Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(14)

“Finn . . . I can’t,” I say, shaking my head and wishing I could say different. God, he’s so cute. Why does he have to be so cute! I haven’t had sex in a year, and decent sex in even longer. But this is possibly the worst time to allow anyone into my life.

“You want me, don’t you?”

I do a double-take. “What?” I ask, thinking it’s totally unfair he can read my mind.

He puts his hand on my knee. “It’s why you came out here, isn’t it? You needed to cool off your scorching womanly parts before you embarrassed yourself and straddled me in front of your family.”

I bust out laughing, because around him I can’t seem to help it. “Oh, my God. Could you be any cockier?”

“Is that a challenge?” he asks, leaning in.

I press my hand against his chest, trying not to think too much about the hard muscles beneath my touch and how his description of my needy girl parts were spot on. “Finn, I told you. I’m going through a lot right now.”

“Okay,” he says, edging slightly away.

He backs off. It’s what I asked for, but I can’t suppress the twinge of disappointment it causes. Since starting my master’s program, I haven’t had many opportunities to meet men, especially men who spark my interest like Finn. And even though it’s more than obvious I like him. I can’t like him. Not now.

“Is it Sofia?” he asks after a moment.

“What?” I question, brushing my hair away from my eyes.

“I know you love her, but it’s okay to be struggling with the fact that she’s married and you’re practically an old maid.”

Seeing how we’re the same age and he damn well knows it, once more I grin. “If I’m an old maid, what does that make you?”

“Sadly a hot stud too many women want to drag to bed.” He adjusts his position, placing his ankle over his knee. “You should feel sorry for me.”

“Oh, I do feel sorry for you.” I tap his arm. “There, there, you poor sexy and studly man.”

“So now I’m sexy?” he asks. “Not just cute?”

I return my attention back toward the crackling flames, well aware of my widening grin, and damn it, how good it feels to smile and mean it.

“So do you want to get married?”

“Like, ever?” I clarify. At his nod, I crinkle my nose. “I don’t know. I’ve never been serious about anyone to consider it. Mostly, though, I’m too young to care.”

“Do you mean that?” he asks, flashing me that dimple.

“Of course I do,” I tell him. I tilt my head when he laughs. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“It’s just weird you’ve never thought about it,” he says.

“Why?” I press.

“Come on, Sol. Don’t pretend like there aren’t those crazy bitches out there who want to get married the moment they’re legal and end up with some * who treats them like shit―or worse, steals their cars and go on a cross-country murdering spree.”

“Could happen,” he adds, when I simply look at him.

I shouldn’t egg Finn on, but it feels good to feel good. “As much as all those murderous rampaging potential grooms in your mind sound appealing, no, I’m not in a rush to get married.”

“Good to know,” he says, his hand finding my knee.

“Um. What are you doing?” I ask, gaping at the size of his hand and trying my best to ignore the tingles his touch stirs.

“Just trying to keep warm. You know, body heat and all that good stuff.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?” I ask. “I have too much going on in my life.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally heard you,” he says, grinning widely. “But it’s winter. It’s either put my hand here or someplace else.” He lifts his brows, his irises shimmering with heat that’s not coming from the hearth. “The choice is yours, beautiful.”

Beautiful? The combination of his words, that deep voice, and the panty-melting look he’s pegging me with . . . Lord, help me. Finn knows exactly how to make a woman swoon. I sigh. In a perfect world I’d probably let him do more than touch my knee. But my world is far from perfect and my guess is that his is, too.

So even though I shouldn’t, I give his hand a squeeze, offering him and me a little bit of perfect in our less than perfect worlds.

In the silence that follows, night finishes overtaking the sky, until all that’s left is a black canvas and hint of stars. Ironic, considering that’s how my life has been since my mother was first diagnosed with schizophrenia: bits of light often dominated by total darkness. She was doing better, still not herself, but okay. I didn’t expect her anger or for her to hit me the way that she did, just like I didn’t expect her to be committed yet again.

For a long time, I was worried I’d suffer some kind of mental collapse. It’s not improbable considering how depressed I was following her suicide attempt a few years prior. It was a time I should have been out of my mind happy. I had just turned fifteen, I was going to prom with my big crush, and I had friends I absolutely adored.

Instead I spent prom night, sobbing in the waiting room, praying my mother would live. Like the other day, she had mistook me for her dead sister, and seeing me in my dress triggered a memory that compelled her to end her life. So when she calls me “Laurita” it’s not a good sign. It’s that red flag that screams a warning and tells me exactly how bad she is.