Two Weeks and a Day (Finn's Pub Romance 2)

“Why this bar in particular?” I was just following Brendan’s orders.

And now I’m craving a donut.

“Are you serious?” From her expression I’ve said something so incredibly wrong it might start the apocalypse a week early. “Finn’s pub. Finn’s. As in Chief Finn, my brother’s husband? As in Seamus Finn, the owner of this establishment and the guy who made my other brother, Thoreau, a partner in his micro brewing business? As in—”

“The man who married your big sister, Bronte?” I ask, feeling the need to smack my forehead on the table for not catching on sooner. “The one who owns that new boxing club you thought I should check out?”

Austen raises her hand as if asking for the check. “And he’s finally awake.”

Why didn’t I put that together?

You’ve had other things on your mind.

I shake my head. “It didn’t even occur to me. Everything is named Finn in this town. They can’t all be related.”

I could be wrong about that.

“You’re wrong about that. And you not knowing makes the situation even more peculiar. I talk about them all the time, Miller. Some of them make the news on a regular basis, but even if they didn’t, you work in the most popular spa in the city. My in-laws have been, hands down, the juiciest topic of conversation there for a while now.”

I shrug helplessly. “You know I avoid gossip and current events whenever possible. If I didn’t before, Fred’s summer protest schedule was enough to depress me and put me off the news forever.”

Using my teenage neighbor’s civic responsibility as an excuse for not paying attention is low, even for me, but it makes Austen smile. “Well, I for one am glad that little rebel moved across the street from you. I like her, and you needed more adventure in your life. And friends. Not that I’m judging.”

“I think I’ve hit my limit tonight,” I say sincerely. “Any more adventure and I could have my first nervous breakdown. I’d rather skip it and hold out for that midlife crisis. I hear those are more fun.”

“Which leads us to my final piece of evidence.” Her expression is now the definition of smug. “You are nervous. Fidgety. You’ve been looking over your shoulder every five minutes since we got here, and I don’t think it’s because you have a thing for those dart-throwing firemen. The only conclusion a sane person could reach is that someone else is joining us, and you’re feeling guilty about it. This feels like a setup. Blink twice if I’m right.”

I blink.

Did I mention I knew this was a bad idea from the beginning? Just want to emphasize that for the record.

If you’re wondering why I’m so anti-matchmaking, ask the two women who live next door to me. I’ve been the elderly couple’s pet project since I moved in, but once they found some online blog about a gay man trying to get over his relationship dry spell, they got it into their heads that things were bad out there in dating land, and they had to take matters into their own hands when it came to finding my perfect match. Now, no matter how politely I try to dissuade them, they refuse to give up on their goal.

Those women are tenacious.

Believe me, I get it. People worry about my not having any fun. Or sex. Or a social life of any kind that could eventually lead to fun and sex. But even if I were interested, which I’m not, it’s not like I have that many opportunities to do something about it.

The problem is that all of my coworkers, ninety-nine percent of my clientele and most of my friends are women. Oh, and I was raised by a single mom in an organic, testosterone-free environment.

Mom made sure I participated in most of the required rites of male passage—football tryouts, beer pong and peeing my name in the snow spring immediately to mind—but she and I both knew that if it weren’t for the Internet, I’d never have learned about the gay birds and bees.

Seriously, she sent me a link when I was thirteen so she could be supportive but we wouldn’t have to talk about it out loud.

Welcome to puberty! Think you’re gay? Click here to learn more.

The one thing I couldn’t learn from the privacy of my personal laptop was how to interact with men who wanted more than a professional backrub or my how-to on crown molding. Which is why, when the occasional delivery guy or some be-flannelled rando at the hardware store asks me out, I always manage to screw things up just enough to send them racing in the other direction.

Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe there are no good men left in this city.

Or maybe the only one I want is someone I can’t have, and I’m willing to do weird shit for him that makes me uncomfortable, even though he acted like a jackass the last time we saw each other.