Page 61 of Chaos

“If I was planning on doing that, I probably would’ve brought someone who isn’t repulsed by me.”

Repulsed. Jesus Christ. “You really need me to tell you you’re pretty, cowboy?”

“Nah.” Again, Finn shrugs, slouching with one arm strewn across the back of the booth, wearing a cocky-as-shit smirk. “I know I am.”

Before I can come up with an adequate response to that, we’re interrupted by the waitress swinging by again and dropping off a whole tray of drinks, two of everything, half of which Finn pushes my way. He tells me what they are, he tells me which ones he likes, he tells me which ones he thinks I’ll like, as if he could know. And all the while, I barely listen. I stare at the condensation dripping down the sides of the glasses, and when my hands start to shake, I knot them together in my lap. “Is there alcohol in these?”

When Finn shakes his head, I can’t tell if my shoulders slump from disappointment or relief—the former, I think,Iknow, if I’m being honest.

Irritation makes me itch. Because it feels like a tease, because I got my hopes up, because I fucking hoped in the first place.

Pathetic. On top of everything else, I am so fucking pathetic. Pathetic enough that the hand who’s made his opinion of me very clear has actually taken pity on me, for reasons I still don’t understand.

I ask, I mumble, “Why are you doing this?” around the straw poking out of something that tastes more like sweet rice pudding than a beverage.

Swallowing a mouthful of what looks like carbonated milk, Finn tilts his head to one side. “Sitting here?”

“Trying so hard. With me. We’re not friends.”

“We could be.”

I laugh—I assume he’s joking. And when it quickly becomes clear that he isn’t, when that mouth remains flat and the divot between his brows persists, I tell him the same thing I told Yasmin. “I’m not really a friends kind of person.”

“You’re a cool, mysterious loner. Got it.”

“Don't forget hot.”

“You're never gonna let that go are you?”

“Not likely.”

“A little compliment starved, are we, Lottie?”

I drop my gaze to my drink and shrug.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I’m not a very complimentable person.”

Finn doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re funny. You’re really good with horses. I like your jeans. That’s three. Four, if you include the hot thing, which I’m gonna take a wild guess and assume you will.”

It’s a good thing my hat hides most of my face because I’m pretty sure my cheeks are bright red. God, that’s a lot better than a jealous brat, huh? Even if the third one does make me snort a little. “You like my jeans?”

So smoothly, so unexpectedly I almost spit out my drink, he clarifies, “I like your ass in those jeans.”

My head snaps up.

Head cocked to one side, he crooks one dark brow questioningly. “Better?”

For the first time in possibly my entire life, I can’t think of a single snarky thing to say.

I don’t tell him I don’t want to go home yet, but it must be obvious. I must look even more pathetic than I thought. He must feel really, really bad for me. I must feel really, really bad for myself.

I can’t think of any other reason why he would take the backway into Serenity so he can drive to the creek without passing the main house or the A-frame. Why I don’t make somuch as a peep as he parks beneath the trees so he’s sheltered from the spitting rain as he sits in the bed of his truck and stares at the water—sowecan. Why when, after I don’t even know how long of sitting in silence, he stands and jerks his head towards the grassy shore, and I stand too, knowing exactly what he’s silently suggesting.

Why I copy him as he starts to undress.

I watch him first. I watch the veritable strip tease that reveals a brawny, defined chest, plain black boxer-briefs, and thighs that could almost,almost, put the ranch’s previous bulkiest hand to shame.

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