Hot Mess - Elise Faber Page 0,12

called him honey?

Because he was gorgeous, because she used the word honey a lot with her students, with Rylie, with—

Because his eyes were the color of honey.

Dripping, golden honey, warmed and readied to be poured over hot oatmeal or dribbled into her tea, or—

Those eyes were on hers, questions in their depths.

Shan got moving. Peanut butter, cups, and the blender from the cabinets, milk from the fridge. Realizing she’d left the apples on the table, she moved to get them, but Finn asked, “Where are you going?”

She froze. “Um . . . we need apples to have peanut butter milk and apples.”

“I’ll get them.”

“Oh—” A shake of her head. “You don’t have to. I can—”

He left the room.

Shannon’s mouth fell open, trying to remember when Brian had ever offered to get something for her, much less had actually gone to get it when she said he didn’t have to.

And, damn.

Brian invading her thoughts again.

She was really fucking tired of that.

Pretty hard for her ex to not be doing that. Especially when she’d spoken with her lawyer that morning and had heard her only course of action was to contest the divorce and hope a judge would allow her to do it so late in the process.

Almost done with Brian . . . and then pulled right back in.

Now, wasn’t that the story of her life?

Finn walked back in on the heels of that thought, basket in his hands, gorgeous face open and relaxed. And yet, she had the notion that it was a mask, that his inside was as messed up as hers.

Twisted, knotted, damaged . . .

And she was just standing there again.

Finn grabbed three apples from the basket, not two, and warmth filled her. Without a word or prompt, this man had thought of her daughter.

A curl of cynicism wove through her, quickly chasing away that warmth.

Hell, he was a big guy. He was probably planning on eating two apples himself. But just as she was going down the dark spiral of cursing all men on Earth, Finn held up one shining red fruit. “Will Rylie be too full for another apple?” A beat. “Or have tummy trouble?”

Cynicism disappeared.

Hope bubbled. Okay, maybe there was more than one good guy in the world (that one good guy being, Derek, Pepper’s husband, of course), because this man, quite literally bearing fruit, remembering that her daughter would want a snack, too, being nice and funny, even though she was just a neighbor, was displaying serious good guy street cred. Well, that and using a phrase like tummy trouble.

Her lips tipped up. “Tummy trouble?”

A shrug, but his profile gave her a glimpse of a slightly-reddened swathe of cheek, one stripe of pink skin topping the dark brown stubble adorning his jaw. “My sister has reinforced in me the danger of too much fruit.”

“Why does there seem to be more to that story?”

More red.

But less talking.

“Finn.” Her teacher voice came out unintentionally, something that Brian had always hated, something she didn’t use on purpose, but also . . . something that just happened sometimes.

Instead of getting mad, however—like Brian would have done—Finn turned enough to meet her stare. “That tone is dangerous,” he teased. “Threatens to make a man want to give up all of his secrets.”

Her breath caught as she wondered what kind of secrets this gorgeous man might have, but just as she was mentally paging through the possibilities of him being a secret agent or a professional surfer or an Italian chef, he asked, “Can you tell me where your knives and cutting boards are?”

Surfer. With tanned skin like that, he was either a surfer or an Italian chef, but he was here in Stoneybrooke. In a cottage on the beach. So, surfing.

Definitely that.

Though an Italian chef, one who specialized in all types of pasta, would be awesome.

Also . . . special agent was still a possibility, especially with those secrets in his gaze.

“Shannon?”

“Hmm?” she murmured, lost in the image of him prowling down the street, taking out bad guys left and right. What? Yes, she knew it was unrealistic. No, the idea of him handcuffing her, pinning her against the wall, or better yet on a bed was a bad one. But still tempting—

She shook her head, snapping herself out of it.

Though, maybe she was finally snapping out of it, of how she’d been with Brian, of how she’d shrunk into herself, trying not to feel anything, including desire, in an effort to not be hurt again.

Because desire was