I feel like a full-blown criminal as I turn around to see Finn staring at me with a smirk I want to punch off his face. I have every intention of calling him out for giving me a heart attack, but my mouth trickles open before I can put a sentence together.
Jesus.
Fucking.
Christ.
I’ve known he’d been working out since I accidentally snuck into bed with him, but seeing him all wet and shirtless, right out of the shower in nothing but a towel, is hitting me harder than I care to admit. It’s not that I didn’t notice his glorious body that night—it was hard not to—but I didn’t really allow myself to look at him. Finn was always hot, even in high school, but now he’s scorching. He’s all muscles and tattoos and fuck…
“I’m sorry, what?” I steer my gaze away from his deeply cut abs.
“It’s not even”—he glances at the clock on the wall—“eleven yet, and you’re already home. What’s wrong? Avoiding me not as fun anymore?”
I manage to snap out of whatever trance is robbing me of my common sense and swivel around to drop my pizza inside the microwave. I set the timer, keeping my back turned.
“Gem?” he says when I don’t answer.
The nickname makes my skin crawl.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, focusing on the numbers on the microwave like my next breath depends on it.
I assume he’s stunned by my response because he doesn’t say anything for a moment.
A sigh leaves his lips. “Fine. Then what should I call you?”
The floor creaking behind me is my first clue as to his proximity. The second is the warmth of his breath against the nape of my neck.
He’s right behind me.
“Wifey? Babe? Love of my fucking life? Take your pick,” he rasps, and I fight the shivers skittering down my spine.
“You’re delusional.”
I feel his laugh everywhere in my body. “And you’re a liar.”
“Am not.”
“Lies,” he whispers, closer to my ear this time, and I hold my breath until my lungs ache. “You’re a liar, Gem, and a bad one at that.”
I curse the microwave, inwardly screaming to hurry the hell up.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He lets out a scoff. “I’m talking about the fact that you’d rather go to the ends of the earth than talk to me. Why?”
That’s an easy one.
“Because I hate you.”
“Not good enough.” He doesn’t move an inch, his mouth hovering near my earlobe.
“Because I have a boyfriend.” I muster another reason. If this one’s not good enough, none of them are.
“For now. What else you got?”
That’s the last straw.
He’s doing it again.