FINN STOOD AT the window and stared blankly onto the streets of Paris stretching out far below, the silence telling him that Georgie had finally done what he’d needed her to do and in the nick of time. Treachery, hurt and sadness had wound their tendrils along every vein and around every cell, and he felt shattered, broken, as though he was being pummelled to within an inch of his life.
He had to calm down, he told himself desperately, forcing himself to take a deep, shuddering breath and loosen his white-knuckled fists. He had to stop. For the sake of his blood pressure and the woman he’d sent away, who was no doubt cursing him with every breath she took. He couldn’t go on like this, snapping and snarling in a way he thought he’d long since buried. He’d hated that man. He wouldn’t allow himself to regress again.
As he battled to control the pandemonium churning him up inside, he thought too how he hated the way he’d responded to Georgie’s offer of help. How savagely he’d lashed out at her. At the memory of the way in which he’d spoken to her, he inwardly cringed. She’d done nothing to deserve such treatment. All she’d wanted was to help.
And maybe, despite his assertions to the contrary, he needed it. Because he didn’t hold much hope of sorting the turmoil out on his own. He didn’t exactly have a great track record on that front. He’d bottled up how he’d felt about his mother’s death. He’d pushed aside his father’s diagnosis initially with alcohol and sex and, subsequently, work. He’d responded to the discovery of his adoption by being unpleasantly short and rude to anyone who had the misfortune of finding themselves in his vicinity.
What he hadn’t done was talk about it. Any of it. To anyone. He didn’t do talking. He never had done. His father had been the stoical, stiff-upper-lip type, unable to show emotion. Even when Finn’s mother had died, he’d hidden his grief behind a wall of impenetrability. As a result, when it came to feelings, Finn had always been self-reliant, a master of internalisation, choosing to box up what he felt so as not to have to deal with the inevitable messy fallout.
Only this morning—God, was it only this morning?—he’d considered perhaps asking Georgie for tips, and if ever there was an occasion to do so, this was it. Who better to talk to? She knew what it was like to stumble around blindly, looking for answers. She knew him. And, more to the point, for some unfathomable reason he wanted her to know. They were a team. In this thing, whatever it was, together.
He was under no illusion that it would be easy. It would probably be hell on earth, even assuming that Georgie was receptive to the idea, which was doubtful, given how he’d dismissed her. But it was worth a shot. He had to do something that made sense. And at the very least he owed her an apology.
Finally finding a path through the chaos, Finn spun round and strode out of the sitting room and into the bedroom, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Georgie packing a suitcase.
‘What are you doing?’ he said, his brows snapping together in a deep frown.
She didn’t look at him, just carried on folding the stunning green dress she’d worn last night and which he’d peeled off her what felt like a lifetime ago.
‘What does it look like?’ she said, her voice utterly devoid of the warmth and concern with which she’d asked him what was wrong back there in the sitting room.
‘You’re packing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You wanted space. You wanted time. I plan to give you both.’
What? ‘I meant I needed a couple of minutes,’ he said. ‘Ten. Maybe fifteen. I didn’t mean for you to leave.’
‘Well, there seems little point in hanging around.’
At the realisation that she actually meant it he felt a sharp stab of something to the chest, and for a moment he thought, well, of course she was. Leaving was what people who he cared about or who were supposed to care about him did, after all. But he shoved it aside in order to focus because this was one occasion at least in which he did have the power to take control. ‘Don’t go.’
‘Give me one good reason not to.’
‘You were right. I think I probably should talk to someone.’
She flung her hairbrush into the case, then whirled round to scoop up her make-up that was scattered on the dressing table. ‘So find a therapist,’ she said, dumping it in there too.
‘But you’re here.’
‘Right.’
‘Please. I’m sorry for lashing out,’ he said, his jaw clenching as he recalled how he’d spoken to her. ‘I didn’t handle things well.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘It isn’t.’
She shrugged. ‘You’d had a shock.’
That was an understatement. ‘Nevertheless, it’s no excuse,’ he said gruffly. ‘I really am sorry.’
‘Apology accepted. Now, if you wouldn’t mind...’
‘Please, Georgie.’