One for the Money

“I’ll set her straight,” Eva says, as if offering reassurance.

As if I’m so intent on bachelorhood that I’d be offended at a rumor. “You know my theory on this. Double down. Convince her we flew to Vegas and eloped.”

“Don’t,” she says, laughing. “She’ll start naming our children.”

The idea of children makes my smile fade. “Does it matter?”

Eva looks uncertain. “What?”

“What she thinks? Does it matter? Let her believe what she wants.”

“Finn.”

“I mean it.” I lift up on an elbow, resting her head on my forearm. We aren’t touching anywhere beneath the belt, but it’s still a sexual position. This is how I’d look down at her if I was thrusting inside her, making her moan. I’d lean down and nip her sensitive throat. I’d make her gasp and beg and—No, I won’t do any of that. “We can pretend.”

“What?”

“Let her think we’re dating. If she thinks you’re already seeing someone, she won’t push you to marry Alex fucking Langley. Or anyone else. At least for a while.”

“She wouldn’t keep it a secret. She’d tell absolutely everyone. Everyone in Bishop’s Landing, everyone in New York, maybe everyone in the world.”

“So let her. We would know what the truth is.”

“But it’s not real.”

“Who cares what people think? It will get her off your back.”

She looks back at the stars. Her profile makes her look regal. Like a queen. “And it would get your parents off your back, too, right? It would work both ways.”

“Right,” I say, though I don’t care as much what my mother says.

Nothing, absolutely no amount of coaxing or browbeating, would ever convince me to marry. It’s not just a personal preference. It’s a question of ethics. I’d never saddle a woman with someone like me.

Then she turns to look at me. Her expression steals my breath away. She’s stunning. She’s always looked this way, hasn’t she? At balls and galas. At charity dinners. She’s always been an untouchable goddess, only I get to touch her right now.

For as long as we’re fake dating, I’ll get to keep touching her.

“Okay,” she says, her tone resolute.

“Okay?”

“I’ll pretend to date you.”

“Thank God,” I say, and then I can’t help it. I kiss her. It starts off as a brush of lips. It turns into more. I nibble her full lips, and she opens them on a gasp. A question and answer. A seeking and a solace. She smells so good. I want to inhale her again and again, until my lungs are full, until she pervades every part of my being.

I want to take the kiss deeper. To explore her fully.

Instead I force myself to pull back. “To seal the agreement,” I manage in a hoarse voice.

Her lids are still heavy, her dark eyes hazy with pleasure. After a long moment they clear. She searches my expression for something. I don’t know what she finds, but it makes her nod.

Then she pulls me down for another kiss. Her lips are soft and welcoming. They promise comfort at the end of a hard day. They feel like poetry written on concrete, incongruous beauty in a harsh, barren landscape. She’s the one who takes the kiss deeper. Her tongue darts out, curious. A little playful. And I reward her with a gentle, explicit suck. This is what I want to do to your clit, I say with touch instead of words. You taste so fucking good.

I’m struck with the thought that I might not be able to stop.

That I might be out here on the deck of my boat for the rest of eternity, kissing Eva Morelli. Even when the sun rises, even when it sets again, even when fall comes, even when the boat sails away for some vacation or other, I might still be here kissing her.

Everyone else can handle their own shit.

It’s an absurd notion. I have too much to do. I have responsibilities. My family depends on me. The company depends on me. The secrets definitely depend on me.

And if I waited here long enough, if I kissed her for long enough, she would know.

That is the problem with forever.

I already know how it ends.

Chapter Five

Eva

Someone’s knocking on the door.

That’s the only thought that enters my deep sleep. I pull a pillow over my head, wanting to prolong the dream. To remain in the place where Finn Hughes kissed me and kissed me until I was nothing but an exposed nerve of need.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The doorman would only let up someone in my family.

And if they’re showing up at—I squint at the alarm clock—six in the morning, that means they need help. That thought propels me into action. I throw on a silk robe over my nightgown and pad to the door.

My eyesight is still a little fuzzy, but I recognize my sister through the peephole.

I open the door. “What’s wrong?”