Page 63 of The Pucking Date
“Finn—”
“I should’ve never let it get that far,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
My pulse trips. “Pardon?”
His gaze snaps to mine. His mouth curves, but there’s no playfulness in it now.
“I never should’ve let him slide in and stake a claim on you. Watching you with him? Letting him touch you, hurt you...” His jaw flexes. “Thatwas fucking torture.”
He steps closer, his hand tightening in mine.
“Now give me five minutes,” he smirks playfully, back in his element, “to erase him.”
He leads me through the crowd with that lethal mix of charm and command, fielding glances and half gestures without missing a step.
A brand rep starts to open his mouth; Finn shuts it down with a look that sayslater. Another tries to intercept; Finn’s hand tightens around mine, guiding me past. Someone stops to compliment his panel performance.
“Appreciate it,” he says smoothly, not slowing. “We’ll talk after.”
He’s got tunnel vision now. And I’m in the center of it.
We pass a group of rookies near the drink station. One of them nudges another. I hear the question—Is that Jessica Novak?—followed by a look between them.
I try not to notice. Try not to feel how everyone’s watching us. Even in a room full of people, he’s magnetic as hell. In his open collar and suit jacket paired with a charismatic grin, he looks like devil dressed up for a wedding. I really should’ve worn blinders. And now that magnetic pull is aimed entirely at me.
He stops at the edge of the dance floor and turns to faceme, his fingers still laced through mine. The faintest pressure, not quite a demand, but definitely not a request.
“You know,” he says, gaze glinting under the warm lights, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to dance with me.”
“I don’t,” I lie. But I’m smiling, grateful for the lightness he’s offering.
He spins me. It’s smooth. Effortless. I land against his chest, breath catching, the warmth of his palm skating up the small of my back, not tentative, not testing. Claiming. He remembers exactly how I feel in his arms, and he’s here to prove I haven’t forgotten it.
The truth sits heavy in my chest—our baby, growing, while he spins me around a dance floor, oblivious to how everything’s about to change. But watching him move, seeing the way he looks at me like I’m his whole world, I’m terrified that telling him will make this magic disappear.
The opening beat of “Baby One More Time” pulses through the speakers—slow, sultry, instantly recognizable. The entire room shifts with it, as if someone dimmed the lights just a little. Eyes flick our way, but Finn doesn’t notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
He moves with dangerous calm, hips rolling into the rhythm. Slow. Sexy. He’s not dancing for the room. He’s dancing for me. Every movement is a promise. Every step is a dare. His hand lingers at my waist, the brush of his fingers enough to make my breath hitch.
He spins me—once, then twice—and pulls me back in with that same maddening control. He knows what I’m going to do before I do it. He’s not chasing me anymore...he’s waiting for me to stop pretending.
I haven’t danced like this since the rink in Montreal when we played, when I let him in. When he touched me,and I came undone in a thousand perfect ways. I told myself it was a clean break. I needed distance. But I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.
In Shanghai, I sat through Mandarin drills and translation labs with the memory of him stuck in my head. I played that night on repeat—his hands, his mouth, the way he made me forget myself. Every time my phone lit up, I flinched. Hoping. Dreading. His last message sat on read like a dare:Tell me you didn’t run because of me.
I almost answered. More than once.
I even asked Sophie—too casually—if she’d seen him. If he was still in New York. Still...him.
It didn’t help.
Nothing did.
And now he’s here, body pressed to mine, sin wrapped in memory. And my body remembers.
He leans in at the chorus, his breath warm at my ear.
“Still not flirtin’,” he murmurs, words rough velvet.
