All the Way (Romancing Manhattan 1)

“They’re a pain in my ass most days, but yes.”

“What are they like?”

“You’ll get to see for yourself, I’m sure. Quinn usually comes out here for a week in the summer. He’s also pretty much a workaholic, smart. Younger than me by only a year, and swears he’s never going to settle down.”

“Famous last words.” I grin. “And Carter?”

“He’s starting to come back around,” he replies. “Carter used to be the class clown. Funnier than anyone else I knew. He went to school with Quinn, and started dating Darcy, my sister, in high school. They got married just out of college.”

“What happened to her?”

“Cancer,” he says with a sigh. “Who would have thought that a thirty-year-old woman could die of breast cancer?”

“I’m so sorry. That’s tragic.”

“It really was. Carter was completely wiped out. Mom lived with him for about a year so she could take care of Gabby. Not that he was incompetent, he was just so lost.”

“That’s horrible,” I murmur.

“This has been a pretty heavy conversation,” Finn says as he pushes his empty plate away. “Maybe we should lighten it up a bit.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Follow me.”

Chapter Six

~Finn~

I hold my hand out for London’s and smile when she reaches for me and follows me through the kitchen to a room that’s tucked behind it.

“I didn’t know this was back here,” she says. “You have a playroom.”

I cross my arms over my chest and watch as London wanders through the room, running her fingers over the pool table, the Ping-Pong table, checking everything out.

“You want to play pool?” she asks.

“I was thinking pinball,” I reply, and walk to the vintage machine in the corner of the room. “I can pull a stool up for you if you like.”

“I’m feeling pretty good,” she says. “And I have to warn you; I’m very, very good at pinball.”

“Is that right?” I push the button behind the machine that launches the ball without having to put quarters in. “Should I be scared?”

“Maybe,” she says as I stand aside so she can go first. She pulls back the lever and lets go, propelling the ball in the machine, and for the next few minutes doesn’t miss a trick. Her reflexes are on point, her tongue bitten between her teeth as she plays, and when she does lose the ball, she pouts.

Adorably.

“Your turn,” she says, and steps aside. I take my place, set the ball in motion, and just when it reaches the paddle at the bottom, London pulls my hand off the button so I can’t hit it. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I must have slipped,” she says with a shrug, and pushes me out of the way so she can play again. Her tongue is caught between her teeth again, her blue eyes following the ball intently, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

Her body is simply amazing. Slightly curvy, but toned and so fucking responsive to me that it’s intoxicating. Her long dark hair begs for my fingers. And I’m always finding something new, like a small scar behind her knee and the birthmark on her ass.

I think I’ll bite her there later.

“Damn it,” she says when she loses her ball. “Your turn.”

“No slips of the hand this time,” I warn her with narrowed eyes, and step up to take my turn. I’m about thirty seconds in when she plants her foot behind my knee, making my leg give out, and I lose the ball. “Seriously?”

“Are you okay?” she asks with wide eyes. “It looked like your knee buckled or something.”

“Yeah, because you pushed it.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

I lean in and kiss her. “You’re a dirty cheater.”

“Me?”

“You’re the only other one here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if it makes you feel better, you can take another turn.”

I laugh and step back, hands in the air. “No, you take another turn, hotshot. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be a while,” she says with a sassy grin, and turns her back to me so she can go to work on some pinball.

I shake my head and walk to the kitchen. I pull the crème brûlée my mom prepared earlier today out of the fridge and sprinkle sugar on top, fire up the blowtorch, and melt it down to a hard, golden brown. Placing the dishes on a tray, I make two decaf coffees, adding a little sugar and cream, add them to the tray, and after grabbing spoons and napkins, I carry it all into the playroom to find London bouncing and yelling at the machine.

“Take that, you motherfucker,” she says, her voice fierce. “I’ve got you now.”

“This isn’t the pinball Olympics,” I remind her, and set the tray on the table beside her. “You’re not in the running for a medal or anything.”

“I might be a little competitive,” she replies, and then sighs when the ball slips by her. “Damn it.”