“They won’t stop talking about the food,” I told him, my smile widening when his cheeks flushed a little. “John is making jokes about offering you a job as head chef for the family.”
“Is he joking, or is he serious?”
“If it’s the latter, you’re going to break his heart. I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t be satisfied cooking for just one family.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the Midwest is where I’m meant to be. I feel like I could thrive in… where was it they’re from again?”
I blinked. “Illinois.”
“I’ve heard Chicago is great.”
“SouthernIllinois.”
“I’m not sure what the difference is.”
I laughed a little as I dug my fingers into the muscle running from my neck to my shoulder, trying to work out the tension. “You’d figure it out real fast.”
“Here, let me.”
I didn’t have time to react before Finn reached out and pressed his hands to my shoulders, thumbs kneading into the muscle. There was no time for me to be shocked at him offering,no chance for my body to buzz to life once he touched me. One second, it was my hand massaging my neck, and the next, it was his.
I melted.
I was so tense, so sore, so fuckingexhaustedthat just that minor touch from another human had me sighing. My eyes fluttered shut for half a second, body going as limp as it could while still keeping me upright. The stress of the last few days turned to liquid under his touch, rolling off me like a slow-trickling waterfall with each careful roll of his thumbs.
“Mmm,” I exhaled, my body leaning into him without my cue. “God, I forgot how good you are at this. Remember the first time you massaged my feet after that charter where the guests demanded an all-night dance party?”
I let my head drop back against the wall, groaning as Finn digs his thumbs into the arch of my left foot. “Fuck, Finn. That feels so good.”
He swallows, nostrils flaring, his eyes lifting to mine.
“I’d like to hear you say those words when we’re both wearing less clothing.”
“Dirty,” I tease with a smile.
“Like your feet.”
Then he tickles me as I squeal and laugh, trying and failing to wriggle out of his grasp. Soon, I stop trying. Soon, I pull him into me, instead — hands fisted in his shirt and tugging him in until he’s on top of me, until our laughs turn to kisses, until I feel him harden between my thighs.
I blinked out of the memory, peeking over my shoulder. I expected to find Finn smirking at the memory, too, but his gaze was focused on the back of my neck.
“This one is new,” he mused, thumb gliding over where I knew delicate black ink stretched over my skin.
It was a tiny northern lapwing bird.
The bird of Ireland.
My chest strained with the effort to breathe properly because I had no idea what to say. Finn was well aware that I used piercings and micro tattoos as a way to sort through or, sometimes,avoidpesky emotions. It was another thing about me I was sure my father didn’t love.
But I didn’t want to admit out loud what I knew Finn had just figured out.
That one was for him.
One of the guests let out a peal of high-pitched laughter as a wave soaked her up to her chest, and Finn and I both snapped our gazes to the sound.
That’s when we saw the camera duo that was sent to the beach with us.
Their lenses were pointed right at where we stood.