Page 7 of My Merry Mistake
“Sorry about that, Ray,” Poppy says when she reaches me. “Oh! I see you met Finn.”
“I did,” I say. “Just now, uh, right this second. He gave me this.” I hold up the Coke.
“She’s living on the edge tonight! Watch out!” Finn says.
“Brook-ie!” The firefighter emerges from the crowd and claps Finn on the shoulder. “Don’t you have people to do that?” He nods toward the bar.
Wait. Did he just call Finn “Brookie?”
My mind slides the pieces around, trying—failing—to slot them into place.
Finn laughs. “Yeah, she had to use the bathroom. I used to tend bar back in college, so you know—muscle memory.” He looks at me when he says this.
I thought Finn was the bartender. But he’s not the bartender.
He lives here.
This is his penthouse.
Because he’s aprofessional hockey player.
The put-together pieces are unexpected.
A woman dressed in a white button-down and black pants walks up. “Thanks for the break, Finn, I thought I was going to wet my pants.”
He nods, flashing her that cocky grin. “Glad to help. Only broke four glasses,” he jokes, as he steps out from behind the bar. Poppy and Dallas move toward the counter to order, and he slides around the front of the bar next to me.
I feel my shoulders tense. Because Finn . . . is unfortunately very physically attractive.
“You look confused,” he says.
“Brookie?”
“Oh, yeah. My last name’s Holbrook,” he says. “It’s a nickname. I lobbied for ‘Cowboy,’ or ‘Studcake,’ but I was outvoted.”
I frown, but assume that has something to do with the fact that he’s from Montana. Are there cowboys in Montana? Also, why do I remember that little detail from five years ago? Hadn’t I scrubbed that night from my memory?
Another guy appears out of nowhere and calls out, “Brookie!” and Finn high-fives him right over my head.
“So—you play hockey.” The second the words leave my mouth, I realize how stupid they are. I’m probably the only person in this entire apartment who didn’t know that.
“I do, as a matter of fact.” He laughs. “Not a fan?”
I wince. “Sorry. I don’t like sports.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, almost like he’s talking to one of his friends, and the heat of it zips straight through me.
He shrinks to my eye level, and his expression turns serious. “What are you watching, Morticia, if you don’t like Marvel and you don’t like sports?”
“Literally anything but those two things.”
“So, Amish romance, then?”
I make a face at him. He’s easy on the eyes but wow, is he wrong for me. I’m wondering just how many other women he talks to exactly the same way.
He grins and stands back up, shaking his head. “You’re still beautiful.”
I tell myself this is just classic male ego, but the words still try to weasel their way in and soften my defenses.
