Page 150 of Unmanageable

I reach out, my hands finding her waist. Her skin is ice-cold, but the heat between us is instantaneous. I pull her flush against me, my mouth finding the damp, sweet curve of her neck.

She lets out a low, needy moan, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her nails tracing the muscles of my back with a possessive, frantic hunger.

“I’m freezing,” she breathes against my ear, her teeth grazing my lobe. “Fix it, Finn.”

I don’t need to be told twice.

We collapse onto the thick sheets, a tangle of heat and desperate limbs. My hands roam over her, claiming every inch, from the curve of her hip to the small of her back.

I slide into her, the connection so intense it feels like the world outside the cabin has ceased to exist. We move together in the quiet, the only sound the rustle of the sheets and the ragged, beautiful noise of us finding our rhythm.

She pulls me closer, her legs tightening around me, her eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in the friction and the flame. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

She lets out a sharp, breathless cry, her body trembling under mine as the tension snaps, sending us both spiraling into the dark.

We lie there for a long time afterward, tangled in the blankets, the silence of the woods wrapping around us.

“You’re a very good anchor, Finny,” she whispers into the darkness.

“And you,” I say, kissing the top of her damp head, “are a very dangerous siren.”

Outside, I can hear Brick trying to convince Nico that he can definitely catch a bat with a butterfly net. The chaos is still there, waiting for us. But here, in the quiet, with the smell of pine and Scottie Reed in my arms, the game is finally, perfectly won.

***

The peace lasts exactly six hours.

I am pulled from a dreamless sleep by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor in the kitchen, followed immediately by Brick’s voice booming through the thin wooden walls.

“IT’S AN EMULSION, NICO! YOU HAVE TO WHISK LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT!”

I groan, burying my face in the crook of Scottie’s neck.

“Why is he screaming about chemistry at 7:00 AM?” she mutters, her voice a sleep-roughened rasp that is entirely too attractive.

“He’s not. He’s cooking,” I sigh, pulling the duvet over our heads. “Which, in Brick’s world, is a contact sport.”

A moment later, a sharp, distinct burning smell drifts under the door.

“If they burn down this cabin before I’ve had coffee, I will actually file for a restraining order against the entire roster,” Scottie says, sitting up and reaching for my discarded flannel shirt on the floor.

She tosses it on, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, and begins buttoning it with a grim, practiced efficiency. I tug on a pair of sweatpants before following her into the kitchen.

We emerge from the bedroom to find the kitchen transformed into a disaster zone.

There is flour on the ceiling. I don’t know how it got there, and honestly, I don’t want to know.

Brick is standing over a griddle, wearing nothing but his boxers and his snorkel mask—which is currently pushed up into his hair—while Nico is frantically beating a bowl of batter like it’s a personal enemy.

Dean is sitting at the small wooden table, hunched over his laptop with a look of profound suffering, a literal stack of napkins between him and the chaos.

“I’ve already looked up the cleaning deposit,” Dean says without looking up. “We’ve lost it. It’s gone.”

“MORNING, CASHY!” Brick bellows, flipping a pancake with so much force it hits the ceiling and stays there. He doesn’t even blink. “We’re making O’Connell-style flapjacks! High protein! High stakes!”

Jenna wanders in from the porch, looking reasonably refreshed in a silk robe, still sparkling with last night’s leftover glitter. She’s holding a carafe of orange juice and a bottle of champagne.

“I found the solution to the noise,” she announces, setting them down. “It’s called a mimosa.”