Page 79 of My Merry Mistake
He points at me and jumps up. “Come on.” He holds a hand out to me. “I’m buying you breakfast.”
“No, you don’t have to?—”
He turns. “You need to eat, Raya.”
I reach for the white chocolate mocha and take another drink, my head starting to clear a bit. I’m keenly aware that Finn is doing Finn things. He’s constantly trying to help, even when no one asks. Most of the time, it’s intrusive.
But sometimes, it’s not.
He pulls out his keys and swings them around his finger, catching them. “You know what I don’t get about you?”
“Tell me.”
“It seems like you don’t let yourself indulge in anything. It’s almost like you don’t have space for fun.”
I chuckle to myself. “Because I don’t.Someof us can’t play a game for a living.”
He drops his hands to his sides. “Ooh, low blow there, Hart—keep the gloves up.”
“I mean, I know you’re a professional and everything, but it’s still a game.” I keep my tone light, needing the levity right now. “It’s not like a nine-to-five job in an office at a desk.”
He whistles. “Yeah, that’snotfor me.” Then, after a beat, he says, “So are you coming?”
“Coming where?”
He makes a face. “To breakfast. We’ll go see your sister—I hear she makes the best pancakes.”
I don’t respond.
“Youneed to eat,Iknow a great place, and I’mprettysure your schedule is wide open, so . . .” He motions toward the door, lifting a hand at it to indicate we should go.
I get the sense that this is how he lives his life. On impulse. He has an impulse and he follows it. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Amazing that his impulses have landed him on a professional hockey team. For some reason, this makes me wonder how hedidend up on a professional hockey team, but I decide not to ask.
“I don’t eat breakfast,” I say.
“Riiiight,” he says. “Because breakfast isfun.” The words taunt. “And Raya Hart doesn’t have time to do anything just for fun.”
“That’s not true,” I say, though I’m pretty sure it is.
“What was the lastjust for funthing you did?”
I press my lips together, trying to think of something—anything—that will pass this “fun test,” just so I can prove him wrong.
Finally, I say, “I went to the Comets’ Trick-or-Treat Day and handed out candy for two hours.”
“Did you break out the Morticia dress?”
“No.”
“Bah. Missed opportunity.” He’s still watching me. Is it weird I want to know what he’s thinking? It is. Since when do I care what Finn Holbrook thinks about anything—especially me?
“See, this is why you’re so stressed out all the time.”
“I think I’m stressed out because I have a lot on my plate,” I say.
“And I think you don’t have to fill up your plate like the buffet is closing.”
I frown. I have no idea what that means.
