Finley Embraces Heart and Home (Love Austen 4)

Up on the bank, just before grass turns to eight feet of sun-soaked riverstones, I lie supine on the navy and white checkered picnic blanket in nothing more than my speedos.

Trees throw lacy shade over me. There’s a perfect mixture of heat and ticklish breezes.

Cress slicks sunscreen on her legs and arms and the hit of coconut is most of my summer memories. Although Ethan won’t be massaging the milky liquid onto my back anymore.

He rises wet and glorious from the river, every inch of him glistening, rippling . . .

I shut my eyes.

Cress calls him over. “You’ll burn if you don’t reapply. Dry off and I’ll do your back.”

My jaw is absolutely not twitching . . .

I feel the blanket shift as he joins us and drops of river land on my calf. Tiny gems of water, the tingling feel of them exhilarating against my skin.

“You still haven’t jumped in yet.”

I think he’s talking to me and my lips rise in a grin, but Cress answers. “Once someone does my back, I’m good to go. That was a hint, Ethan.”

I hear his gulp. “Of course.”

I hate the slick sounds of sunscreen being slathered on. I hate the smell.

Cress gives a delighted sigh. “That feels good.”

I want to plug my ears; I ball my fists at my sides instead.

“Finley?” she says, and reluctantly I open my eyes and peek at her, Ethan behind her still rubbing cream into her back with his large hands. His thumbs move in circles; he’s thorough. He’s looking at me.

“Um, yeah?”

“Did you notice the guy with the blue hair in our theatre class?”

“The blue hair is noticeable.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw him checking you out.”

Ethan’s hands still on her back.

Cress continues, “At least, I think he was interested.”

Ethan murmurs. “He was.”

I push onto my elbows. “You noticed too?”

“No. But . . .” He clears his throat and speaks to Cress. “You’ll agree with me, right? A person who doesn’t think Finley’s beautiful can’t have any taste at all.”

The words are the closest I’ll get to his touch and I absorb each one.

Cress turns on her knees, eyes sparkling. “You’re beautiful yourself,” she says. Then she picks up Ethan’s cap and sets it on his head and squeezes his bulging bicep. “Such a man. I love it.”

“And you are a woman.”

He’s so awkward. It’s adorable, even as a thousand knives take turns stabbing away my earlier contentment.

Cress giggles and turns back to me. “If you like, I can get the guy’s name and invite him to have coffee with us?”

I scrounge up a smile. “Thanks, but I’m fairly capable of asking a guy out on my own.”

“Of course! Sorry, I’m just so used to playing wingman with Ford . . . Maybe you saw him eying you up?”

I nod.

“Not your type?”

“No.”

“Why’s that then?” she asks automatically and blushes, like she wishes she wasn’t so curious.

I feel for her and soften my voice. “Call it instinct.” It’s a struggle not to glance at Ethan, to keep smiling, to keep looking at her. “I just don’t get that feeling from him.”

Her brows go up, questioning.

I run my hand over my calf where Ethan’s water drops have dried into my skin. “Like . . . an instant sort of . . . recognition. Something about the other person that calls to me, to the wild places in me. Something you feel, you know, almost from the moment you meet them.”

I glance covertly at Ethan and startle, finding him watching me.

“I think I’ll like reading the stories you write,” Cress murmurs, and Ethan and I look away from each other. “Have you ever thought about writing gay romances?”

Like our play, you mean? I clear my throat.

“You really should talk more with Ford, you know. He makes quite good money writing erotic fiction.”

There’s a moment of astonished silence. “Ford?”

She laughs. “Oh, not the romantic stuff. He writes everyone’s secret fantasies. Gay, straight, alien, you name it.”

Ethan and I gape at her.

“What? We all like a little naughtiness at night.” Her gaze hooks Ethan’s. “Don’t we?”

“Yeah,” I say, stomach somersaulting with jealousy as I rise to my feet. “I’m a fan of the forbidden.”

Ethan jerks his head in my direction and quickly angles his cap over his frown.

“He writes under O. Cox,” she says as I step onto burning hot stones.

On the nose or not, I know I’m gonna check it out. I’m too curious not to.

What I’m not curious about is any more of Ethan and Cress’s flirty conversation. When water laps my ankles, I glance back at them, just once.

Cress is whispering in Ethan’s ear.

Later, close to midnight, Ethan and I find ourselves sitting under the stars against the turret wall, either side of the door, legs outstretched, phones in our hands.

“Wow,” Ethan says. “Ford really does write that stuff.”

I look him up. “Huh.”