Authors: Julie Johnson
As soon as the dilapidated Victorian came into view, I bolted for the stairs and rushed inside, chilled to the bone and sopping wet. Rather than drip water all the way to my bedroom, I immediately peeled the t-shirt over my head and shimmied out of my sodden jeans, leaving them in a
damp pile on the kitchen floor.
Dropping my backpack beside the door, I walked into the living room in just my bra and panties and hurried toward my bedroom. My teeth were chattering with cold and my hair was dripping, the long dark tendrils tangled and plastered around my torso. I couldn't get to the shower fast enough, desiring nothing more than to stand beneath the torrent and let the heat gradually sink back into my bones.
A loud, appreciative whistle sounded from the couch and stopped me in my tracks.
“Do you always walk around like that or did you just know I was coming over?”
I
knew
I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning
Finn
lounged on my couch, completely relaxed, staring at me with an amused grin on his face.
Throwing my hands in front of my chest I tried to cover my most crucial girl-parts, strategically rearranging my hair so it blocked his view of my chest. Miracle of miracles, I was wearing lacy boyshorts, rather than of one of my skimpier sets that left little to the imagination.
“It was raining,” I stammered, completely mortified by his presence but damned if I was going to let it show. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”
“I came over with Ty. He and Lexi disappeared into her room, oh—” he glanced at his watch. “–about a half hour ago.” He was still grinning at me, clearly pleased with himself.
“Fine. Whatever. I’m going to shower.”
“Is that an open invitation?” he asked, waggling his dark eyebrows at me. An involuntary laugh burst from my lips before I could stop it.
“You
may well be the cockiest guy I’ve ever met,” I decided, still laughing.
“Thank you,” he said with a laugh.
“It wasn’t a compliment.” I shook my head, exasperated. “You do realize that you’re ridiculous, right? And that it’s never going to work on me?”
“Sweetheart,” he smirked, “It doesn’t really matter what you think, so long as the rest of the female student body disagrees.” His eyes continued to roam up and down the length of my body, and I promptly flipped him off.
“Ass,” I muttered, walking into my bedroom and firmly shutting and locking the door behind me. I wouldn’t put it past Finn to simply barge in and hop in the shower with me.
How c
ould anyone seriously be attracted to him? Yes, I admit, he was godly to look at and yes, he had that whole tortured-musician vibe working for him, but his cocky attitude was a complete turnoff.
After a long, scalding hot shower, I padded back out into the living room dressed in my comfiest sweatpants and a tank top. My wet hair hung loose to my waist as I yanked a brush through it, trying to work out the snarls.
Finn, still fully at ease on the sofa, didn’t even look up from the television as I made my approach.
“You’re still here?” I asked, irritated that he was taking up the entire couch. His eyes flicked briefly away from the screen, making a swift appraisal of my sweats, lack of makeup, and wet hair before returning to his show.
“I told you, I’m waiting for Ty,” he said. “Are you always so cranky?”
“Only when random boys barge into my home, proposition me, and then take up all the room on my couch,” I retorted. “Can you at least scoot over?”
He sighed, as if completely inconvenienced my by request, before shifting his legs off the cushions and onto the floor.
“
So
sorry to disturb you,” I said, settling onto the couch with a deep sigh of resignation.
“You should be,” he smirked, “I was pretty comfy.”
“Ugh!” I groaned, chucking a pillow at his head. “You are beyond obnoxious.” He easily dodged my throw before settling back into the cushions, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I huffed, exasperated, before crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him. If he had a superpower, it wouldn’t be his singing ability or even his irresistible attractiveness – it would undoubtedly be his ability to piss me off like no one else.
“Don’t pout,” he mocked, “It promotes wrinkles.”
I chose to ignore him, turning my attention to the movie and attempting to relax. To my great surprise, we were able to stop bickering long enough for a comfortable silence to descend. Aside from the occasional giggle or moan emanating from the direction of Lexi’s room, the apartment was still and quiet. After almost an hour had passed, I heard the rhythm of Finn’s breathing change, growing deeper and steadier with each inhale. Sure enough, when I glanced over he was fast asleep.
He looked peaceful, almost childlike. His angular cheekbones were softened by the fading afternoon light, his dark hair was tousled, his mouth
– usually firmly fixed in a condescending smile – was slackened with sleep. I couldn't help but grin at the sight of him, curled up like a young boy with one arm pillowed beneath his head.
Seeing him like this, I could understand why he was so appealing to the hoards of women who constantly trailed in his wake, vying for a minute of his attention. Hell, if he suddenly lost the ability to speak, I’d probably be right there with them. I knew, though, that the sweet sleeping boy before me was an illusion; when he woke, his mouth would quickly twist into a smirk and he’d morph back into an entitled, arrogant jerk. That Adonis-like physique was a total waste when it came packaged with a personality like his.
At least that’s what I tried to tell myself.
I shut off the movie and quietly moved from the couch to the kitchen, so as not to disturb him. Grabbing my iPod off the counter, I slipped in my headphones and flipped to a favorite artist. It was nearly impossible for me to cook, clean, or do any kind of housework without music. My stomach growled as I began to gather dinner ingredients. Ha
ving skipped lunch earlier in my rush to get to class, I was craving Italian – preferably, some of my homemade chicken parmigiana.
Thirty minutes later, the aroma of freshly breaded cutlets and boiling pasta
wafted around the kitchen. I’d made more than a single serving, figuring that Lexi and Tyler would be hungry after…working up an appetite…all afternoon. Laughing softly at the thought, I cleaned up my mess, loading dirty plates into the dishwasher and wiping down the countertops as Bon Iver hummed in my ears. I jumped about a foot when I finally looked up and noticed Finn perched on a barstool, watching me with that unwavering cobalt gaze.
“Jesus! You scared the shit out of me!” I exclaimed, pulling my headphones from my ears. Annoyingly, my heart
was racing and my breaths were much shallower than normal. I planted my hands on my hips and frowned at him. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”
“Sorry,”
Finn yawned, completely unconcerned with my distress. He still looked rumpled and heavy-eyed from his nap. “Is that chicken parm I smell?” He inhaled deeply, clearly appreciative of the smells wafting from the oven. “I think I just fell in love with you.”
I chuckled, turning back to the sink and continuing to rinse the dishes.
Finn swiped my iPod off the counter, scrolling through my list of artists and occasionally grunting in what I assumed was a grudging approval of my eclectic music tastes.
“Well, I’m definitely surprised,” he admitted after perusing for several minutes. “I’d pegged you as more of a Taylor Swift, Justin
Bieber kind of girl.” I snorted openly at this assumption. “But you
are
missing some crucial bands on here. Namely, mine.” He noted.
“When are you going to realize I’m not one of your groupies?”
“Probably never. More importantly, when are we eating? I’m starving.”
“We?” I looked at him quizzically, raising one brow. “Who says I’m feeding you?”
“Oh, come on. You’re killing me here! It smells amazing and I haven’t had a home cooked meal in – come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever had a home cooked meal. My adoptive parents were big into take-out.”
His eyes were di
stant, clouded over as if he was sorting through memories. I glanced at him to see if he was being serious, but I didn’t know him well enough to tell. If he was looking for pity from me, though, he’d be sadly disappointed. His childhood, however lacking in home cooked meals it may have been, couldn't possibly have rivaled my dysfunctional upbringing.
Plus, I’d always had very little tolerance for people who used the shitty hand they’d been dealt by life as a perpetual crutch. Or worse, as an excuse for their later failures. I think the empathy gene may have skipped a generation with me
– then again, taking my father into account, it may have been simply nonexistent in my family lineage.
Finn
broke from his reverie and turned his pleading, puppy dog stare on me.
“Come on, please?”
I was saved from answering as the oven timer chimed, signaling that dinner was ready. With a sigh, I retrieved two plates from the cabinet and heaped them high with big portions of pasta, sauce, and cheese-covered chicken. I slid one across the kitchen island toward Finn and took a seat on the stool beside him.
H
e immediately dug in, showing gusto for food unique to college men, and we ate in companionable silence for several minutes. Finishing in record time, he let out a belch and happily patted his protruding stomach.
“Will you marry me?” he joked.
“Because that was delicious. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
“Well, there are these
new things called
recipe books
…” I smiled teasingly, swirling strands of pasta around the tines of my fork. “Really, anyone can cook. You just have to know how to read and follow basic directions.”
“So you taught yourself?”
“My father wasn’t around much. I had nannies, but they didn’t typically stick around long enough to teach me anything.”
“I bet you drove them away with all that sass, you little troublemaker.” He smiled at the thought.
“Not exactly.” I said, grabbing his empty plate and stacking it on top of mine. “My father usually screwed them and when he inevitably grew bored, he’d hire a replacement. They tended to last longer when he was traveling abroad for business.”
Keeping my tone flat and indifferent, an ability I’d acquired after years of self-discipline, I hoped to discourage any more of
Finn’s questioning – or worse, his pity. I carried our plates to the sink, rinsing them off and loading them into the dishwasher. Transferring all of the leftovers into a Tupperware, I placed it in the fridge where Lexi would be sure to find it if she ever emerged from her bedroom. When I looked up at Finn, he was staring at me with an indecipherable look in his eyes.
“What?” I snapped defensively. This was exactly why I didn’t talk about my childhood.
“Nothing,” he said, looking away. “That just sounds…lonely, I guess.”
I shrugged, having no other reply to offer him. I didn’t want to talk about my past, especially not with a guy I barely knew. I was trying to think of a way to change the subject when
Finn, to my surprise, did it for me.
“Come on,” he said abruptly, grabbing my hand and towing me from the kitchen.
“Let go of me!” I squealed, attempting to tug my hand from his grasp. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You’ve got real trust issues, you know that right?”
Finn said without breaking stride and continuing to drag me along in his wake. “We’re going to get dessert. You’ll thank me later – take my word for it.”
“I’m not sure your word is worth much of anything,” I grumbled, grudgingly allowing myself to be towed along.
“Ouch,” he said. “I don’t know how much longer my ego can take this abuse.”
“Well, considering its massive size, it should take more than a few of my insults to chip away at it.”
We were both laughing as we stepped out onto the patio and made our way down the stairs. Though the rain had stopped, moisture lingered heavily in the air and the setting sun peeked out from behind dark clouds, staining their edges pink and orange in the fading light. Reaching the bottom of the steps, Finn made his way over to a black motorcycle parked in the driveway behind Lexi’s sedan. He looked down at me warily, as if anticipating an adamant refusal to ever ride such a deathtrap.
I bit my lip to hold back a laugh and nimbly plucked the keys from his hand. Slipping on the too-large helmet, I straddled the bike, pulled out the choke, and started the ignition. I easily shifted into neutral before turning to look at
Finn, who was staring at me open-mouthed.
The look of absolute shock on his face was priceless; I finally lost control and a stream of giggles escaped my lips. Sliding the helmet visor down, I shifted into gear and sped out of the driveway, leaving him in the dust.
Finn’s Ducati handled a bit differently than the vintage ones my father kept in our garage at home, but I soon adjusted to its controls. It had been several years since I’d ridden. Many nights during my high school years, when I’d been desperate to escape my father and his large, soulless house, I’d snuck into the car hanger and taken one of his many toys for a drive. Sometimes, I’d take the Lamborghini, the Bentley, or the vintage Aston Martin, but on the nights I’d craved rushing wind and dangerous speeds, I’d always preferred the motorcycles.