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Fox is going to have to entertain himself for a few more hours than I’d planned.

Finn:

Have to do Friday drinks with Taylen tonight. If I cancel, he’ll get suspicious. Back late-ish.

Fox’s reply comes almost immediately.

Fox:

Let’s see how quickly I can convince you to cut it short.

Three dots appear. Then a photo loads.

I stop walking.

Fox is standing in my kitchen. He’s wearing the ridiculous Christmas sweater my mother knitted for me three years ago, the one with a moose in a Santa hat that I refuse to wear in public. Except he’s pulled it up, and everything from his chest to the waistband of his jeans is very much on display.

His abs that are way too perfect for someone who’s forty-five. The fucking happy trail of dark hair that disappears below the frame and makes my mouth water.

He’s smirking at the camera.

Finn:

Why, Fox? Why?

Fox:

Cutting drinks short, yet?

Finn:

I hate you.

Fox:

You don’t.

Finn:

I have to go into my office and pretend I did not just receive that.

Fox:

Good luck with that.

I pocket the phone and stare at the exterior brick wall of the Chamber office for a long moment, trying to talk my face into being a normal color before I go back inside.

CHAPTER FOUR

FOX

I’ve been cooped up in Finn’s apartment all day, and I’ve already learned three things about him that I did not know after ten years of hooking up, especially as I’m never here long enough to pay attention to anything but Finn.

One: he owns significantly more romance novels than any man I’ve ever met.

The bookcase by the front door is filled with paperbacks, all with cracked spines and dog-eared corners suggesting frequent re-reading.

Two: he has a type when it comes to authors. There’s a distinct pattern in the names on the shelves: A. Lawton, Griffin Prescott, Ben Brooks, and also a couple by Andrew Cinder.