear into the house. At the last second, he grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand to his mouth. When he kissed the center of my palm, my heart stumbled.
Finley tugged on my arm until I plopped down beside him. He linked our fingers and rested our two hands on his knee. “I missed you today,” he muttered.
“I thought you had lots of work to catch up on.”
“I did. I do. I still had time to think about you. And the cottage.”
I turned my head to find him smiling at me with such heat and determination that it was a very good thing I was sitting down.
“That’s nice,” I said.
He laughed. “Ah, Duchess. I wonder what you were like as a kid. Were you always so polite?”
“Probably,” I muttered. “I knew about soup spoons and hors d’oeuvre forks before I was out of elementary school. My parents put a lot of stock in good manners. They never said no to much of anything as long as I toed the line.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure for a young girl.”
I shrugged. “I’ve learned how to cut loose over the years. After all, I slept with you, didn’t I?”
This time I looked out into the darkness, unable to watch his response to my brave taunt. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t let go of my hand, but he didn’t say anything.
At last, he sighed. “I hope that’s not exactly correct.”
“What do you mean?”
“You used the past tense. If I have my way, it’s more correct to say you’re sleeping with me. See the difference? Or have you decided once is enough?”
Once would never be enough. Not once or twice or a hundred times. I couldn’t tell him that. “I don’t think it’s entirely up to me.” I picked at a small twig that had clung to the hem of my pants. “How am I supposed to know what you want?”
“I want you,” he said, the words gruff.
A shiver snaked down my spine. “Okay, then. We’re on the same page.” My hand was sweaty in his. “I really would like that shower.”
“As long as you don’t change your mind.”
“I won’t. I’m serious. But first I want to see your workshop.”
* * * *
I showered and put on clean clothes and undies. It would have made more sense to get ready for bed. I didn’t want to parade around Finley’s workshop that way. Instead, I put on my oldest pair of well-washed jeans and a soft baby blue cashmere sweater I’d had since I was in college. The top was a little snug in the boobs now. I still loved it.
The evening was warm enough that I felt okay in bare feet. I knew Finley’s workshop had an outer door. I also knew he accessed it from inside the house most of the time, so I didn’t think I’d be stepping on rocks and sticks to get there.
We met in the kitchen. He took one look at me and got a funny look on his face. “What?” I asked, frowning.
“You remind me of a calendar pin-up girl from the 1940s…the kind men used to hang pictures of in their lockers and fantasize about when the bombs were falling and they were scared to death.”
“Those women would be called chunky by today’s standards,” I reminded him, not entirely happy with the comparison.
