Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(61)

“Why did you lock your Instagram account?” I blurted.

Julian pulled back to look at me and frowned. “That had nothing to do with you, Finn.” He traced my cheek with his thumb. “Some of the guys I went camping with weren’t thinking about what they were posting. I’m in my last year of law school. In a few months, I’ll be graduating and applying for jobs, and the last thing I need is to have a firm see me tagged in someone’s Instagram pic, doing keg stands with a bunch of drunken idiots.” I looked down at the floor. If he was worried about potential employers knowing he’d cut loose on a beach trip, what would they think if they knew he was sleeping with a divorced single mother with a body in her washing machine? He tipped my chin up. “I don’t have anything to hide from you, and I’m not trying to hide you from anyone else. Parker’s just a roommate. It’s not what you’re thinking. We dated for less than a minute before she graduated last year, and I thought we’d clawed each other’s eyes out the whole time.”

“So you’ve always had a thing for older women?” I joked, feeling like a fool.

“No. I have a thing for smart women.” He towed me with him toward his bed, perching on the edge of it and drawing me onto his lap. “Mature women who are honest with themselves about what they want and aren’t afraid of it.” I felt like an impostor as he leaned in for a kiss. It didn’t feel honest and fearless when we were hiding in his room.

“I should go,” I insisted.

“Stay,” he murmured.

“I gave Vero the night off, and I have to get home to my kids.” His grip loosened on my waist. That one sentence seemed to stretch the distance between us. I climbed off his lap. His mouth turned down as our hands slid apart.

He stood and followed me to his bedroom door. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I can manage.”

“How can I reach you?”

“I’ll get a new phone this weekend.”

He bit his lip, as if there was something he wanted to say. “Call me later?” When I nodded, he dipped low for another kiss. His mouth was teasing and warm, beer and sand and sunshine, and I couldn’t resist drawing out that short, bittersweet taste of him before leaving his room.

I showed myself to the door, ignoring the appraising looks, stepping over someone’s abandoned shoes and resisting the urge to carry the greasy paper plates on the floor to the trash can. Parker glanced my way and I pasted on a smile, feeling guilty for reasons I couldn’t put my finger on. As if I had come looking for something in this apartment that never should have been mine.





CHAPTER 27


My mother’s Buick was parked in front of my house when I arrived home from Julian’s. Mrs. Haggerty, who must have heard the rattle in my engine, peeled back her curtains as I turned in to my driveway, and I offered her a good-natured wave. She wasn’t horrible, I reminded myself. She was just lonely and bored. In another thirty or forty years, that could be me—the old lady who lived in a big house all alone, who joined the neighborhood watch just to keep life interesting. Hopefully because I didn’t still have a dead guy in my washing machine.

As I reached for the kitchen door, I noticed the trash can lid was askew. I lifted it to find it full of empty five-gallon bags—the kind ice cubes were sold in for parties. Dripping cartons of Ben & Jerry’s, bags of soggy vegetables, and thawed tater tots filled the bottom of the bin. My washing machine probably looked like a beer cooler, but at least Carl was cold.

I settled the lid on the can and pushed open the kitchen door. My mother stood at my counter, unloading bags of groceries. One of Vero’s scented candles burned on the kitchen table, probably to mask any hint of Carl.

“Hey, Ma,” I said, planting a kiss on her cheek. “This is a surprise. What’s all this?”

“I’m making dinner.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason to cook for my grandchildren?”

“Not as long as I get to eat, too. What are you making?”

“Pot roast,” she said, emptying a bag of carrots and digging in my cabinets for a cutting board. My mouth watered. My mother’s pot roast was, arguably, better than sex. The smell of it, cooking low and slow in the oven, was the nearest I’d come to a tantric experience.

Vero sat at the kitchen table, nibbling on a cookie. Zach perched on her lap, his face dusted with crumbs, his hands reaching greedily for a plate piled high with snickerdoodles. I gave each of my children a kiss and took a cookie for myself.

“Have a seat,” my mother said, cracking open a bottle of red wine. Only a third of a cup went into her recipe. The rest she poured into two glasses, setting one in front of me and one in front of Vero.

“I could get used to this,” Vero said, holding Zach’s wiggly bottom in place with one hand while she washed down her cookie with the other. I sank back into my chair, my body going warm and languid as the wine softened the edges of my very rough day.

Oil sizzled on the stove, the kitchen filling with the savory smells of garlic and onion powder as Mom seared the roast. She fell into a steady rhythm of peeling and chopping. After a few minutes, she confiscated the plate of cookies from the table, wiping the children’s hands and sending them off to play.

“So,” she said, layering the meat and vegetables into the roasting pan. “How was your date with Nicholas?”