Page 81 of Player
Finn
The minx breezes past, pretending not to notice me lurking near her door. “Where’ve you been?” I demand, a wee bit more forcefully than intended. The damn drink has me head feeling like I’ve been hanging upside down by me ankles with me lips plastered to the Blarney Stone.
I can see it’s going to require a bit of malarkey to set her straight.
“Here and there,” she says.
“You’re soaked to the skin.”
She shrugs her shoulders.
I focus on her face, not allowing my gaze to wander to where her T-shirt clings tightly across her breasts. Hold on, is she smirking?
My eyes narrow. I was anticipating anger, possibly rage, after her dumping water on the ol’ noggin. The soggy note she tossed at me lay drying on the windowsill.
But that secretive smirk is feckin’ unsettling.
“Want to tell me something?” I ask.
“Sure do.” She spins and pins me with the heat of her stare. “Fuck off.” With that, she pushes her door open and disappears into her room.
Bloody hell.
Good thing she takes to documenting important information like a swan takes to water. Whatever that smirk is about, I’ll find out. I wander back to my room and begin a set of grueling exercises. Preparing my body for better fighters to come. Punishing myself and my love of the drink. Pushing past a wicked hangover and a nagging sense of regret.
A professional, semi-functional relationship. That’s what this will be.
This is what you wanted, bucko.
This is all yer allowed to want.
