Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(91)

“The movie wasn’t the best,” I admitted. “But I still had a good time.”

“Me too.” He swung our hands between us, like we were two kids young and in love with stars in our eyes. “Feel like grabbing a drink?”

“Sure.” The kids were at Poppy and Cole’s for the night. I didn’t have anything to hurry home to other than an empty bed.

When we pulled out of the parking lot, I expected Finn to turn toward the downtown bars. Instead, he went the opposite way.

“Where are we going?”

He leaned over and put his hand on my knee. “My place.”

My entire body tensed, the muscles seizing.

Finn felt it. He didn’t take his hand away but drew circles on my jeans with his thumb. “It’s just my house. You said you didn’t want to go there because you needed to keep the boundaries erect. But they have to come down, Molly. All of them.”

He was right. And his house had become less intimidating now that I knew he’d never had a woman in his bed.

“Okay,” I breathed. If we were going to date, this was inevitable.

My stomach was in knots by the time we pulled into his garage. I hadn’t gone crazy tonight. I’d eaten just enough to feel full but not enough to get sick. So much for my restraint. The popcorn-candy combination was whirling around my insides like a rainbow tornado.

Finn opened my door for me, taking my hand as he led me into his house.

My aversion to Finn’s home was stupid. I knew it. But it still took me a few moments to breathe.

The smell hit me first as we went inside. It was clean with a hint of lemon. And underneath that was Finn’s manly scent. The garage opened to a laundry room. He had a nicer washer and dryer than I did, and the tile floors were spotless. There wasn’t a small pile of lost socks on top of the dryer like I’d had on top of mine for the past three years.

From the laundry room, the house opened into an open-concept space. I stopped just shy of the living room and took it all in. The dark beams in the vaulted ceiling were exposed. The doors and trim were all stained a rich brown to match. The walls were sparse with a few Montana landscapes here and there. The cornerstone of Finn’s decor theme was—no surprise—plants.

There was a Boston fern in the dining room on a pedestal, its soft green leaves draping nearly to the floor next to one leg of the oval mahogany table. A hoya in a large sage-green ceramic pot was in one corner of the living room. A weeping fig in another.

The kitchen had a tray of succulents. There was an African violet on a coffee table, its velvety leaves begging to be touched. It reminded me of the one he’d brought me once as a random gift. I had placed it on the ledge of our bedroom window until it died.

There used to be plants all over my house. Finn’s clients had often gifted him houseplants when a job was complete. He’d left them behind when he moved out. And slowly, heartbreakingly, they’d all died. Even the violet.

Finn had been the one to care for them. I’d neglected them, often forgetting to water one until the soil was cracked and the leaves crispy. Each time I’d thrown one into the garbage can, I’d been heartbroken.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“You have a beautiful home. Really. It’s lovely. I can see why the kids like it.”

In a lot of ways, it reminded me of my house. He’d created a home similar to the one we’d shared, whether he’d meant to or not.

Finn tugged me farther into the room. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’m not picky.”

“I’ve got a growler with the latest amber from Bozeman Brewing.”

“That sounds perfect.”

His grip tightened for a second, then he let my hand go so he could head into the kitchen.

As the refrigerator door opened, I made my way over to the fireplace mantel to inspect the framed pictures. Max’s school picture was in one. Kali’s was in another, smiling brightly in her volleyball uniform. There was a selfie of the three of them crouched together on a gravel hiking trail.

I stepped down to the other end of the fireplace, expecting more pictures of the kids. I blinked twice as my own face smiled back at me.

One frame held a family picture of the four of us. It was from years ago when Poppy had been working to finish Jamie’s birthday list. She’d organized a paint fight, one of Jamie’s items. We’d all met in a park to throw paint-filled water balloons at one another. Jimmy and Randall had been there, and she’d even invited Cole.

It hadn’t been long after our divorce, and that paint fight was the first time Finn had stopped being so cold and callous toward me. In the photo, a four-year-old Kali was covered in pink paint. Max was only two and his cheeks were streaked with yellow. Finn and I were covered in a kaleidoscope of colors.

We’d been happy that day. Not long after the paint fight, Finn had come over to eat dinner with us. We’d sat down and talked after the kids had been put to bed. We’d promised each other we’d do better, that we’d get along, for them.

He’d also told me that night that he wanted to date.

That was the day a piece of me had shut down. The day the boundaries had fallen into place. I hadn’t come into his house after he’d bought it. I’d avoided Alcott completely. Even when we’d been having sex, I’d refused to let myself have feelings for Finn. I’d reminded myself that it was only sex.