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He nods once, eyes never leaving my necklace. “You’ll take notes?”
“I will.”
Resting his chin in his hand, he lets a bit of his smile return. “What else?”
“Several designs and brand updates need your approval. Your PR manager wanted to talk to you about a few interview opportunities for next month. And—” Wow. This is actually physically painful. “—I’ve decided to handle all the planning myself, so I was wondering if you preferred an indoor or outdoor wedding, Finn.”
He stops twisting his chair as his gaze jumps up to my face and his lips part.
When he snaps his mouth closed, red slashes across his skin.
Catching his affliction, I turn on my heel and clap my hand to my mouth. Because I may very well puke.
“Did you just say my—”
“No!” I blurt, choking on pride, embarrassment, the piece of pumpkin pie I snitched on my way out the door this morning. Even knowing full well I’d have to order breakfast minutes after getting here. “That never happened. You’re hallucinating.” Battling the incessant beat of my heart, I say, “What do you want for breakfast?”
“You.”
My organs give out.
I chance a glance back at…Finn, find him looking hopelessly handsome, and forget how to breathe for longer than is wholly recommended. I wish with every atom in me that he’d start clicking his pen and make me hate him all over again.
He does not oblige.
At long last, I take in a breath I don’t know I’m withholding, wet my lips, and force down a swallow.
Finn threads his fingers together and props his chin in the canopy. “I take it something in my answers resonated with you?”
Every last word felt like coming home.
Every last answer was a love letter responding to my own.
His words were stable. Funny. Endearing. They reflected a thoroughness I’m addicted to. In them, I felt understood.
Seen.
Wanted.
I’m so scared I could cry and hit things.
Finn melts a little in on himself, murmuring, “Well, if you aren’t on the menu, I guess I’ll have an onion bagel with egg, bacon, and cheese. Deconstructed. Butter on the side.”
What a metaphor.
Despite absolutely, one thousand percent not being on the menu, I’m feeling somewhat deconstructed myself. “Anything to drink?”
“Pumpkin spice latte. Hot.”
Why does that sound like an innuendo?
Why do I feel in over my head?
I have regrets.
Immediate, soul-sucking regrets.
“Marcella.”
