Page 77 of My Merry Mistake
Also I realized with all the health stuff I never sent you the details for Thanksgiving dinner
Justin
Oh, right. Text the details to Andrew?
Raya
I’ll send it now.
I stare at the text I just sent. He doesn’t respond. No thumbs up, no “thanks, have a great day,” nothing.
A business transaction, just like I wanted.
I can’t get upset when that’s exactly what I get.
I send Justin’s assistant, Andrew, a quick email with the details for the Hart family Thanksgiving dinner, then drop my head back against the chair and close my eyes, a low mixture of itchy electricity and dull heaviness churning inside me.
I sit like that for a few moments, and I can feel myself drifting off when there’s a knock on my door. My eyes pop open. Probably Poppy. Or my mom. This is what happens when texts go unanswered. They show up.
It’s nice, but I don’t need anyone to take care of me.
“But every once in a while, wouldn’t it be nice if someone did?”
Finn. Back in my head.
Another knock.
I think about hiding in the bathroom, but everyone in my family knows where I keep the spare key. I’m a little surprised they haven’t used it yet.
I stand, toss my phone on the chair, shuffle to the entryway, and open the door, not even all that surprised it’s not one of my sisters standing on my porch.
It’s Finn.
Chapter Twenty
Raya
“Finn.”
Do I bother asking what he’s doing here?
He’s wearing a Comets hoodie, black sweats, and a baseball cap. No coat, even though it’s late November. And that trademark grin.
My head is jumbled. He’s constantly around. Insufferably chipper. Always in my business and not serious about anything.
But he took care of me the other day, the same way he did seven years ago. He seems to genuinely care about how I’m doing.
And he wasn’t the one who told Brian what Dr. Gilroy said.
I start to sort through this mix of emotions but quickly get overwhelmed. I’m too tired to figure anything out right now.
“It’s not enough for you to bug me at my office, now you’re coming to my house?”
“Good morning to you too.” He’s holding two cups of coffee, and after a beat, he offers one to me. “Poppy said you like a plain oat milk latte, so I got you a white chocolate mocha.” His smile holds. “Tastes better.”
I quirk a brow and stare at the cup. When I don’t take it immediately, he gives it a little shake.
I roll my eyes and take the cup. “Where is your coat?” I try not to sound like his mom, but I’m pretty sure I fail.
