Back in His Ex's Bed

Pippa and Ben needed that memory, something wonderful to hold on to as their time together wound down, as her strength started to fade. And Beah had refused to help because...yeah, her reluctance to become involved started and ended with Finn.

Beah rested her elbows on her knees and pulled the tiny rake through the white sand of her minuscule meditation garden on her coffee table. She’d thought sex with Finn would be just that, good sex. But dammit, it had been more...

It had been both sweet and hot, familiar and strange, tender and steamy. It was everything great sex should be. And great sex like that didn’t happen to strangers; it happened between two people who had a connection, who knew each other well.

Beah knew she could not afford to deepen her connection to Finn Murphy. Thank God she lived in London; if she lived in New York or anywhere on the East Coast she’d have to see Finn more often, upping the chance of her falling back into bed with him.

Maybe back in love with him, which would be an untenable situation.

“I’m weak and Finn is hot, Keely, and I don’t want to start feeling something for him again.”

“And you think you will if you help him organize this wedding? How would that happen?”

“Via emails and phone calls, I suppose. He’s going back to Boston and I am staying here.”

“Sadly,” Keely quipped. “So, with you in London and him here, in Boston, if you offered to help him help Ben and Piper, you’d exchange a few emails, maybe a couple of calls?”

“Yes, brief calls, even briefer emails, I’d keep it completely professional.”

“So where’s the problem and how would it be different from what you’ve been doing for the past nine years?”

Not a hell of a lot.

“You’re clutching at straws, Jenkinson. Are you going to help Ben and Piper or not?” Keely demanded in her forthright manner.

“I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t.”

“Attagirl,” Keely said. “My work here is done. Love you, bye.”

Beah shook her head at Keely’s abrupt goodbye and placed her phone on the coffee table. She rested her forearms on her knees and admitted that she wanted Piper to have the wedding Beah didn’t have, the memory of a perfect, glorious day, saturated with love.

And really, Finn would need help choosing menus and flowers and deciding on the order of ceremony. He was, after all, the guy who’d thought it was a great idea to get married by Elvis in a tacky chapel in Sin City.

Beah swallowed down her resentment, reminding herself that she’d said yes; she’d gone along with his impulsive suggestion. She’d been damn happy to be getting married, so scared that Finn would change his mind that she’d eagerly agreed to anything he wanted, as long as he put that ring on her finger.

But secretly, she’d really wanted to walk down an aisle in a fantastic dress, holding lilies and roses, saying their vows in front of family and friends and a priest who took the ceremony seriously.

But she’d missed her chance at a fairy-tale day. She didn’t want Piper to miss her chance, too. There wasn’t much Beah could do from London, but she could find out exactly what Piper wanted and pass her requests on to Finn, who could put them into action in Boston. With detailed instructions, he couldn’t go too wrong. She hoped...

Beah pulled her laptop toward her and punched Ben’s name into her social media accounts. Through friends of friends, she found out where he worked and within another few minutes had Piper’s contact details on her screen.

Social media was awesome.

An hour later, she ended her call to an ecstatic Piper, who thanked her, over and over, for agreeing to help. Like Beah, she’d doubted Finn and Ben’s ability to pull off a romantic wedding. They were good guys, she’d said, but men who didn’t understand the importance of throw cushions and fresh flowers shouldn’t be in charge of weddings.

Two minutes after Beah ended her call to Piper, her phone dinged with a text message from Ronan.

As we kick into high gear preparing for the Mounton-Matthews sale, Carrick and I think it’s best if you relocate to Boston for the next eight weeks. You’re needed here. ASAP.

Crap.

Beah stared down at her phone, panic tightening her throat. It was true—no good deed went unpunished.

Finn exited the taxi outside Paris Cummings’s house and glared at the handsome, obviously old house—Georgian, maybe? Paris Cummings had a hell of an address. As he’d told them last night at dinner, he had views of St. Paul’s Cathedral, an underground swimming pool, and Hyde Park was practically on his doorstep. Finn pushed his hands into his hair and watched the ubiquitous black London taxicab roll away. He rolled his shoulders to dispel his tension and pushed back the cuff of his coat and sweater to look at his vintage Rolex. It had been his grandfather’s and it still, sixty years on, kept perfect time.

It told him he was ten minutes early for his appointment. Thinking he’d take the time to connect with Ben again—their earlier conversation had been cut short because Ben needed to attend a meeting—he dialed his friend’s number, leaning against the cast iron railing separating the property from the sidewalk.

His phone rang and Ben’s face appeared on his screen, looking ten years older than Finn remembered. Finn, not great at conversation at the best of times, didn’t know what to say, what comfort to offer, but Ben just smiled and waved his halting words away.