Page 4 of The Pucking Date
“Modest.”
“Always.”
He guides me through winding cobblestone streets, past bustling cafés and late-night patios. “Trust me,” he says when I hesitate at a narrow alley. The noise fades as we walk deeper into Old Montreal, gas lamps casting warm pools of light. He stops in front of a tucked-away building.
He knocks twice. A tiny slot opens. A nod. The door swings wide.
Inside, it’s candlelight and jazz and the kind of place that feels like it doesn’t exist unless someone really wants you to find it.
He grins at my stunned expression. “Underground speakeasy. No social media or press. Just music, good wine, and people who know how to keep a secret.”
I blink. “How the hell did you find this?”
“I ask the right people the right questions.”
“Or flirt with the right hostesses?”
He shrugs. “Why limit myself?”
We settle at a velvet-lined table in the corner, low and tucked away. A string quartet plays jazz covers under soft lighting. A server appears with wine, bread, and dark chocolate.
I’m speechless. Which doesn’t happen to me often.
“Finn,” I say slowly, “this is…not what I expected.”
“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice low and loaded. “Because I’m not the guy you assume I am.”
I arch a brow. “Right. You’re not a TikTok thirst trap with a fanbase that names their vibrators after you?”
He chokes on his wine, coughing out a laugh. “Well, hell. If folks are namin’ toys after me, I’d be downright rude not to take the credit.” He tips his head, that smirk pure trouble, voice all molasses and mischief. “Tell me somethin’, Novak… you got a toy tucked away in your pretty little nightstand?” His eyes gleam wicked. “Don’t suppose it’s named after me?”
Heat surges up my neck, but I recover fast. “Please. Mine came with a five-year warranty and zero maintenance issues.”
Finn clutches his chest, mock-wounded. “Oof. Ice cold, Novak.”
“Just practical,” I shoot back, chin high. “I like things that don’t break under pressure.”
A grin spreads on his face, measured and lethal. “Then maybe it’s time you tried somethin’ that doesn’t come with a return policy.”
My thighs are pressed tight under the table, and I take a sip to buy time. “And what about you?” I manage. “No teamies on speed dial? No groupies parked outside your hotel with a Sharpie and questionable judgment?”
“Sure,” he says, unfazed. “Plenty of groupies.” I blink. “But none of ‘em make me forget how to breathe mid-conversation.” He pauses, gaze fixed on mine. “You do.”
That…was not in the script. It lands low and hot, somewhere deep in my belly. And just like that, every reason I’ve kept him at arm’s length crashes back in. The danger. The risk. The fact that I want him—and don’t trust what that means.
I scramble for a comeback. Anything. But my brain’s spinning, and my mouth betrays me with, “I…don’t know what I want.”
He leans back, the picture of lazy confidence. “Then let me show you.”
My stomach does a full somersault. I open my mouth—nothing. Just silence.
Finn watches me, then settles deeper into the booth, wine glass dangling between his fingers. “So. Are you always this hard to impress, or is it just my game that sucks?”
I arch a brow, sipping from my glass. “You think I’m impressed?”
“You haven’t stopped smiling since we got here.”
“That’s because the jazz is good. And the wine is free.”
