Page 48 of The Golden Hour

Spinning on a heel, he gives me a lazy smile as those shockingly blue eyes scan me from head to feet. After a perusal that feels more than skin-deep, he shakes his head. “Cute. Very L.A. But that dress won’t work at all.”

I finally tear my gaze from his face to what he’s wearing. Athletic shorts, sneakers, and a faded T-shirt. He makes casual look sinful, all lean muscles, sun-kissed tattoos, and tousled hair.

God help me, it’s really not fair he’s so gorgeous.

“What are you talking about? I don’t like surprises, and I definitely don’t like being woken up before ten on a Sunday morning.”

His smile only grows. “I’m being spontaneous. You said you weren’t doing anything today. I didn’t have plans, and I wanted to see you, so here I am.” Spreading his arms, he grins through the lies, like he knows exactly how irate I am and exactly how much I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

But then there’s the small matter of blackmail. While I don’t honestly think he’ll go through with it—Molly would castrate him—it still speaks to a side of him I need to be wary of. I can’t forget his rage when he realized who I was, the hatred that seeped from him at the cove that day.

He’ll do anything to put a stop to Vivian’s political career, to bring down the family once and for all. If it ended up being the only way for him to get revenge, I’m positive he’d feed me to the wolves without a second thought.

I need to be careful. Not push him. Let him think he’s in charge.

Which means I can’t tell him to fuck off.

“All right,” I concede. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret.”

I don’t bother repeating my stance on surprises. From the glint in his eye, he obviously doesn’t care.

A headache taps hello behind my right eye. I have no idea how I’m going to survive his company. I can only hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll bring me to Molly and leave us alone.

“I’ll be back in fifteen.”

I retreat inside. Finn takes a step to follow me, but I slam the door in his wide-eyed face, then gloat all the way to my room. Serves him right for showing up like this.

It takes me less than ten minutes to change into shorts and a tank, apply sunblock, and find the brand-new sneakers in my closet. I stop by the kitchen for a granola bar and bottle of water, waving bye to Lizzie in the process. She smirks and makes kissy noises at my back. At least Vivian isn’t around—her routine is the same as it’s always been. On Sundays she golfs in the morning and spends the afternoon at the spa.

Outside, Finn waits in the car for me, engine idling and music crooning through open windows. He doesn’t bother looking my way when I yank open the passenger door. I’m barely buckled in when he accelerates toward the gates.

“I didn’t realize we were in a hurry,” I mutter.

His eyes cut to me. “Are you always this cheery in the morning? What’s wrong with a little adventure?”

“Do you always shame women for perfectly normal responses to idiocy?”

“Ha! Good one. You sound just like my sisters.” He shakes his head, lips twisted wryly. “I have to say, I’m kind of amazed you have a backbone at all. No offense, but I didn’t think the Avellinos were in the habit of raising feminists.”

“They aren’t,” I snap.

For the briefest moments, I’d been enjoying our banter. Not anymore. The world dims a bit with the reminder of the only reason we’re together in the first place. We’re not friends. Not lovers. Barely allies, despite the weird pseudo-intimacy we’ve shared. And the phone call last night.

“I brought you coffee,” he says, nodding toward the center console. “Yours is the front one. Molly told me how you take it.”

“Thanks,” I say stiffly. “Are we seeing Molly?”

Finn shakes his head, and my stomach sinks. “Come on, princess, did you really think we wouldn’t have to spend any time together? We’re supposed to be diving headfirst into a serious relationship. That means we need to get used to each other. Trade information.”

I sip my coffee in silence, which is the only meaningful response I can give. Trade information. What a perfect way to describe what we’re doing—offering up pieces of our lives to build a fabricated bond.

I’ve spent six years—a lifetime, really—lying about my past to anyone who cared to ask about it. But now that I can tell the truth, I don’t feel any relief.

Because the truth is still entwined with lies.

“I have three sisters,” he says in the tense silence. “The youngest is three years older than me. That’s Michelle. Then Sydney, who’s two years older than Michelle. Abby is the oldest. Not to say she’s old or anything. She’s forty this year.”

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