Page 6

“Hi, Finn Miller.”

“Looking as beautiful as you did in my dreams.”

“Shut up,” I say, my cheeks aching from smiling at him.

He plucks my carry-on out of my hand. “I already grabbed your stuff.” He lengthens the handle of my ruby-red suitcase at his side. “I didn’t see any others that looked like yours. Unless, of course, you did one of your infamous shopping sprees because you hated everything you packed …”

I bump him with my shoulder, which he absorbs like nothing, and then walk next to him toward the doors.

“You always bring that up,” I say. “But I only did that once.”

“No, you’ve done it twice. Once in New York City and I had to carry that duffel bag for miles. And the other time in Kismet Beach, because you swore you could live out of a carry-on for a four-day trip, and that lasted about forty-five minutes from the moment we landed.”

“There were sales,” I say, making a face at him. “I bought all that stuff for the price of one pair of shoes. It was practically free.”

He shakes his head as if I exhaust him. I might even believe him if his dimples weren’t sinking deeper into his cheeks.

In our two years as friends with benefits, we’ve honed our craft. I get the best parts of Finn Miller—flirting, fucking, and an actual friendship—without having to deal with icky stuff like feelings. He gets the best parts of me—banter, blowjobs, and breathing room—without having to deal with gross expectations.

It’s an incredible setup for both of us. When it works.

The air is thick and balmy, laden with rain and exhaust fumes, as we reach the sidewalk. Finn’s black SUV is parked along the curb with its hazard lights flashing.

“Benefits of coming in so late,” he says, opening the passenger’s side door. “Hop in.”

“Thank you.”

He closes it behind me and tosses my bags in the back.

The leather seat, already preheated because I hate how cold he keeps every living space he controls, is soft and inviting. I sink into it, letting the heat soak into my muscles, and sigh happily.

“Did you see your burger?” he asks, climbing in and buckling up.

“Huh?”

“Your burger.” He checks his blind spot and then pulls away from the curb. “I got you a Dr Pepper, too.”

I glance at the center console. A fast-food bag is perched behind the gear shifter, and a to-go cup is in the holder.

“You’re the best,” I say, dragging the bag to my lap. “I haven’t eaten since … last night, I think. Well, I had a crappy breakfast sandwich in the airport. I’m starving, and I’m nasty.”

“Just how I like you.”

I laugh, roll my eyes, and open the bag. “What have you been up to this week?”

“Not much. Getting ready for training camp. Working out, watching tape, going over new installs—that kind of thing. Frutter called a couple of days ago and wanted to throw some passes, so I met with him at the park and ran some routes.” He shrugs. “Just flipping the switch from summer to season, you know?”

I nod, unable to speak because my mouth is full of a delicious burger.

This is one of the things, besides his dick, that I like most about Finn. His work ethic is unmatched. He takes his job seriously, and that’s such a turn-on, even if it means that I only get to see him a day or two a week during the season. Because if there’s one thing I learned growing up, it’s to appreciate hard work. Both of my parents worked their asses off and were still the best, most involved parents. It’s easy to imagine Finn doing the same.

With his future wife. Not with me.

I’m here for a fun time, not a long time.

“Had a meeting with Chuck, too,” he says, gripping the steering wheel. The muscles in his forearm flex with the movement. “He’s pissed because I’ve been turning down every endorsement that hits his desk. Apparently, I’m making it very hard for him to make money off me.”

“Chuck’s your agent, right?”