Lies We Tell (Thistle Cove 3)

“Ez,” Ozzy starts, but he holds up his hand.

“Go. Have a merry fucking Christmas. I’ll make sure my dad follows up on his word.”

My stomach sinks as he walks out of the room.

“I don’t understand,” Finn says, looking as lost and confused as I feel. “Why can’t things go back the way they were?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but I’m not ready to give up on him yet.”

There’s no real way of knowing if Coach Chandler and Brice Waller have stepped back—there was no way to connect them to the harassment in the first place—but the next few days pass without incident. I should feel better—but I miss Ezra. I want to resolve this rift between us. I want him back.

There isn’t time to dwell on it in the days leading up to Christmas. My mother doesn’t demand much from me, but as an only child, all her Christmas traditions are bundled up in me. There’s the annual picture with Santa, cookie baking, shopping, gift wrapping, and movie watching. It’s as though I’m required to shift back to an eight-year-old. I don’t mind it, but I’m not eight. I want to spend the holiday with the other people I love.

All three of them.

It’s not like they’re super available. Well, Finn and Ozzy, at least. They’re tied up in their own family traditions. Ozzy sends me pictures from his aunt’s house—hanging out with his cousins. I watch Finn struggle to unload the tree from his father’s truck, and his entire family heading out in tacky Christmas sweaters one night.

I’m full of cookies, hot chocolate, and stop-motion holiday movies when I see his bedroom light come on when they arrive back home. I channel my inner peeping tom, watching him tug off his snowman sweater, revealing his fit, sculpted torso. My stomach flutters and a tingling sensation ripples through me just watching him. He grabs a shirt off his desk chair and starts to put it on.

I pick up my phone.

K: Sure you want to do that?

He glances down at the phone on his bed.

F: Do what?

K: Put back on your shirt.

He looks up and squints through the dark. I lift my hand and wave. He grins and starts typing.

F: Are you watching me?

K: Maybe. I’d rather be touching you.

My cheeks burn the second I press send.

F: Is that an invitation?

K: Do you really need one?

F: Give me a minute.

My heart thunders—I’m still not used to flirting like this. For years, all I wanted was for Finn to pay attention to me. Now, I have his undivided attention and the full force of it scares and thrills me.

I unlock the window and go into my bathroom, quickly brushing my teeth and hair. I hear the soft thud of his feet as they hit the porch roof and I lock my door. It’s late and my parents are both in bed, but there’s no reason to take the risk. When I turn, Finn is carefully climbing over my desk. He gently lowers his feet to the ground but when he looks up at me, his grin vanishes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I thought we agreed on no shirt.”

He looks down at his football T-shirt he put on before jumping over. His eyebrow arches and a smug smirk tugs at his lips. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

I laugh at his cheekiness but drop my hands to the hem of my shirt. His actions mirror mine and in a quick motion, we both pull our shirts over our heads. His gaze drops to my chest, bare and exposed. Insecurity

washes over me and I lift my arms to cover myself, but he steps forward, an inch between us, and says, “Don’t even think about it. You’re beautiful.”

“You’re like, some chiseled Greek god. I’m just—”