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“You were saying?” he whispered, amused.

I couldn’t remember my own name, let alone whatever nonsense I’d been spouting less than a minute before. Clearly, I had no idea what I was talking about – showers with Finn could never be anything but sexy.

Putting me down to stand on my own feet, he gently scrubbed my skin clean with my apple-scented body wash, removing every trace of paint from my body in a slow, sensual perusal. After he’d shampooed my hair, painstakingly massaging each dark curl until I was nearly purring like a kitten, I forced him to bend down so I could return the favor and wash his unruly mop. We reluctantly emerged from the shower only when our skin was no longer spackled cerulean and the water had run so cold I’d started to shiver.

Finn shut off the water and grabbed one of my large fluffy green towels, swathing it around me like a shroud before scooping me up into his arms and carrying me out of the bathroom. He unceremoniously dropped me onto my bed and slid in behind me. Pulling the comforter up over us, Finn adjusted my body so we were spooning, my back pressed fully against his front and every curve of our still-wet bodies perfectly aligned.

“Are we seriously spooning right now? Finn Chambers spoons?” I teased.

Finn was silent for a full minute, breathing quietly into my damp hair, and I again found myself wishing I could know what he was thinking or even just see the expression on his face. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked with restrained emotion.

“Finn Chambers doesn’t spoon unless it’s with Bee Turner,” he whispered, so quietly I nearly didn’t hear him. I couldn’t help it – my heart turned over in my chest at his words. He made me feel special, like all of this was a first for him as well. Like he wanted me for something more than just my body.

When he said things like that, it was impossible to push him away – even though a big part of me still wanted to. Normally, I’d have put up a fight about a guy trying to spoon with me – it was far too coupley, too affectionate, for my taste. In the past, I’d never have even brought a guy back to my apartment, let alone allowed him to sleep in my bed afterward. I’d always specifically chosen to follow guys to their places for sex, rather than bringing them here.

I hadn’t wanted them to know where I lived, what my room looked like. I hadn’t wanted them to know me, in any way except that most basic, physical way two people can know one another. As a general rule, I’d done everything possible to discourage future interaction and affection.

At the moment, though, I was too tired and far too satisfied to argue with Finn about our sleeping arrangements. Silencing the small part of my brain that was shrieking about boundaries and the dangers of commitment, I smiled and closed my eyes. Melting into Finn’s warm embrace, I was asleep within minutes.





Chapter Eleven


Narcissistic Asshole



Stepping out onto the porch, my small hand slipped into his larger one immediately. He was there on the steps, just like he’d been every night since the first time we’d met – the night he’d told me the legend of Andromeda.

My eyes sought his, and when they met I was comforted for the first time all day. He was the only thing that made the group home bearable; when he told me stories or simply held my hand and talked to me, I could forget about the older girls and their teasing comments. I could forget about the bad man, the police officers, the hospital, and even about Mommy.

It’s not that I wanted to forget her. I just missed her so much – too much. When he told me stories, though, I could pretend it had never happened. When I left my room, scared after a nightmare, he was always there to make me feel better. On those nights, he’d tell me silly stories, tales to make me giggle or smile, and I wasn’t an orphan anymore; I was back in my princess room, surrounded by brave knights and magical fairies. I was in a world of magic and happy endings, where things like murder and death were impossibilities. Where mommies didn’t get taken away to heaven when their little girls needed them.

“Hi, Brooklyn,” he said, a small smile in his sad eyes.

I didn’t reply, I simply looked up at him. I still wasn’t speaking – not to my foster mother, not to the other kids, not even to the lady who called herself a ‘therapist’ and came twice a week to see me.

I knew they wanted me to. Sometimes, the adults got angry at me – even though there were smiles on their faces, I could see the frustration in their eyes and hear it in their voices when they talked to me. The other kids didn’t get angry – they just got mean.

Except for him.

He never yelled, or teased, or tried to get me to talk. He just let me listen to his stories, hold his hand, and forget. Sometimes we’d just sit in the darkness, staring into the backyard or up at the night sky together.

“Brooklyn, look,” he whispered, pointing into the dark, toward the tall grass at the bottom of the steps.

I looked at him questioningly; I didn’t see anything unusual in the yard.

“Fireflies.”

I turned back and peered into the night, trying to catch a glimpse of them. I’d only seen them once before, at the beginning of the summer. Mommy and I had gone on a picnic at our favorite park one night, and when the sun had started to go down we’d seen hundreds of the glowing bugs flying all around us. Mommy had laughed and said maybe they were really fairies, like Tinkerbell, and if some of their fairy dust fell on us we could fly away too.