Eddie
“Eddie?”
A soft hand shakes me, creating a nice distraction from the intense itching going on all over my body. When I realize it’s Finley Belton, the very person who I’d hoped wouldn’t spot me out here this morning, I bolt upright.
She steps back, assessing me. I can’t read anything from her expression.
“Oh, hey…” I glance around like an idiot, squinting at the sun. “I was just—”
“Sleeping on my balcony?” she prompts, one eyebrow lifted.
“The guys in my place needed a little alone time last night.” I point a finger at the floor above us. “I was gonna crash at Dima’s and then…” I pinch the bridge of my nose, remembering the awkward minutes I spent in Dima’s apartment before sneaking outside on the balcony and climbing down the fire escape.
Finley and I both notice her lack of bra at the exact same time. Her cheeks turn a nice shade of pink, and she folds her arms across her chest. I avert my gaze upward.
“Then what?” Finley asks in a tone that clearly indicates my answer will determine how pissed off or weirded out she is from finding me out here.
“Then I didn’t really care for their choice of evening activities.”
“Like what? Was it boy-on-boy related, because I heard that Dima likes to play games where—”
That would have been awkward but different, much different. “More like the tossing drugs onto a table for everyone to share kind of game.”
The exact thing I’d been so afraid of the previous night. The scene had been too familiar. But luckily, I had my head on straight enough to get the hell out of there.
“Oh.” The smile fades. “Right.”
“Right.”
“Not really your scene, huh?” she presses, her voice a little softer, less judgmental.
“No, not really.” I lean over and reach for my bag, then stand and toss it onto my shoulder. “Sorry for crashing here without asking. Won’t happen again.”
Finley blocks my path to the fire escape. “I looked in your wallet,” she blurts out.
My stomach knots. I know where this is headed. Guess I had that coming, considering where I left my wallet. I take a deep breath. “Look, it’s not as bad as it seems. I just—”
“Needed a rags-to-riches story for PR purposes?” she suggests, the judgment returning.
“No, nothing like that.” In fact, I don’t want any story. Seriously. I want the opposite of a PR story. Is that a thing?
“You just didn’t want anyone to know where you’re from?” She leans against the metal railing surrounding the balcony, and I’m surprised by the lack of judgment on her face. “Yeah,” I admit, because that’s technically true. Maybe there are other truths I can give Finley without telling her everything. I can’t risk telling her everything. I can’t even risk letting myself think everything. “My parents think I’m at Princeton right now. For the summer program.”
Finley’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re going to Princeton?”
“Obviously not.” I don’t mean to snap at her, but it’s a sore subject. Four generations of Wellingtons have attended Princeton. It may sound ridiculous to other people, but the Princeton weight has been pressing down on me my entire life.
“All right,” Finley says, her voice softening. “So you got into Princeton, but you’re not going. What are your plans? To make your own money and let yourself get cut off by your parents?”
Man, that really sounds cliché. But still, I nod. “Basically.”
“So is anything you’ve told me thus far actually true?”
I think for a minute, swallow back nerves. “I really am bad at beer pong.”
For several long seconds, we stare at each other. “No knitting hats for orphaned dogs?” Finley says finally.
I shake my head and wait.
Another long pause, and then she opens the door and gestures for me to come inside. “No one’s here except Summer, and she’s sound asleep.”
My gaze drifts downward, and I notice her feet for the first time. “Nice shoes. Did you sleep in those?”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
The ballet shoes are quickly removed and tossed onto the couch.
I scratch at a patch of bug bites on the side of my neck while taking in the new living room arrangement. “Huh. I don’t remember the couch being there the other day.”
“People are always moving stuff around.” Finley waves a hand and walks over to the fridge, opening it and staring inside without a specific purpose.
“I wonder why anyone would want the couch practically smashed against the wall and then all that room in middle. All that empty floor space.” I spin slowly like I’m really thinking this through.
“Fine,” she snaps. “I was practicing. You caught me. Laugh all you want.”
I’m not laughing. It’s cute and a little sexy that she was dancing—braless—around the living room in pointe shoes. I bend over to examine the very tasty-looking omelet resting on the counter that divides the kitchen and living room.
Finley snatches the plate right out from under my nose and dumps the omelet into the garbage. “You can’t eat that.”
I didn’t expect her to turn over her breakfast to me. That would be rude. Even though I’m completely famished. She goes back to the fridge and begins tossing items onto the counter. “It’s been sitting out. I’ll make you a fresh one.”
Now I feel bad. “You don’t have to—”
“Sit,” she orders, pointing at a chair pulled up to the counter. “You slept on my balcony without permission, so now I’m forcing you to eat my cooking.”
“Talk about hardships.” I sit as commanded and watch Finley move around the kitchen in pajama pants. “The view is really nice here.”
She glances over her shoulder and sees that I’m looking at her backside, not the balcony. She cracks an egg into a bowl one-handed. “No more of that. We’re done with that.”
I grin. “Are you convincing me or yourself? I couldn’t tell.”
“I’m serious, Eddie.” She sets the bowl down and crosses her arms. “I need to succeed at the one-night stand, which means you and I are just having a friendly, coworker-type chat. Got it?”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Got it.”
She gives a satisfied nod and spins around again. I lean on one elbow and continue enjoying the view. In a little while, I’ll have to go back to my hellhole apartment with way too many dudes in it, so this is nice. Accidentally getting caught.
My cell, with its one percent battery remaining, buzzes. I glance quickly at the newest calendar event: Manhattan Trust, meeting with lawyer, one hour. My stomach flips at the reminder, and I must look nervous or something, because Finley stops what she’s doing.
“What?” she asks.
The knot in my stomach double-ties itself. But I shake my head and force a grin. “Nothing. Just a thing I have to go to in a little while.”
“A thing?” Finley asks. “That explains so much.”
She’s just set a freshly made omelet in front of me, so I busy myself shoving a big bite into my mouth. The cheese is so hot, it burns my tongue. “This is really good.”
I’ve distracted her with compliments, and we discuss anything but my “thing” while I finish eating and then convince Finley to let me wash all the dishes—it’s the least I can do.
A little while later, I glance at the microwave, checking the time, and immediately snatch my bag up and toss it over my shoulder. “I better head downstairs and get a shower before my…meeting.”
“Yeah, sure,” Finley says while shoving a clean bowl up into a tall cabinet. “Wait…” She stops and turns to face me. “Downstairs? Does that mean your agency apartment is…”
Uh…yeah. I give her a grim smile. “I didn’t mention that earlier? I could have sworn that I did.”
“Nope.” She shakes her head slowly. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
“We might not run into each other much,” I offer. I don’t know what else to say. She offers up a halfhearted nod and good-bye when my hand ends up on the doorknob seconds later. I guess that’s to be expected.
But would it be that terrible if we did hang out?