Page 95 of Sinners Atone
The boat dipping and the deck groaning brings a slither of relief through me. It’s gone as quickly as it arrived when her sweet voice floats over and prickles my nape.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on me.”
My shoulders snap into a tight line, and I run my tongue over my teeth, still tasting her.
“Good thing you know better, then.”
She pauses. “Phew. Well, thanks for the ride.”
The sound of her heels clicking down the dock fade, but a final question strains against the base of my throat.
I shouldn’t ask; I know I won’t like the answer.
But fuck, I was born bad, but I was born a nosy bastard too.
I turn my head. “Who were you just texting?”
She stops and glances at me over her shoulder. “Oh, just some guy I’m going on a date with.”
My body turns to stone.
I was right: something bad is about to happen.
Just not to me.
When Uncle Finn bought Strawberry Farm, he hired a Mom-and-Pop construction company to renovate the dilapidated cottage at the heart of it. But then the “pop” cheated on the “mom” somewhere between drawing up the blueprints and breaking ground, and now Finn’s house stands as a testament to their bitter divorce.
The welcome mat on the front porch is a battle line. South of it, the cottage exterior is storybook-cute—whitewashed stone, periwinkle-blue shutters, and a chimney that coughs up smoke on winter evenings. Cross over into enemy territory, and you’ll find yourself in the lobby of a high-end hotel: loveless, clean lines, cold marble, and sofas you’re not allowed to eat snacks on.
Usually, Finn wouldn’t tolerate such a farce from the construction company, but it turns out, the couple’s inability to communicate worked in his favor. His home is the brick-and-mortar version of him: a big-city hotshot wrapped in a small-town disguise.
His voice shoots down the stairs the moment I click the door shut behind me.
“Wren? Is that you?”
I roll my eyes. “No, it’s a burglar who just happens to have a key.”
“Very funny. Come upstairs, please. I want to show you something.”
Sitting on the bottom step, I tug off my boots, check the soles for dirt, and place them neatly beside the umbrella stand. Then I climb the stairs on my hands and knees, because I wouldn’t trust a staircase with floating steps and no handrail at the best of times—let alone one built by a man distracted by the prospect of losing half of everything he owns.
I find Finn in his office, sitting rigid in the Herman Miller chair behind his desk. His eyes rise over the rim of his glasses, then fall down the length of me in a measured sweep.
“You were meant to come by last night. Everything okay?”
No, nothing’s okay.
Though I’d ridden out of Gabriel’s garage on my high horse, the darkness had followed me out. And as a sleepless night in Rory’s spare bedroom bled into day, the guilt and disgust wore off like cheap temporary tattoos.
He’d taken up every square inch of my brain, as though he were paying rent to live there. I’d replayed what had happened in the garage over and over, until my version of events distorted. Excitement replaced the fear and the dark had a rose-tinted hue.
By the time I climbed aboard Rafe’s yacht yesterday, I couldn’t remember why he’d ever scared me in the first place.
He hadn’t even touched my skin and yet, he lingered beneath it like a hot fever. I didn’t want it to cool. I guess that’s the only explanation I have for why I forced myself onto his tender boat. Why I probed him with questions, and tried to get under his skin too.
I learned real quick I was in over my head.
I learned how his touch felt, and even worse, I learned I liked it. The weight of his body on mine, the friction burning my wrists. The sharpness of his teeth and the heat of his glare as he stared down at me, like he didn’t know whether to kill me or kiss me.
