Page 107 of My Merry Mistake
A burst of nerves shoots through me.Nobody told me Finn was coming!
My pulse quickens. I hadn’t planned on seeing him today. Likeplanningon seeing him would help. I don’t know if I can pretend I’m not wrestling with all these emotions that I really, really do not want right now.
Not when he’s in the same room.
No. It’s fine. I have years of practice locking out every single thing I feel. I’m a fortress.
I go over the plan in my head, and it’s as ridiculous as it is futile. Not only do I have to pretend I’m smitten with a man I don’t really know, but I have to do it while simultaneously pretending I’m notthinking about Finn.
Piece of cake. Not stress-inducing at all.
I park the car, steel my nerves, and grab the bottles of sparkling cider—Poppy’s request—from the back seat. I walk to the front door, surprised when it opens before I knock.
But not surprised to find Finn standing on the other side. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, and it throws me for a second. I’m not used to seeing him in anything but gym clothes or hockey gear.
“Saw you pull in,” he says, nonchalant and easy. “Your hands were full, figured I’d, you know . . .”
I force myself not to react, tamping down the little flutter in my stomach. I straighten—like I’m locking my armor into place.
Impenetrable. Except for that gaping hole in my breastplate where my heart sits.
He smiles, moves aside, and I step into the house, our arms brushing as he takes the bottles from me and sets them down.
“Coats in the guest room.” He motions for me to follow him like this is his house and I’m the guest.
“Are you on door duty?” I ask as I slip my coat off and trail down the hallway behind him.
“I wanted to help,” he says, because of course he did.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here.” I keep my tone clipped. Just stating facts.
“That okay?” He smirks, and I can feel him working extra hard to be normal with me.
“Fine,” I feign nonchalance.
“Dallas invited a few of us who didn’t have plans.” He opens the door to a bedroom, then nods toward the bed where there’s a whole pile of coats. I drop mine on top.
I turn to go, avoiding his eyes, but he gently catches me by the elbow. I look at him and he squints, like he’s trying to decipher a secret code hidden underneath my skin.
“You good?”
“Yep,” I lie.
“You know, it doesn’t have to be like this,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Weird. Tense. Whatever your face is doing right now.”
I try to change my expression, but it defaults to chin out, eyebrows up,come at me.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful face.” He says this like he is also stating a fact.
Heat crawls up my neck, and I look away before it shows on my face, aware that his hand is still resting on my arm.
This is not going well.
“This is because of Tuesday,” he says.
