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Those brake lights in front reminded him how in the dark she needed to stay for her safety, for his, and what a fucking fool he was for being more than a little in love with her and wanting to show it.
Home. Drink. Snack, he was starving. TV on. Remote to hand. Sleep was a long way off. He flicked past a dozen channels, nothing catching his attention, and left the screen tuned to a Bond movie, Daniel Craig being suave.
It was the game; that’s all it was. He’d been at it so long he’d lost the thrill that’d come with taking money from people who should know better than to give it, but with Fin by his side, he felt reinvigorated. She made it fun again.
Of course, the future would be without her, because contrary to its name, the Everlasting con wouldn’t go on forever, and with Belling roped, it would move more quickly now. One Night Wives weren’t for forever, and he needed to stop acting like forever was an option with Fin. They had one, maybe two more events left.
There was always Plan B. He needed another drink. He swapped Bond for football.
Plan B: they could fuck.
In Plan B, he’d have total access to her full lips and her hesitantly aggressive kisses. He’d have the freedom to put his hands on her body in places he’d been smart enough to avoid. Her throat, her face, her breasts, her ass, her stomach, the hot sweet center of her. That would be the kickoff. The main event would open by stripping her naked, progress through tasting her skin, making her unravel, getting her wet, and touch down in the insanely mindful beauty of being inside her and fucking her senseless.
And she wanted all this. She’d asked for it up front, and she’d been disappointed, confused by his reticence since he’d wised up at the hotel.
What exactly was wrong with Plan B? It would be a hell of a lot of fun for both of them. And Fin was right, lately he’d been starved of a good time.
He got up and poured another drink, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it out of his pants, and changed the channel to a wrestling smackdown. Everything was wrong with Plan B. Sex was an agent of change. They wouldn’t be the same people if they crossed that line. He’d be perpetually distracted, for one thing, looking for that next moment when he could get her alone and kickoff all over again. She’d start to trust him in a way that could hurt her, and she deserved better than that.
What undid things with Rory was an omission, a sleight of hand. With Fin, it would be a deliberate, premeditated lie, the desecration of her whole understanding of everything they’d done together.
There was no greater con than the one he was running on her. If he brought her closer without telling her the truth, he’d only amplify the deception.
Plan B, addendum. Tell her the truth. Fin was implicated now to the tune of several million, with more to come. She had an incentive to keep quiet. They could partner up in every sense of the word, and it needn’t end with the Everlasting con.
Plan B addendum to the addendum. Fin would be horrified. She would try to give the money back, which would bring Lenny along with Cal’s key marks into the picture. Fin could decide to turn to the cops. Complex legal wrangling would ensue. It would include discrediting her as a failed actor, a grifter, and desperate businesswoman with links to known felon Jeffrey Bradshaw.
The noise of legal wrangling would create the wrong kind of attention for Sherwood. All current cons would be threatened. As would all ongoing welfare and environmental projects. Every member of the alliance families would be out for his blood. He’d be ostracized, quite possibly castrated by Mom, as well as being functionally destitute and on the lam.
Worse, so much worse than Fin hating him, would be that she’d hate herself for falling for the con.
He couldn’t do that to her. He liked her too much. He respected her.
Ergo, he had to keep his fucking, needy hands off her.
Job approved places only—hands, arms, shoulders, the small of her back. He couldn’t put his fingers to the column of her neck again or touch her face. He couldn’t align her body against his in a simulation of the sex he wanted to have with her again.
Ever.
He was out of plans. He didn’t care for the theatrical muscled outrage playing out on screen. Another con, just like Bond. He shut the set down. On Monday, he had a family board meeting and that would be enough to remind him of his priorities.
He buried himself in work and the gym for the rest of the week, irrationally wishing Fin would show up with a picnic basket, knowing he’d been treating their time together like dates; trying to hide behind briefing packs and arbitrary rules like not walking her to her door, not calling her during the week.
Friday took its sweet damn time rolling around, and it was a reprieve from his indecision when it was time to pick up the Aston Martin and collect Fin.
If she slammed him for how unevenly he’d treated her at the XRad party, he’d apologize, explain that it wasn’t easy containing his feelings around her, and remind them both why that was important. Goddamn, why was that again? Like a man about to lose his pay packet to a slot machine, he was fatally addicted to spending time with Fin. He should be banned from the casino.
She wore an elegant, black dress that hugged her knees as she slid into the front seat. Seeing her smile at him did unreasonable things inside his chest involving his breath and his heart rate. Her hair was pulled away from her face and knotted at the back of her head, and there were small gold hoops in her ears. She would ease into the gallery fundraiser event with style and grace.
“I checked the traffic. We should make good time to Beacon.” He’d allowed two hours for the ninety-minute trip. It would be a late night. Ordinarily he’d have stayed over, made a weekend of it.
She watched the world outside the car and was quiet. He said something noncommittal, oddly tongue-tied because everything he wanted to say was inappropriate. I’ve been thinking about you all week. I’m so glad to see you. I am the least trustworthy person you’ve ever met. I wish things could be different.
They drove in silence, Lemonade as a backing track to his unease.
He was the pro, but Fin floored him with her professional take.
“Is everything okay?” he said when he couldn’t stand her unaccustomed silence any longer.
