Page 153 of Player
Clarissa
The house is quiet, which suits me well because champagne hangovers are the worst. Foggy brain. Foggy vision. My seeing things ... like Finn. Or more likely the broad shoulders and tight ass of a stranger leaving Starbucks who reminds me of Finn.
Would Finn find me then follow me but not approach me? I shake my head, knowingly. He’d pull out all the moves. Sweet-talk me while begging my forgiveness, not knowing he already has it.
He wouldn’t walk away without a word.
I sigh, hanging my handbag on a hook and kicking off my heels. A glass of cold water with an aspirin and bed, then I can drift off into oblivion where my thoughts no longer exist, and I can escape that man.
I’m headed barefoot down the hallway toward the master bedroom when I step on something soft and silky. It clings to my big toe as I lift my foot to examine it.
A pink rose petal.
Of all the strange things to step on. Where did it come from?
I shift on my feet, feeling multiple petals beneath my soles ... and something slightly bigger but much harder.
Puzzled, I crouch and, carefully placing my glass on the wood floor, reach beneath me for the hard object. When I lift it high for further inspection, I gasp.
What. The. Hell.
A Starbucks gift card?
A petal slips free from the plastic and drifts to the floor. I watch it, fascinated, feeling like a woman in an Eighties horror flick who’s presented with the first warning sign that her world is about to go apeshit yet too stunned to run.
Glancing around, I notice more petals and more gift cards. And ... a sock ... shoe ... second sock ... second shoe ...pants.
I rise then follow the trail of clothes, collecting gift cards as I go. My movements slow and zombie-like while my thoughts race for an explanation. By the time I reach my bedroom door, my feet are clad in rose-petal slippers and I’ve gathered enough Starbucks gift cards to buy stock in the company. I’m so thrown off, I feel faint.
He’s here.
I enter my bedroom but abruptly stop when my foot hits the gray Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs on the carpet. The gift cards tumble like dominos from my grasp.
He’s hereandhe’s naked.
His name escapes my breath. “Finn.”
“Clarissa.”
My eyes track his voice then go wide. Yep. It’s Finn. Lounging in my bed with his arms behind his head, biceps flexed, and naked as the day he was born.
What. The. Hell?
“Presumptuous, don’t you think?” I grind out.
“You don’t like the flowers?”
“The flowers?” Hard to remember his initial surprise when a bigger one awaits me in my bed.
“And the gift cards.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making amends.”
He shifts and the sheet slips, revealing his unforgettable eight-pack and the well-defined V-cut that, like the tip of an arrow, directs the eye downward. I look my fill, how could I not? Is it possible he could even be in better physical condition? Sexier, even? He’s tan from being in the sun, without a shirt ... without me.
I stop mid-lip lick to scowl at the brazen man. “Do you honestly think sleeping with you will make up for your lies?”
