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“If you would’ve just shown up, I couldn’t have said no,” I say, tapping out my response. “But it’s not like I’d tell you no anyway.”

Me: Depends.

Finn: I have a business issue that I want to talk to you about before we go out for dinner.

Me: That sounds like a downer.

Finn: I don’t know if I’d say that. I just have to make a choice, and I’d like for you to weigh in.

Me: Wanna call me?

Finn: No, I think this one is better if we talk about it face-to-face.

Me: Do you just want to see my face?

Finn: I miss more than that.

I stare at his words. I normally would’ve had a smart-ass reply fired back his way already. But I’m either weak from not having dick for so long, or I need that pile of vitamins that Mom wants me to take, because this asshole has found my feels.

Me: Be a good boy and I’ll let you see it from various angles tonight.

Finn: Dirty girl.

I glance around the house, calculating how long it’ll take me to get things into some semblance of order. Plus, I still have to take a shower and figure out what I’m going to wear before he gets here.

Me: How long until you think you’ll be here?

Finn: Thirty minutes?

I glance at the clock. “Shit. That’s an hour early.”

Me: I’m not going to be ready to leave when you get here.

Finn: That’s okay. We’re not in a hurry.

Me: Okay. See you soon.

Finn: See you soon.

I shove away from my desk and head to the bathroom. First things first—a shower.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Poppy

“This freaking laundry,” I grumble, shoving the pile I dumped onto the sofa yesterday back into the basket. Unfolded. “It’s going to be the death of me.”

I lug the plastic bin to my room, then give the house a quick once-over. It’s seen better days, mostly because I’ve been trying to clean it, but it’ll have to do. I can’t work miracles in thirty minutes.

The doorbell makes me jump, and I hate how I respond to it like Pavlov’s dog, knowing Finn is on the other side.

Drool. Panting. Trying not to beg.

I guess it fits.

I clear my throat, stopping to inspect my appearance in the mirror in the entryway—tugging the top of my robe so it displays more cleavage and scrunching up the ends of my damp hair—and then I pull open the door. The plan was to appear fine and fuckable. But the asshole showed up looking downright edible.