Finn opened his mouth to object but Beah sent him a shut-the-hell-up look and spoke before he could. “I’ll talk to you later, Finn.”
Beah turned her attention to Marsh Ford and gestured for him to enter the office. “Come in and take a seat. Maybe you’d be more comfortable sitting on the sofa than at the desk.”
When his back was turned, Beah slapped Finn’s arm and gestured for him to leave. He sent her an annoyed look but did, thank God, step into the hallway. Eli, Beah noticed, was trying not to laugh.
Beah rolled her eyes at both of them, shut the glass door behind her and, when she turned back to Marsh, knew Finn’s eyes were burning into her back. She kept her expression pleasant and released a small sigh of relief when Eli tugged Finn down the hallway.
“Marsh, welcome to Murphy International. Let’s talk art.”
Finn dumped the Thai prawn curry—a favorite of Beah’s—into a storage container and slapped on the lid. He emptied a pot of water into the sink and put the packet of egg noodles away.
Thank God he’d yet to open the champagne. He’d taken the effort to cook Beah’s favorite meal and he was annoyed he’d wasted both the food and his time. But having a bottle of two-thousand-dollar champagne—Bollinger 1996 Vieilles Vignes Françaises—go flat would’ve upped his blood pressure.
Finn pulled the bottle from the ice bucket and put it on the granite island.
Opening the fridge, he reached for a beer and popped off the cap, then headed for the deck, snuffing out the scented candles on the dining table.
So much for the romantic welcome-back dinner he’d planned.
Finn stepped onto his deck and placed his forearms on the railing, resting his beer bottle against his biceps. The mist rolled across the calm sea, shrouding the boats. It was slightly warmer tonight; maybe winter was finally releasing its grip on Boston. Finn couldn’t wait for spring, and for summer. Not only would the pressure of the Mounton-Matthews sale be over and they could all, somewhat, relax, but he could go white-water kayaking, kitesurfing, get back into the water.
He swam at the gym’s pool, but it wasn’t the same as spearfishing or free diving.
Finn felt the tingles of restlessness dancing across the back of his neck. He’d forgone his second trip to the mountains—snowboarding—because Beah told him she would be back in Boston this week.
He’d stuck around because he’d missed her. More than he should.
Finn took a deep draft of his beer, feeling stupid for making a romantic meal for his once-upon-a-time wife. They hadn’t made any firm plans for tonight but he’d assumed, judging by their sex tinged, I-need-you-bad banter earlier, that they’d be spending the night together.
But her meeting with Marshall Ford had obviously rolled, as he knew her meetings often did, into drinks and then a meal. Entertaining clients was part of Beah’s job, he understood the concept, but he didn’t have to like it.
He liked it a hell of a lot less when her client was a good-looking son of a bitch, with more money than God, young and single. And, yeah, he’d looked up Ford as soon as he got to his office...
His jealousy was pathetic.
This was why he’d avoided Beah for so damn long, he thought. Obviously, and subconsciously, he’d realized their attraction was too strong, their magnetic pull too great, and it was easier to keep their distance than to revisit their always-bubbling desire. Having a major ocean between them helped.
Once the sale was over, life would go back to normal. Beah would return to London permanently, their affair would be over, and his life would settle down.
But dammit, just having her around made him feel lighter, brighter, less serious. Beah could always take him out of his head, lighten his mental load, make him laugh. And maybe that was why his younger self couldn’t deal with her, couldn’t cope with what they had. Sure, they’d married quickly, but he’d known her; his soul had recognized her. She was like a warm, tropical wind blowing fresh air through the bad parts of him—those closed-up, calcified caves and grottoes devoid of air and light for the longest time.
He worried that the longer she stuck around, the more he’d start to rely on her, start to lean on her. Because life had taught him the women he leaned on, loved—his mom, his stepmom, even Thandi, Ronan’s wife, to an extent—had all left him.
Tennyson had it backward: it was better not to have loved than to have loved and lost.
But was that really true? Or was he just a yellow-bellied coward? Sure, he could jump out of helicopters onto virgin snow at twelve thousand feet, dive from buildings with a parachute on his back and minimal space between him and the ground, fly down steeply angled paths on his dirt bike...but love and relationships took a special type of courage.
And Beah was the only woman who’d ever made him feel the way he did when he was flying down a black diamond run or bailing out of an airplane.
Breathless, scared, exhilarated, utterly focused.
No wonder she scared the crap out of him.
Adventure sports could break his body, but he’d risk that possibility any day of the week. A broken heart? No thank you.
And Beah was the only woman who could snap him like a twig.
Finn heard the faint snick of his front door opening, heard the clunk of her tote bag hitting the floor, the tap-tap of her heels across his hall. Finn didn’t turn around but his body immediately reacted to her presence; his loins tightened and his heart bounced off his chest, careened around his rib cage. She was here.