Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
No. Not even a little. “Fractured wrist. I’ll live.” I just don’t know where.
Finn touches the temporary cast they put on me, then his fingers drift down to skim across my knuckles. “It hurts, I know.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Why is he in a suit? God, he looks good in a suit.
“Someone started watching the evening news when we landed.” Finn’s expression turns haunted. “They were covering your building.”
“Ah.” I don’t want to relive that picture.
His fingers tighten on my shoulders. “Scared the shit out of me, Chess. I didn’t know if you were in there . . .” He trails off and gives me another hug. Fiercer this time. “Your neighbor, some guy named Fred, was still outside. He told me where to find you.”
I guess I have something to thank Fred for.
Finn peers down at me when I give a small huff of laughter. His mouth tightens. “You should have called me.”
“I forgot to grab my phone when the fire started.” I laugh again, but it doesn’t feel good. “I don’t know a single fucking number. Isn’t that pathetic? Couldn’t even remember James’s number, and I’ve known him for ten years. Not that it would matter, since he’s in New York right now.” I bite my lip to keep from babbling any further.
A sympathetic smile tilts Finn’s mouth. “I’d be fucked without my phone.”
I snort, fighting the burn behind my lids. “Well, I’m certainly fucked.”
He grimaces, ducking his head. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m crap at this.”
Personally, I think he’s pretty perfect right now. “It’s okay. I know what you meant. I’m just wallowing.”
“No, honey,” he says with force. “You feel whatever the hell you want to feel.” He looks like he wants to say more, but simply rests his massive hand on my shoulder, engulfing it with warmth. “You all clear to go?”
I nod toward the clipboard on the rolling table. “I have to fill out some forms first.”
He glances at my hand, half-encased in the cast, and then picks up the clipboard. He rests his butt against the bed, pen at the ready. “Give me the answers.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow with difficulty, tasting ash. Slowly, I answer the questions, and he diligently writes them down.
The next thirty minutes swirl like a fog around me: Finn going off to talk to the nurse and give her my forms; Finn collecting my broken laptop, his hand at my lower back, guiding me out; the slap of fresh air when we leave the ER; Finn opening the door of his SUV and helping me climb in.
It isn’t until we’re driving, my bruised body softly embraced by luxury leather seats, that I find it in me to talk. “Where are we going?”
“Home.” His grip tightens on the wheel. “My home.”
I nod, not knowing what to say. I’d planned to go to a hotel. A small voice inside me cries that it wants to go home. I’ve never been homeless before. It feels like I’ve lost a huge piece of my identity. I take a deep breath and focus on the road before me. If I don’t, I’ll think about all my things now burnt or waterlogged, and I will lose it.
At the edge of the French Quarter, Finn pulls up before a converted factory building that overlooks the Mississippi. A doorman hurries over, and Finn hands him the car keys.
By the time we get to his condo, my wrist feels like it’s being crushed in a vise. I hold it against my chest and follow him in. Finn’s apartment reminds me of mine with exposed brick, wide and worn floorboards, and high ceilings. But where mine is—fuck, was—a loft, his has been divided up into rooms.
With a hand on my lower back, he guides me down a wide foyer into a living area. It’s a man cave, but refined: reclaimed wood coffee table, big leather club chairs, a gray couch you could swim in, and a massive TV with what looks like three separate gaming systems. Arched windows frame the river, glinting with moonlight.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, pausing.
“No, just tired.”
He nods, as if he suspected as much, and leads me down another hall. The first door opens into a bedroom. At first glance, I think it’s his because it’s so large and it is fully decorated. But there’s a slightly feminine touch in the lacy white duvet and multiple throw pillows on the pretty carved mahogany canopy bed that I just can’t see Finn choosing for his bedroom. Nor can I imagine him sitting on one of the delicate little linen-covered armchairs set up before the fireplace.
He sets my busted laptop down on a sideboard. “My mom uses this room when she visits. There’s a bathroom here.” He opens a door, and I get a peek at a claw-foot tub and more exposed brick walls. I’m suddenly aching for a hot bath.