Page 87 of Chaos

“I have a thing forthatold, white, bald man specifically. I don’t have a type.”

“No?” Adam cocks his head, glancing towards the kitchen for a quick beat. “What’d your last boyfriend look like?”

Against my will, an image of Ricky comes to mind. “He bore a striking resemblance to a spineless worm.”

Adam drops his head back as he cackles. “So you’re single, I take it?”

“If this is your way of asking me out, it needs work.”

“God, no,” he sets me straight so quickly, so emphatically, I’d probably be deeply offended if I had any kind of interest in him. “But—”

Suddenly, Adam disappears from my line of sight. He’s replaced by a different man, one who denounces the concept ofpersonal space as he drops onto middle cushion of the sofa, a thick thigh flushes against my crossed legs.

A completely different man to the one who just spent ten minutes stomping around the kitchen, Finn eyes my little project amusedly. “Whatcha making?”

Huh. Maybe I imagined his little weird tantrum. “A baby blanket for Izzy.”

Pouting playfully like a jackass, Finn pinches my fucking cheek. “That’s adorable.”

Eyes narrowed, I hold up one of the long ass needles in my hand. “Do you not see the weapon?”

“Yes, Granny,” Finn deadpans. “I’m terrified.”

On the other side of him, I hear an exaggerated cough. “Hypocrite.”

I shift to peer around the large body blocking Adam from view. “What?”

He jerks his head at the man separating us. “Ask him what he does in his spare time.”

Curiosity guides my gaze back to Finn. “Whatdoyou do in your spare time, cowboy? When you’re not off building wells or saving baby pandas or breaking the hearts of pretty hostesses, of course.”

While his friend laughs, Finn flicks my leg. “I whittle, smartass.”

Well. Color me surprised. “You whittle?”

The palm with that tattoo I keep forgetting to ask about settles just above the curve of my knee. “Wood carvings.”

“You whittle wood carvings,” I repeat, staring at his hands. His fingers, specifically. Long, thick fingers that don’t look capable of such delicate work. “Huh.”

“My grandpa taught me.”

I frown as the topic of unconventional hobbies is chased away by a single word. “Say that again.”

“Grandpa?”

Grandpaw. What the hell? “You have an accent.”

He plays dumb, playsdickhead. “Do I?”

“You’reSouthern.”

“Am I?”

I jab my knee into his side, and with a hiss, he surrenders. “I grew up in Texas.”

Something tickles the back of my brain. “Where?”

When he rattles off the name of a town I’m sure I’ve heard of before, I sit up straight. “What was your last name again?”

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