I am…dumbfounded. Ryan doesn’t know what to do with that. He looks between me and Finn.
“We’re good for the day, Ryan,” I say. “You can head out for the evening. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Finn steps back to let Ryan leave. Then he bustles into my office and puts a binder in the center of the desk, like he’s setting up for a pitch meeting.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Finn extends his hand to me. “Finn Hughes. I’m here to discuss a potential donation to the Morelli Fund.”
I shake his hand because this is so bizarre and so wrong. “I’d like to discuss you leaving my office. Immediately.”
Finn sits. He looks up at me, eyes wide with hope and resignation, until I sit, too.
“Before I go, there’s a particular project I want the Morelli Fund to work on.”
“Again, I don’t see how—”
“It’s for the Dementia Foundation.”
Oh God. Here I was, all set to be steely and unforgiving. But with Finn’s hazel eyes looking into mine with despair covered in a thin layer of hope, I can’t quite follow through on kicking him out.
I’ll have to get used to it eventually.
I fold my hands on the desk. “You’re fully capable of starting and funding your own foundation.”
Finn flips past the first few pages of his hard-copy presentation and holds the cover open. There, in plain, printed text, is the proposed structure of the project as directed by the Morelli Fund.
He glances at it, then back at me. “I don’t want my own foundation.”
His voice is so low, and so rough with regret, that I make fists under the desk instead of reaching for him. My hurt and anger are like a knot around my heart. The longing, though? That’s worse. It’s a thousand extra pebbles spilled into one of my terrariums. The balance is all off.
And I can see that longing reflected in Finn’s eyes. His hand flexes on the desk, his fist closing tight and opening again.
“Have you seen a doctor?” he asks.
“The baby is none of your concern. Neither is my pregnancy. That’s what happens when you tell someone they were a good time, but it’s over.”
His mouth tightens. This is not part of his pitch. Not even in the realm of what we’re supposed to be discussing. But it’s been so heavy to keep this to myself. To just…wake up with it every day. Go to sleep with it every night.
All I want him to say is that he wants this baby with me. I know it’s impossible.
Finn’s hand flexes on his pitch binder. “Your pregnancy is a concern to me, Eva. And so are you.”
“I can handle making an appointment.”
“But you haven’t made one yet?”
“No,” I admit.
Finn glances at the presentation, then back at me. He’s the acting CEO of Hughes Industries. He knows better than to derail philanthropic meetings with personal, emotional bullshit. “When did you find out?”
“An hour after you broke up with me.”
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Eva.”
“Oh—did you want more details? Here’s how it went, Finn. I took twenty-four pregnancy tests and then shut down emotionally. I’m still in denial. And I’m still pissed at you.”
“I’m sorry.” The corners of Finn’s mouth turn down. The skin around his eyes is tight. He means this apology. “That I made you feel like you were alone. This child is our responsibility. Together.”
Ugh. That’s the thing. I don’t want to be his responsibility. I want to be more.
A bolt of understanding shoots through me.
This is why Sophia gets so frustrated with me for never needing her. For insisting on this one-sided duty, where I give, and nobody can give back to me. It’s a strangely fresh perspective. I’ve never allowed myself to be on the other side. Now that Finn’s turned it on me…
“Seriously, Finn. Why are you here? To ask me about a doctor? I’ll see a doctor. Don’t worry about it.”
“I am worried about it. Also, I wanted to ask you to reconsider my proposal.”
It didn’t take him long, did it? I’m pissed again. My expression drops into a Morelli glare. Not appropriate for a potential donor meeting, but if this is what he has to say?
“There was no proposal. There was an edict from King Hughes.”
He takes his hand from the proposal deck. “Do you want me to ask?”
“That’s beside the fact that I would say no.”
Another shadow across the hazel of his eyes. “Do you want me to beg?”
It wouldn’t hurt. “No. I want you to leave.”
Finn glares back at me. “Do you want me to get on one knee in front of everyone in Bishop’s Landing?”
“Now you’re just mocking me.” Also, yes. Yes, I want that very much. I’ve never wanted it with anyone else, but I want everyone to know he loves me. I don’t want some bullshit fake proposal. I want the real thing, and I want everyone to see it.
He sighs. “You know that getting married is what’s best for the child.”
“Why?” I fire the question at him like a demand. It is a demand. “So he can have a father, or so he can join the Hughes cult of secrets? I’m not doing that. I’m not raising a child in a home where he knows he’s not wanted.”
Finn scowls, leaning back an inch like he can make this less painful if there’s more space between us. He looks young and pissed and passionate. And he looks tired beyond his years.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t refute the argument that he doesn’t want this baby. I don’t even expect him to.
I sit up straight. Regain control. “I need time to think.”
“No.”
“You need to respect my boundaries, Finn. If there’s any chance of us working this out, you have to.”
“Do you want to work it out?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. We might both be better off going our separate ways.”
He closes the cover of the presentation and stands. “I’m leaving this pitch deck here for you to read. Please get in touch when you’re finished. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
There’s so much more he wants to say. It’s written all over his face and in every tense line of his body.
Is he searching for the right words, too? Part of me wants to tell him there’s nothing he can do to make it up to me. And part of me wants to call off this argument right now.
I don’t want to marry you out of obligation. If you think of me that way, I can’t. If you think of the baby that way, I can’t. I know you’re afraid. I know you didn’t think of me as a duty before. Don’t start now. Please.
None of it is prepared half as well as his pitch deck or even my first attempts at a decent terrarium. The words are a clump of broken cacti and ferns that don’t match. I can’t hand him my broken heart and say here, look. Doesn’t it make sense? Ask me to marry you like you love me. I know you love me. I thought you loved me.
It’s not getting any better. I have the distinct sense that I’m running out of time.
Finn looks at me for another long moment. It’s painful at my very core to be on the opposite side of the desk from him. To be on opposite sides of this argument. We should be on the same team. If nothing else, we should be facing this together.