Page 157 of Chaos

“Hallucinated, maybe.” He leans in, eyes narrowed. “That's what you were trying to do, huh?”

“Not everything is about you, Finley.”

“Not my name, baby.”

“Finneas?”

He clucks his tongue.

“Finnegan?”

He covers my mouth with his palm before I can even get that last one fully out. I sink my teeth into the heel of his hand and he hisses, he laughs, he pinches my chin lightly and uses the grip to pull me up onto my tiptoes, making me meet him halfway as he stoops for a kiss. “You’re in a good mood.”

I loop my fingers around his wrist, squeezing until I feel the thump of his pulse. “I had a good day.”

“You did good,” it looks like it pains him to admit, and I don’t entirely get why until he adds, “No ER visit needed this time, at least.”

Ah. That’s what the dark cloud hovering over his head is all about. “You were worried about me.”

He grunts. “Chronically.”

I croon and I coo and I tease as if I’m not a little wobbly in the knees, like the mere concept of his concern doesn’t make me all fuckinggooey. My smile is soft, too soft, and I try to hide it in his palm, but there’s not exactly anything stone-cold about the way I plant a kiss there.

“Huh.” I pull back, eyeing the tattoo I keep forgetting to ask about. Tracing the outline of a faded horseshoe, I flex my other arm, brandishing my own u-shaped ink. “We match.”

“Hm.” Finn gently detaches himself from me so he can coast his hand down my arm until he cups the curve of my elbow, his tattoo covering mine. “Been thinking that for a while now.”

Fucking hell.

I turn around like that might stop the flush creeping up my neck, sighing when I catch sight of more than one ruined pot and remember what I was trying to do—what I was failing at doing—before I was interrupted.

Cupping my shoulders, Finn digs his thumbs into the nape of my neck and drops his chin to the top of my head. “Whatcha makin’?”

“Nothing edible.”

Laughing, he nudges me aside. “I’ll cook.”

“No.” I hip-check out of the way. “I’m cooking.”

“Baby, you can’t cook.”

I scowl, resenting the reminder. “But…”

“But?”

But. “I was trying to do something.”

“Do something?”

“Something nice,” I grind out. “For you.”

Finn blinks. He exhales slowly, nostrils flaring. I frown as he drops his head back. Frown some more when he groans at the ceiling. Keep frowning, but in an amused way when he groansinto my mouth next, kissing me hard before peppering the same affection all over my face. “You’re sosweet.”

“Stop,” I grunt as half-heartedly as I bat him away, no real effort behind my attempts to evade. Jesus, I’m practically pulling him closer by two fistfuls of his shirt, I’m giggling as his lips trace the slope of my neck, as teeth nibble my collarbone, and then I’m shrieking when he hoists me into the air. “Finn.”

“Sweet,” he repeats, he insists. “My sweet fucking girl.”

Mentally smacking down the scoffed argument that instinctively rises up my throat, I choose to let him have his little delusion instead. Indulge it a little. Act real fucking sweet as I wrap my dangling legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and smile like butter wouldn’t melt. “Not mad at me anymore?”

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