Page 94 of The Pucking Date
A long pause. Then the call disconnects.
I exhale. Turn to Finn. He’s still staring at the phone like it might bite. Then he looks up at me, smirking.
“Boyfriend, huh?”
I lift a brow. “You gonna make a thing out of it?”
He takes a step closer, eyes sweeping over me with the kind of heat that makes my skin buzz.
“Oh, I’m absolutely makin’ a thing out of it,” he murmurs, his voice all lazy drawl and slow burn. He tips his head, eyes gleaming. “Gotta admit, Red. You know how to make a man feel special.”
I roll my eyes, but he sees it, the flush rising up my neck, the way my body won’t quite settle around him.
“I was making a point.”
“You were makin’ aclaim.”
He crowds my space and presses a light kiss on my lips.
“That smoothie for me?” I ask softly.
He blinks once. Then hands it over.
“I’m getting you a new phone,” he mutters. “One with fireproof shielding.”
I smirk. “What, to protect my reputation?”
“No,” he says darkly. “So I can call him back and finish the job. And next time,” he murmurs, “put me on the damn call sooner,girlfriend. Yourboyfriend’sgot a few suggestions for where Vanderbilt can shove his fucking penthouse.”
Finn tosses the phone on the bed like it’s infected. Hedoesn’t speak, merely wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against his chest.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
Instead of answering, I bury my face in his shoulder.
He sighs. “You need to finish packing.”
I pull away and grab a dress, a pair of heels, my laptop bag, and a few other essentials, stuffing them into my weekender. Work clothes for tomorrow. A phone charger. War paint.
“I hate that this is still following me,” he says as we head out.
“I’m taking care of it.”
He nods, but it’s not really agreement, it’s surrender. The kind that says he’s used to fighting shadows he didn’t cast.
I kiss his cheek, soft and brief. “Come on. Let’s go, Carolina.”
Twenty minutes later,we’re pulling into Finn’s driveway. His house is tucked on a quiet street. Not huge, but not small either—clean-lined, low-slung, with wide front windows and enough backyard to grill or kick a ball around. Inside, it’s a mix of wood floors and lived-in furniture. Neutral tones. Nothing overly styled. A big sectional in the living room, a record player in the corner, a single framed photo of the team on the wall.
And in the far corner, half-shadowed behind the couch, a worn leather boxing bag hangs from a ceiling mount. The kind that doesn’t just sit there. It’s used.
No clutter, no chaos. The space reflects him perfectly—focused, controlled, everything in its place. Even the boxingbag in the corner speaks to his need for order, for channeling energy into something productive.
He drops my bag and pulls me into his arms. “I could get used to having you here.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” I tease, even as I melt into him. “I still need to handle the Under Armour situation.”
But as he kisses my neck, I realize I’m the one getting comfortable. And that terrifies me more than Chad ever could.
