Finley Embraces Heart and Home (Love Austen 4)

My feet push back against the gleaming hardwood floor, tipping my chair the way Tom hates. Sunshine warms the wet streaks down one side of my face.

Ethan stares at me, palming his nape. It knocks his cap off and he chases after it, catching it against his belly, beak pointed to his baggy sport shorts. Shadows lift off his face and something flutters behind the hairs that have started growing at my navel.

I scowl harder.

He’s as pale as Tom but that’s where the similarity ends. Ethan’s hair is dirty blond, his nose is . . . alright. There’s a cute—weird—little kink in his chin.

Guess he takes after his mum. Like I take after my dad.

Those flutters in my stomach sink heavily toward the teetering chair. He lost his mum to a heart attack, too. Does he see her every time he looks in the mirror?

Twenty seconds, and a bond is stretching between us, waiting for me to accept it.

I look away. Wish he’d put the cap back on.

My scowl deepens as Mum and Tom come in. How can she laugh so easily?

“Ah, Ethan,” Tom says. “I see you’ve met your new brother.”

Brother. I hear the emphasis in Tom’s voice. A reminder: that’s all I’m allowed to think of Ethan as.

I scoff. He’s not that hot.

“Hey, Maata,” Ethan says. He’s beaming at Mum like he knows her. Really knows her. I think of all the day-trips Tom took her on while I was working on Bingley’s farm. That’s what they were doing? Playing family without me?

My chair snaps too far back. I jump up, straddling it, but leather and wood bang against the floor. Fur scurries out from behind me, meowing wildly.

“That wasn’t on purpose!”

Ethan drops his cap and crouches to take Mrs Norris in his arms. She immediately offers him her belly and purrs. His eyes flicker up, meeting mine. They’re grey, like fog shrouding a path. Obscuring the signposts.

He smiles easily, and a dimple makes a groove the size of my pinkie finger in his cheek. “She’s all right.”

Good. I really hadn’t meant to scare her again.

But, like . . . why is Ethan so forgiving? Why doesn’t he get mad? Why doesn’t he hate me for ruining his home?

Behind him, Tom’s dark brows are almost a unibrow. “Not the greatest start, Fin.”

“Finley.”

Eyes burning, I shove past Ethan, this time on purpose. He hisses as Mrs Norris’s claws dig into his skin.

For the briefest moment, I’m satisfied. But the disappointment crossing his face makes me feel shitty. I hesitate, rocking back. A sorry hovers on my lips, but I catch Tom’s hardening face and I ignore the urge. Mum calls my name, insisting I apologise, and Tom tells her to let me get over it.

In the marble entryway, I halt. I want to run somewhere and slam a door, but I don’t know where to go.

Behind me, the air stirs.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

Ethan. He has his cap back on and dots of blood on his forearm. Mrs Norris is nowhere to be seen. He sweeps past, swinging my duffel bag off the floor and over his shoulder. With a glance at me, he grabs the suitcase and trudges toward the staircase.

I follow, head bowed.

The stairs creak under us. Ethan murmurs, “Welcome to Mansfield.”

He tells me about the history of the house, but I don’t—can’t—respond and Ethan doesn’t press. We climb two sets of stairs and enter a wide-open loft with slanted walls and skylights.

It’s bright and sunny, artfully decorated. A kitchen unit banks one wall, couches and table and gym equipment evenly spaced between the other three.

I side-eye Ethan’s flexing arms as he sets my bag on the table. The muscles are no longer a mystery.

He gestures to one end of the space. “My room.” Then to the other. “Your room. Bathroom.” He points to a small door. “Towel and linen cupboard. And this” —he pats another door— “leads to the bird’s nest. Uh, the roof terrace.”

I head straight for my room and Ethan trails behind me, stopping at the doorway.

Everything is clean and neat and the large bed is grey, grey, and more shades of grey.

I dive onto it like it’s the most welcoming bit of furniture in the house. It is the most welcoming. It’s as depressed-looking as I feel. We understand each other.

Rolling onto my back, I sniff. Ethan’s still there, watching.

He rocks on his heels like he’s about to go, then shrugs and strides into the room. The comforter dips under him as he perches next to me.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” I drape an arm over my eyes so I don’t have to look at all the undeserved kindness in his expression.

“You have to give up everything, while I gain everything.”

“Gain?” I splutter. “What are you gaining?”

The mattress shifts slightly. “It’s a really big house, and Dad travels quite a bit . . .”