One for the Money

“I see you at your best,” he says softly. “Every time.”

My heart squeezes. “I know she’s okay. My brain knows it, but my heart can’t seem to—”

“Of course not,” he says, his voice low and calmly reasonable. “Adrenaline flooded your system, helping you handle it. For hours. And once it wears off you need rest.”

I sigh. “I should probably call my mother and give her an update. I talked to her when Haley was discharged from the hospital, but I should still—”

“Can you send her a text?”

“Well, I suppose. But she already knows all the information. She’ll just want to decompress. Talk it out until she feels better.”

Silence from Finn.

Then: “You need to feel better, Eva.”

I stiffen. “They’re my family. This is a crisis.”

“Earlier was a crisis. This is you serving as the emotional regulator for every person in your family. If your mother is stressed, that’s fine. A scary thing happened. Let her be stressed.”

“I should be there for her.”

“Will she be there for you? Or does it always go one way?”

Indignance rises. “I know the Morelli family is messed up. I know we’re broken and toxic and a million other things, but they’re mine. I love them, and they love me.”

“They love what you do for them.”

That’s it. I stand up, even though it hurts to leave the warm comfort of his arms. And I face him in my rumpled lavender baby shower dress. “You’re one to talk. You’re sacrificing your entire life to your family. And not just your family. That I could understand. You’re sacrificing everything to the secret your family keeps.”

“Eva.”

“You’re just as bad as me. Admit it.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s worse, actually.”

“It’s the Hughes curse. I was raised to do this.”

“Phineas Galileo Hughes, your family doesn’t have a lock on curses.”

He pauses. “I like my name on your tongue.”

I glare at him, because I’m still not over it. He gives everything to his family and then tries to argue when I want to do the same. Both of us tend our families like they’re terrariums, ecosystems that only exist because we’re keeping them together.

“It makes me hard,” he says, tracing two fingers down my thigh, along the silk fabric of the dress. “But I never got to sign it on your naked body the way you did on mine.”

Sensation runs through me, hot and electric. “I’m still mad at you.”

His lips quirk. He’s still the playful Finn I knew all this time, but there’s more gravity in his eyes now. More awareness of the pull between us. “You’ll forgive me, though.”

“Are you so sure of yourself?”

“When are you going to see it?” He pulls me by the backs of my thighs until I’m standing in front of him. He’s still sitting on the wooden seat of the gazebo, in those damned casual clothes, a navy sweater that conforms to broad shoulders and muscled arms. “I’m not sure of myself, sweetheart. I’m sure of you. You’re too damned loyal for your own good.”

He says it in a rueful way, as if it’s a weakness.

I have something to say to that, an argument to make, but it flies out of my head as soon as his hand slips beneath my dress. Up and up to where a lavender garter belt holds up my hose. My breath catches when he brushes the inside of my leg.

Something dark on his jaw catches my attention. I reach out and stop short, not wanting to hurt him. “Did something happen? Did you get into a fight?”

A short laugh. “Something like that.”

“Finn?”

“It was a rough night,” he admits. “Dad only got to bed an hour ago. Hemingway helped. A lot. We both collapsed when it was over.”

Dismay makes me frown. “And then I came here to dump my feelings on you.”

Two fingers hook into the hem of my panties. “I want your feelings.”

“You must be tired. You—”

“Not too tired for this,” he says, tugging my panties down.

I step out of them without even thinking, as if we’ve been doing this forever, him undressing me in a moonlit gazebo, his hazel eyes dark. “Are you sure?”

He lifts my leg and puts my foot on his cock, which is hard and throbbing beneath his slacks. “Does this feel like I’m sure?”

My toes wriggle, and he grunts.

“Fuck,” he mutters, then moves my foot to the bench beside him. He slips down to the slatted floor, so he’s looking up at my dress from underneath, his face inches away from my sex. My breath catches. He’s too close, too intimate. I feel shy. I try to pull away, but strong hands haul me back. They knead my ass, a little too rough. It’s perfect.

Both of us ran an emotional gauntlet today.

Physical touch feels like a balm. The harder the better. Make me feel it. Make it hurt.