Page 78 of My Merry Mistake
“Back home, this is T-shirt weather. Chicago’s got nothing on Montana.”
I think of wide-open spaces versus shoulder-to-shoulder buildings. He might be on to something there, but when he shoves his hands in his pockets and shivers a little, I realize he was blustering.
The coffee warms my hands, and I feel a twinge of thankfulness. Without even thinking about it, I say, “Do you want to come in?”
“Uh, sure.” He steps inside. I walk back into the house, taking a discreet sip of the drink when my back is turned to him.
I hear him come inside and close the door behind him. “It’s good, right?”
Not as discreet as I thought, I guess.
“It’s sweet,” I say, because it is. But also, yes. It’sreallygood.
Why can’t I just say that?
He follows me into the kitchen, and the room feels instantly smaller, though he doesn’t seem to notice. I suppose he’s used to his broad 6’2” body and the space it takes up.
I’m used to being the only one in my house.
He takes a drink of his coffee, then sets the cup on the table. “Oh! Did you see the game? I played thirteen minutes in the second half. Had a block that showed up on ESPN.”
For some reason, this makes me happy. And oddly, proud. Finn might be overbearing, but it’s easy to root for him. He’s the player whose name nobody really knows. The one who makes the other guys look like stars.
I want to ask if that bugs him, but it feels too personal. And the last thing I need is to open that door. Because why am I wondering so many things about Finn?
“I missed it,” I say, aware that he’s still looking at me.
“That’s right,” he says. “You hate hockey.”
I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “What are you doing here?” I ask, and when I realize it sounds like an accusation, I add, “I assume your visit is about more than coffee.”
He leans on the counter opposite me. “Well, you owe me something.”
I frown. “What do I owe you?”
“An apology,” he says. “A heartfelt one. Like you mean it. Has to be at least ten words long.”
I press my lips together. I don’t particularlylikeapologizing, but we both know he’s right. I do owe him an apology. I chew the inside of my lip.
The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. “This is killing you, isn’t it?”
“I can admit when I’m wrong.” I straighten. “I’m very sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“And . . . ?”
I fold my arms. “And accused you of something you didn’t do.”
“Great!” He holds out his hands. “Apology accepted.”
“Good, because—” I’m suddenly light-headed. I’m hoping I can mask it, because I really don’t want this to be the norm from now on. “I’m going to sit . . .”
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Did you sleep last night?”
I make my way to the oversized chair again and fold myself into it. “I slept for twelve hours, but I still feel completely wiped out. I hate it.”
He crosses to the ottoman in front of the chair and sits on the edge of it. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Poppy brought me soup,” I say, trying to remember. “But I fell asleep before I ate it.” My eyes flick to his. It’s been a day anda half since I’ve really eaten anything substantial, and even then, it was only a salad at my desk.
