“I wouldn’t call public service wasting a person’s life, Mr. Sutton.” It’s the tone of voice she uses when she’s putting me in my place, except a shade darker. There’s no teasing in her tone like she reserves for me.
Dad waves her off, stuffing a bite of pie into his mouth. I see red at the gesture, but before I can do or say anything, Finley stops me with a hand on my thigh.
“Firefighting is an extremely difficult industry to break into. And he’s great at his job. Most new businesses fail within five years anyway,” she says. “So he has a much better chance at a steady career than if he were to venture out on his own.”
Dad narrows his eyes, unused to being argued with. I know Mom disagrees with him, that she doesn’t approve of the way he talks to me most of the time, but she’s never stopped him. I’ve only really heard them fight once before. Their disagreements stopped sometime in my childhood. Maybe they do it quietly in private, but I think they mostly don’t care enough to argue anymore.
“And how long has your shop been open, then?”
My jaw clenches, hard enough to crack a tooth, because I know exactly where he’s going with this.
Finley stares my father down, unflinching. “Four years.”
Dad nods, looking smug. “Well, there’s still time for it to fail, then. When you’ve proven yourself, you can start handing out career advice. Until then, I think I know what’s best for my son.”
He digs back into his meal, satisfied. But then Finley says, “Do you?”
His eyes shoot back up to her, hard. “Yes.”
“I’m not sure you know very much at all when it comes to your son.”
The air feels sucked from my lungs, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. But when Finley’s hand tightens on my thigh, something warm seems to spread out from the center of me, suffusing all the parts of me that grew cold the moment we stepped through the door.
Before my father can respond, Finley turns to Mom with a smile on her face. “Thank you so much for dinner, Mrs. Sutton. I hate to cut it short, but Grey and I have somewhere to be. I’d love to come back anytime.”
With that, she stands, her hand slipping from my thigh to tangle with my own. Dad glares at us through angry eyes but doesn’t say another word.
“Th-thank you for coming,” Mom stammers, and my heart pinches when I see the sheen of tears behind her eyes. Dropping Finley’s hand, I move around the table to place a kiss on her cheek, squeezing her shoulder softly.
“I’ll come see you soon,” I say into her ear, quiet enough for only her to hear, and she nods, placing her hand over mine for a second. It’s the most physical affection we’ve shown each other in years, and a sharp pang of regret slices through me at the realization.
Finley’s hand finds mine when I join her once more, and she squeezes it tightly, tugging me down the hall and to the front door. I always feel deep relief walking down this hallway, but today, it’s even more overwhelming. I almost feel as if my knees could buckle with it.
The second we’re out the door, she spins to face me. Her palms slide up my neck to settle on my cheeks, tilting my face down to hers. “Don’t listen to him, okay?”
I nod, wordless.
“Are you okay?”
I take a moment to think before responding. There’s still the gnawing emptiness like every time I leave here, but this time, itfeels different. Because I’m not alone. Finley is here with me, her warm hands cupping my face, her eyes soft and her lips so close to my own.
“Surprisingly, yes,” I say, sounding hoarse. I barely spoke the entire time we were there, and my voice reflects it. Or maybe that’s the emotion clogging my throat.
A small smile curls the corners of her lips. “Good.” And then she kisses me, soft and slow but ending much too soon. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod again, feeling lighter than I ever have when in such close proximity to my childhood home. “I owe you a dessert.”
Her smile stretches wider. “I’m glad you didn’t forget.”
I haven’t invited a woman to my home since I bought this house. I’m not really sure why, but this place, the one I’ve slowly renovated and made my own over the last few years, has felt like a place I only want to bring someone special. Someone like Finley.
“You have a picket fence?” Finley practically squeals as we pull into my driveway.
I swallow thickly, sweat pricking on the back of my neck because I didn’t think this through.
That picket fence dates back to the weekend after Wren and Holden’s wedding, back to when she told me she always dreamed of a house with one.
Palming the back of my neck, I say, “Yeah, in case I ever decide to get a dog. C’mon, we’ve got a dessert to make.”
