My brow knits. Sharing custody with grandparents is unusual. But I do my best not to pry since I wouldn’t like it if he did it to me. “He seems like a happy kid.”
“He is. I’m very lucky,” Finn says, beaming like he’s glowing inside. “I’ve been getting to know him for the last eight months. I didn’t know I had a kid until then, so it’s been an adjustment. But a damn good one.”
That’s huge, and now I’m dying to know more, maybe over pizza. Finn opens the fridge, takes out a red and white box, and says, “This is from Zach’s favorite place. But his eyes are bigger than his stomach, so there’s plenty for any ridiculously sexy pizza lovers in the kitchen right now.”
But when Finn opens the box of half-eaten pizza, I wince. There’s sausage on it. I suppose I can just pick around it though. “Looks good,” I say, upbeat.
Finn tilts his head, studying my expression. “You don’t sound sure.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s great,” I say with false brightness. It just seems so rude to turn the food down after I went on about my love of pizza.
“Ah,” he says, realization dawning. “You don’t eat meat.” The man is too intuitive when it comes to me, and the weird part is I don’t mind. I kind of like when he figures me out. When I don’t have to spell out my wishes. I don’t know what to make of that feeling though, so I try to set it aside.
“I don’t. But I can pick it off. It’s a vegetarian life hack,” I say, making light of it. “It’s no big deal.”
He scoffs, then shuts the box, saying goodbye to the pizza. “A better life hack is getting you what you want. I want you to have a meal. Not something that you have to…reassemble.”
It’s just food. But I like his insistence. “I like Asian cuisine. Noodles and tofu and veggies and anything with spice.”
That earns me a sly grin. “You like it hot?”
I’ll take that innuendo and run with it. “The hotter the better.”
He groans, then steps closer. “It’s strange that I find your love of spicy food attractive. But…” he says, holding my chin, “I do.”
I shiver, torn between wanting to get to know him more, to ask questions about his son, and wanting a kiss. But he’s shifted gears, so maybe he doesn’t want to talk about family anymore. I part my lips, letting a kiss win. He sweeps one across my mouth, making me gasp before letting go.
He turns away, and as he orders food from his phone, I notice an open window letting in that tempting smell of honeysuckle. With a deep inhale, I savor the scent as he keeps busy on the screen. Does he have a garden past the kitchen? Does Zach play in it? Does my father hang out with Finn and his son right here in this house? Has he been in this kitchen? Cracked open a beer? Eaten a meal?
I rub my temple, trying to scrub away the thoughts that don’t go with honeysuckle as Finn puts down the phone. “Should be here in twenty,” he says, studying me. “What are you thinking?”
You don’t want to know.
I flash my all is good here smile. “Nothing,” I lie.
His expression darkens and he looks at me skeptically. “I don’t believe you.”
It’s impossible to dance around the truth with him, so I exhale heavily, then ask, “Are you running on Sunday with my dad? I heard you two talking about it in his office.” Maybe acknowledging this discomfort will defuse it. Let me move past it, at least for the rest of the night.
But his expression falters, turning somber, and I’ve ruined this moment. This perfect night that’s happening out of time, outside of consequences.
“Yes. That’s the plan,” he says.
“Will that be hard for you?”
“I don’t like lying. Lying eats away at you,” he says, and he’s clearly speaking from experience, but whether he was the liar or the lied to, I don’t know.
“It can,” I say, tentatively. I don’t think I want to know more. It’s too heavy for a one-time thing.
“But I can’t find it in me to feel an ounce of regret over fucking you,” he says, holding my gaze, his eyes intense. “Do you? Regret tonight?”
How could I? I’ve wanted him since the first masquerade. And I’d much rather talk about us than about my dad, as it turns out. “No. I’ve been thinking of you too. Ever since I summoned you at the piano,” I say, enjoying admitting that.
“I had a feeling you were calling me over,” he says, lips curved up. “Now, tell me, Jules. Are you now as much of a fan of sex as you are of jammies?”
I smile, warming to his change of topic, my cheeks flushing. My stomach swoops as he wraps an arm around my waist. “It was better than my fantasies,” I admit.
“I bet you have very elaborate fantasies,” he says.
“I do.”
“Are you sure it was better?” He doesn’t sound uncertain—more like he’s playing with me. Like he’s flirting us right into our next bedroom liaison.
I wriggle against his hard frame. “I don’t know. Try again later and see.”
“Mmm,” he says, then nuzzles my neck. “Worth it.” He draws a deeper breath. “You wore Summer Day.”
“Well, you like it just a little,” I deadpan.
“I’m obsessed with the way you smell,” he adds. “And the way you look.” He fiddles with a button on my shirt. “In my clothes.”
I strike a pose, enjoying my…after-sex costume. “I do like this shirt,” I say coyly.
“So much you should wear it home,” he says.
“Like a sex trophy?”
“Exactly, Jules,” he says, and it turns out I do like getting to know him as much as I enjoy kissing him.
So much that I have to satisfy my curiosity. “Do you have a thing for honeysuckle? I smell it outside the window. I noticed it when I arrived.”
“There’s a shrub in the little yard. It was there when I moved in several months ago. Do you like it?”
“It’s pretty. It reminds me of…”
But am I really going to say it reminds me of my first teenage fantasies? To tell him it makes me think of an afternoon tryst on a hot day, the kind I used to daydream about when I first thought about sex, when I first craved a man’s touch, and now already it reminds me of you?
That’s a lot for a one-night stand.
“What does it remind you of?” he prompts. He’s not going to let me get away without answering.
But maybe I can say a little.
“Wanting,” I say, and that seems like more than enough. “It reminds me of wanting.”
Finn lets out a low rumble. “Then now it will remind me of you.” He holds my gaze with a particular intensity that emboldens me.
“How old are you?” I ask.
He smiles softly, perhaps a little embarrassed. “Forty.” There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for a reaction from me. Shock? Surprise? But that’s not what I’m feeling. I’m feeling like forty is the sexiest age ever.
And I’m getting the sense he wants to know I think that. “A very sexy forty,” I add.
“And you are…?”