Page 103 of Rules in Love
“Oh, good choice, one of my favorites too. I sing it to Benny sometimes.”
“I know, we sing it togethew at school.”
More tears. The kid was trying to kill me. “Okay, lie down. Let’s get you tucked in. Okay. Close your eyes. Are you ready?”
Iris swiped the back of her palm over her forehead, brushed away the baby ringlets, then nodded, closed her eyes, and held my hand, just like the little girl in the song. Then, just like Taylor—but not at all like Taylor—I sang about dreams and love and quiet worlds. Of fluttering eyelids and never, ever growing up. Finn’s sniffles behind me were a pleasant accompaniment, but after a heavy sigh, he shuffled away. Knowing the guilt he carried over Shelby, the sight of me where she should have been couldn’t have been easy. My body wanted to go to him, but Iris’s grip on my hand tightened. She needed me too. So, I stayed and kept singing.
Another two Taylor classics were butchered. Iris tried with all her might to stay awake, but slowly, her breathing heavied, and her chubby little hand released its grip and fell from mine.
“Goodnight, my sweet girl.”
Tiptoeing from her room, I followed the sounds of clumsily played piano downstairs. Each note drew me closer until I found him freshly showered, bare-chested in his PJ pants sitting behind an ebony Steinway. The windows beside him were all open, and the chilling night air blew the curtains toward him, almost caressing his skin. Perhaps that same breeze carried my scent through the air as he smiled lazily on a deep inhale and opened his eyes.
“Red. Are you ready to go to bed? Hey, that rhymes. I’m a poet, and I didn’t know it.”
“Oh my God. You just looked so sexy and then ruined it by saying that.”
“What? I thought poetry was the language of looovveeee.” He melted into me as I snuggled beside him and laid my head on his shoulder. “Control yourself, woman. The door is open, and Evie and Nate are in the room above us. That means no Scarlett moany snuggles. Not in here, anyway.” I chuckled and nuzzled closer, allowing his lips to attach to my neck.
He continued to play, and much to my relief, his piano was as good as my singing.
“It’s so nice to finally find something you’re rubbish at.”
“Ouch. That’s a bit rough. And here I was, considering taking you to bed and pleasuring you.”
“Oh, did I say rough? I mean, remarkably well. Liberace would be intimidated with your skill.”
“That’s right. Mum was the real pianist. I just played alongside her sometimes. This is her piano, actually. It cost a fortune to ship and only arrived last week. But it’s nice to have another piece of her here. Especially since Iris never got the chance to know her.”
“You’re so sweet, you know?”
“Eh. I’m okay. But you, the way you sang to Iris…” he whispered between slow, wet kisses, “that was very sweet, Red. Very sweet.”
“She told me she loved me, Finn. You don’t mind, do you?”
He stopped playing, sighed heavily, and rested his head on mine. “Why would I mind my little girl falling for the woman I’ve fallen for?” His words were convincing, but his face was not. There was a glimmer, a twitch of pain.
“I dunno. I just…I know how much you worry about Shelby.”
Finn shifted, held my face in his hands, and caressed the lines of my cheeks. “Shh, it’s okay. None of that tonight. Let’s go to bed.” Sorrow swam in his eyes, but perhaps foolishly, naively, I let it go.
Hand in hand, he led me to bed. A tiny knot formed in my stomach with every synchronized step. Finn’s room. The great unknown. I had no idea what to expect, except I knew it would be spotless. He opened the door, moved to the side, and waved me in.
A dark-navy feature wall stood behind the dark-chocolate timber, white-linen-covered bed. Black-and-white photography filled the walls, and luxurious floor-to-ceiling drapes floated by the windows. They were closed, but I shifted the heavy fabric and peeked out to the night sky. His scent enveloped my senses. My underwear dampened with each timid step inside. It was so clean, so sexy, so masculine…so perfect, so Finn.
I paced the room. Taking it in, my fingers ran the expanse of his bookshelves across the immaculately organized desk where his precious pen containers sat, along with a photo of Iris, a few books, a sketchpad, and two parcels. One was wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, fastened with a near-perfect bow, and finished with a sprig of an unusual dried purple flower. The other appeared to have been wrapped in the same fashion but was open, and three vintage books sat within its still-pristine paper. I stepped closer and gasped on reading the titles along their frayed, worn spines:Emma, Northanger Abbey, Persuasion.
“Finn?”
He rushed to grab them, but it was too late. “Shit! They were supposed to be your Christmas gifts. I was so excited and nervous to finally get you alone in my room that I forgot all about them.”
The remaining books on his desk were other favorites of mine, not only by Jane Austen but Emily Dickinson and Charlotte and Emily Bronte, all of which were earmarked.
“You’re reading them too? Even Wuthering Heights?”
“Well, I’ve only flicked through some, but I’m most of the way throughPride and Prejudice. Lizzie reminds me so much of you, Red. The same beauty, fierce independence, rotten temper, and sharp tongue.”
“Hmmm, those traits do seem vaguely familiar. I don’t know if you mean it as one, but I’ll consider it a great compliment.”
