Hot Mess - Elise Faber Page 0,38

her ear. “You’ve got a deal.” A beat. “Cute jammies, by the way.”

A snort. “Really?”

“They’re adorable.” He grinned. “I’ve always loved sheep.”

Those pretty blue eyes danced with laughter. “You can’t help but be charming, can you?”

“It’s a gift.”

She took a sip from her mug.

“Coffee this late at night?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Hot chocolate.” She extended the cup. “Want some?”

He wanted something, and it wasn’t hot chocolate. His mouth watered with the desire, the need to kiss her, to touch her again. “No, thanks.”

She shrugged, leaned forward to place the mug on the table again.

They sat in silence for several long moments before Shan turned back to face him again, studying him closely, searching his eyes, the heavy weight of her stare almost tangible as it traced over him.

“What is it?”

The corners of her mouth tipped up. “I just realized why I came over here tonight.”

Finn tilted his head to the side. “Was it not for my charming personality?”

That mouth curving further. “No, honey. I came over here because I wanted to kiss you again.”

Lightning through his veins.

He sat up straight, the statement pretty much the last one he’d expected to come off her tongue. “What—?”

“Is that okay?” she asked, standing up and spinning to face him, then sitting back down, only this time astride his thighs. “Is this okay? I’ve been promising myself I’d do less worrying, that I’d start living and feeling and just . . . going for it.” Her expression became tinged with shy. “Is that—well, I mean . . . is that—”

His words wouldn’t come, at least until the moment she faltered, the moment uncertainty crept into her face.

Then Finn found himself unfrozen.

“Yeah, Blue Eyes,” he said, sliding one hand behind her head, dropping the other to her waist and tugging her close. “That’s more than okay.”

He kissed her.

And later, when he’d walked her to her front door, pressed a gentle kiss to swollen and slightly-reddened lips, he was beyond grateful that he’d bought the house.

Beyond. Grateful.

The phone call came when he was already in bed that night a few days later, having missed Rylie and Shannon for dinner because of his trip to the next town and because they’d both been busy with Back to School Night.

Now it was almost eleven, he’d been tucked into bed with a script open on his computer, and Shan had said she and Rylie would come over for breakfast in the morning, since it was Saturday.

He was going to make French toast.

With chocolate sauce—per Ry’s suggestion.

Grinning and lost in the memory of her fist-pump upon sight of Lizzy, as they’d all walked to school that morning, Finn jumped when his phone buzzed again. He set his laptop to the side, picked up his cell, glanced at the screen . . . and felt his heart seize.

Lexy.

His sister.

His younger sister. Who’d told him to go. Who—

Buzz. Buzz.

Whose call he was going to miss if he didn’t pick up the damn phone.

Scrambling, he swiped his finger across the screen. “Lex?”

“Finn.” A shaky breath. “I’m here.”

“Here, where?”

“On your porch.”

He sat bolt upright in bed, heart clenching again. “On my porch,” he repeated. “In Stoneybrook?”

“Y-yes.”

The cell hit the bed the same moment his feet hit the hardwood floor. Then he took off for the front door, footsteps pounding down the hall, and he hauled ass for the person he could see silhouetted by the overhead lights through the window in the white wood.

He reached for the knob, wrenched open the door.

“Lex.”

“Finn,” she said, her expression unreadable.

He opened his arms.

She took a faltering step forward and fell into them.

Then she was crying.

Then Finn was crying as he tugged her inside, leading her over to the couch. All the while, Lexy’s tears didn’t stop, great wrenching sobs that soaked through the T-shirt he wore, heartbreaking pain that sliced through him with each hiccupping breath that passed through her lungs.

His own eyes were burning, leaking hot tears down his cheeks, but he did the only thing he could.

Held on to his sister as they both cried.

For everything that had happened. For everything that had changed.

For everything that had been violated and lost.

He didn’t even realize he’d been repeating, “I’m sorry” over and over again until she pushed off his chest, cupped his face in her palms and said, “It’s not your fault.”

“Lex,” he began, voice rough. “I—”

She jostled his face. “It’s. Not. Your. Fault,” she repeated. “Nothing that happened that night was your fault or my fault. It was his fault. He was wrong. He