Throat burning, heart threatening to turn to mush, I can only look at him and sigh. “Finn, what am I going to do with you?”

His smile is an easy glide, but his eyes hold mine a beat too long. “Keep me. I’m pretty sure I’m good for no one else.”

Before I can answer, he’s off again, helping with the tree, joking with Emily and Glenn. I take pictures, eat the stuffed mushroom caps that Meg sets out on the sideboard, and gingerly sip my nog from hell.

My tongue turns pleasantly numb, and my limbs nice and warm. I’m taking a close up of the little elf man who lives on the shelf—why kids actually want an elf who’s supposed to come alive at night, hanging out in their house is beyond me— when Finn peaks over my shoulder to look at the camera screen.

I nearly yelp but settle down, trying my best not to lean into him. He smells like cinnamon and spiked eggnog, which I find exceedingly delicious at present.

His breath tickles the sensitive skin on my neck. “Can you do selfies with that thing?”

“With a bit of awkward juggling,” I concede.

“That’s what I thought.” The warm wall of his chest presses against my back, as he swings his arm in front of us, holding his phone. “Say, hey!”

He snaps a picture. “And the humble iPhone triumphs over the fancy Nikon.”

I’m still blinking as he brings the phone up to look at the picture and utters a quickly stifled laugh.

I catch a glimpse. “Ack! No!” One of my eyes is closed, and my mouth is open.

Finn hums under his breath. “You look like a confused fish.”

I make a grab for the phone, but he holds it away, chuckling.

“How on earth did you manage that, Chester?”

“Delete it or die, Mannus.”

“All right, but I need another one to replace it with.” Finn’s grinning face is so close, the flecks of navy in his irises are visible. Those happy eyes full of mischief.

“Okay,” I say. “Do it again.”

He adjusts his grip on the phone, lifting it right in front of us. As soon as I feel his arm tense to take the picture, I kiss his cheek.

Finn gives a small start, his breath hitching. Before I can move away, he turns, his eyes a little wide. I’ve shocked him, making first contact.

A smile wavers on my lips. “How was that—”

Finn presses his mouth to mine. The kiss is sweet and swift, a touch of lips to lips, a slight exchange of air. And it still manages to stop my heart and send heat flaring up my thighs.

He backs away just enough to meet my eyes. For one tight second we stare at each other, breathing a bit faster, deeper, as if we’re not sure what just happened. And then he kisses me again. Another soft peck as if to make certain this time is real.

The third kiss is mine. His lips are firm and smooth, addicting.

Finn makes a small noise at the back of his throat, his lips lingering as if he’s simply enjoying the feel of me.

We’re barely touching, barely kissing even, yet it feels almost frantic, as if we have to take what we can get now. My hand rises, fingers clutching his shirt. More. Give me more.

“Yeah, enough of that,” Glenn—the rat bastard—says, suddenly in front of us. “We have a tree to trim and Mom’s hooched up nog to drink.”

Finn’s glare is scary, and I’d run if I were Glenn. But the man seems immune. He gives us a shit-eating grin and backs away, holding up a silver ball ornament like a taunt.

Shaking his head wryly, Finn turns back to me. Meeting his gaze is too much. I can’t kiss him again. Not here. Not now. I won’t be able to stop.

“Kissing in front of the family accomplished,” I blurt out, hating myself as I do.

Ugly heat prickles on my cheeks, as he simply looks at me. I expect to see disappointment. But it’s worse. His expression is one of affection and gentle amusement, as if he’s silently saying, Oh, Chess, who do you think you’re fooling?

“I think,” he says after a long, hellish moment, “we’ll have to practice that play some more.”

With that, he leaves me. And I want to follow.

 

* * *

 

Finn

 

* * *

 

Sunset at Black’s Beach is one of my favorite settings in the word. It’s almost surreal this canvas of gleaming oranges, hot pinks, and turquoise blues. The cliff face flares tangerine in the fading sunlight. The air is cooler now, tinged with briny sea spray.

A few surfers are enjoying an evening ride. I know some of them, but thankfully they haven’t yet recognized me. I need a few moments alone.

Which is why I didn’t invite Chess along, even though I want her to see this place.

I know what her lips feel like now. We’ve kissed. If you even really call what we did kissing. It was PG-13 stuff, quick pecks on the lips. And fuck if those stolen touches, the almost frantic fumblings with her, wasn’t the hottest thing I’ve done in recent memory. First touch of her lips and I was hard. The second, I’d wanted inside her. I’d needed it.

Crazy thing is, it had been so unexpected—her kissing my cheek, me snatching a little taste of her mouth in return—that I’d been coiled tight as a spring, unable to move or do anything but steal a few more kisses like a greedy, horny bastard afraid of having the whole opportunity ripped away from him.

And then it was. She pretended the whole thing was just for show.

Bullshit.

Question is, what do I do about it? Call her on it? Let it ride?

I’ve never been struck by indecision before. In football, you hesitate, you’re done. We train, run drills, practice until reaction is muscle memory and instinct. There is comfort in that. Hell, there’s comfort in knowing that you’re one of the best at something. I know I’m not the best quarterback in the world. Not yet. But I’ll get there. Perfection in this sport comes with experience and finding your groove.

But with Chess. I might as well be in the peewee leagues. I’m bumbling around, not knowing the plays or how to read a line. It’s frustrating as fuck. And I cannot fuck up. Not with Chess. She’s too important.

I’m at a crossroads here.

A small voice inside me is whispering to cut and run while I still can. That’s the easy solution. No failure there. I can back off, treat Chess as a casual friend. The kind I call every couple of months when I have some free time and nothing to do.