Page 54 of Protecting His Finch

“Archer?”

Her sleepy voice carries. She’s propped herself up on an elbow. Her hair is askew, sex-wild, and the side of her face is red and puffy from lying on it.

“Go back to sleep,” I tell her.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asks.

I come sit by the edge of the bed beside her. I cup the back of her head and press a small kiss to her forehead. “Do you want coffee?”

She nods, bleary.

“I’ll make you a pot.”

“You’re the best.”

She settles back against the pillow. She looks as bone-tired as I feel, and it only takes her seconds before her breathing has settled into that slow, steady rhythm again.

If I don’t leave now, I won’t.

I close the bedroom door quietly behind me.

I don’t need to bring anything. Where I’m going, I won’t be taking anything with me, anyway.

I go downstairs. I go to the door. I touch the handle, but the rest of me won’t budge.

I have to leave. This is the right time. But my feet are glued to the floor.

I keep imagining her waking up, alone, in bed. I imagine her waiting for a cup of coffee that will never come.

Who will make her coffee when I’m gone?

The thought is genuinely fucking debilitating.

I do the next best thing. I go to the machine. There’s a small Post-it note set up on the kitchen counter by the fridge, probably for adding grocery list items. I pick up the pen and write a small, succinct note for Finley.

I’m sorry.

That’s it. That’s all it says. But I mean it. I really, really do.

I attach the note to her mug, which I position on the machine. It’ll be ready for her when she wakes up and comes downstairs to claim it.

I can see her now, hair still sex-wild, eyes tired, walking downstairs with the throw blanket pulled around her shoulders. She’ll step into the kitchen, see coffee and the mug and the note, and she’ll know. She’ll know what I’ve done. She’ll know what I’m about to do.

She’ll know that this is the last time we’ll ever see each other.

The sharp edge of the note presses against the pad of my finger. I remove my hand and take a step back.

It’s too tempting. I want to rip up the note. I want to go upstairs and slip underneath sheets, bed warm with her body heat. I want her to take me inside of her. I want to drink in her gentle moans and her wild cries. I want to tell her I love—

No. I have to go.

If I don’t go now, she’ll never have the life she deserves. And I can’t live with that.

I swiftly turn around and, without looking back, exit the house.

25

FINLEY

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