I slide my arm around his chair. “I’m coming.”
“Why wouldn’t Finn want to come, sweetie?”
“He has a demanding schedule.”
“So do you, sweetie,” I say, enjoying the way that pink moves over Noah’s face. I want to follow the pink with my fingers. I want to see how far the color creeps down his chest and back. I want to give him a thorough examination.
I stare at Noah.
Noah stares at me.
A throat clearing noise sounds, and when I look across the table, Noah’s dad is grinning.
“Now you’re going to take care of my son, Finn?”
“Absolutely.”
Papa Fitzpatrick rises. “Then we’ll leave you to it. Let’s hit the road, Tracy.”
Mama Fitzpatrick nods and rises. “We’ll help them clear the table.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say.
“We’ve been imposing on the newlyweds for two whole days,” Papa Fitzpatrick says, and Papa Fitzpatrick istotally the man.
“Oh.” Mama Fitzpatrick pales. “I see. Well, it is a long drive. We should leave.”
Noah’s eyes round. He’s obviously torn between begging his parents to stay and to not making them do the dishes.
Mama and Papa Fitzpatrick’s small suitcase is already waiting at the door, and they wrap both of us in a hug and say goodbye before Noah can decide how to stop them.
Then the door closes behind them, and we’re alone.
Noah steps away, his gaze fixed on me.
I put my arms on my waist. “Time to talk, my sweet puck.”
NOAH
I take a step back and collide with the door. Finn is on me at once. I suddenly have sympathy for all the players who’ve tried to play against him at hockey.
Finn’s gaze does not waver, and even though, technically I’m two inches taller than him, I feel about ten inches shorter.
I aim for innocence. “You want to talk?”
His eyes dance. “Uh-huh.”
“About, um, the news? I think, um, something political happened lately.”
“Something political happened? You think? Remind me never to sit you next to my dad at dinner.”
“Okay.” I duck from his arms, happy to take advantage of his confusion and sprint toward our bedroom.
His bedroom.
Obviously.
“I’ll move my things to the other room...”
