Page 47 of My Merry Mistake
“No, Finn.” I look away, suddenly unable to focus on what I was doing, unsure where I left off.
It’s like reading a book and having to reread the same paragraph because the words don’t make sense.
He takes a step into my office. “Oh, you sure? I thought I got an email about it.”
I look up. “I didn’t send an email.”
“Weird. Are you sure? I could’ve sworn . . .” There’s a playful glint in his eyes, and I see him daring me to take the bait.
I never take the bait.
“You look nice,” he says. “Red is definitely your color.”
“Yesterday, you said blue was my color.”
He shrugs. “It was. Today it’s red.”
My gaze drops to my desk, and I keep my face down, just in case the heat I feel in my cheeks is showing.
Because in the days since that night in my garage, I’ve been actively working to push Finn out of my mind.
Never mind that everything seems back to normal on his end. The compliments. The flirting. The showing up unannounced. He’s settled right back into the role I’m used to. But somehow, he’s figured out how to compliment me without sounding completely disingenuous.
It’s . . . different.
Still, it’s Finn. Nothing will ever change the image I have of him.
Never mind that my sisters seem to have joined Finn’s fan club. More than once, I’ve reminded them I’m seeing Justin, but since they haven’t met him, he’s like an apparition. Finn is very real, and they’ve jumped on his bandwagon without looking both ways first.
What changed?
My computer dings three times in quick succession. Three new emails.
“Whoa, someone’s popular.” He shifts the bag on his shoulder. “You good? You need anything?”
“More time would be nice,” I breathe.
“I’d help, but . . .” he points at himself. “I’m not the office type. If you need me to hit someone with a stick, though, I might be able to?—”
He keeps talking, but I’m struggling to keep my focus on what he’s saying along with the emails I’m trying to read.
“I’m busy, Finn, so if you don’t need anything—” Having him here is too distracting, and I’m buried right now.
I’m calculating the amount of work I have to do—plus all the details for the numerous projects I’m handling—each one important enough that I can’t really prioritize—and I keep coming up with more hours needed to finish them than there are in a day.
That’s only if I don’t sleep.
Not only is Denim and Diamonds just a few weeks away, but the PR team hired and fired the same person just this past week, which has been a bit of a nightmare for my department.
I type a few lines in reply to the first email when my cell phone buzzes with a new text from Justin. Miraculously, we found time for lunch earlier this week, and we’ve spoken on the phone twice. So far, we’re compatible, and I’ve started to wonder if this plan really is genius.
It’ll be nice to have someone to bring to Thanksgiving dinner next week, even if we are still fairly new.
Ugh. Thanksgiving. I barely have time to think that far into the future.
I flip my phone over and pinch the bridge of my nose, rubbing the spot that usually helps alleviate some of the pressure built up in my head.
Finn moves a bit further into my office and gently sets something down on my desk. It’s a small box.
