Page 55 of Strictly Business
“No, I’m out to dinner with Caitlin. I won’t be home for a while.” I shrug in response to her suspicious look. “Look, if you’re calling to yell at me because I haven’t told my brother, it can wait until—”
“Never mind, just forget it.” Finn hangs up leaving me even more puzzled than before. I stare at my phone, at the blank screen, as if it’s going to give me some answer to what in the hell that was about.
“What did he want?” Cait asks.
“He didn’t say.”
“Well, he said something!’
“He asked if I was home. Why would he want to know if I’m home?” I look between the phone and her.
“You cannot be that dense.” Cait grips my shoulders. “He is making the first move.”
“What are you talking about? There’s no move to make.”
“Michaela. He’s making the first move. This is it, the grand gesture!”
“Where’s the boombox outside my window, then?”
Caitlin smirks, “Waiting for you at home.”
I roll my eyes and hail the cab across the street. This is not a conversation I want to have. “Call me when you get home,” I yell towards her opening my cab door.
“I think you’re going to be a little busy,” Caitlin sing-songs. “Call me tomorrow, give me all the juicy details. Better yet, maybe I'll just happen to be in the area tomorrow and stop by with coffee.”
“Goodbye, Caitlin.” I close the door and give the cabbie my address.
Pulling up to my apartment exactly eight minutes later, I can’t help but laugh when there’s no sign of Finn — or a boombox — outside. Of course, there’s not. So why do I feel disappointed? I knew he wouldn’t be here. It’s not like I actually thought he’d be here waiting for me to pull up. Pfft, no way. I know better than that because Finnley Sheffield is not that kind of man.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
FINN
THE HOUSE PHONE INTERRUPTS my current rewatch of The Boys. Damn, talk about quick delivery time. I only ordered my food twenty minutes ago. “Paul, food already here?”
“Um, no sir. You have a visitor.” A visitor? I check the clock on the wall, a little after 9:00 P.M. Who the hell is here after nine on a Sunday? “A pretty one,” he adds in a hushed tone as if he’s trying to avoid the person overhearing. “But, she doesn’t seem too…happy.”
“A pretty one, huh?” There’s no way she showed up here. She doesn’t even know where I’m staying. “I’ll be down in a few. Keep an eye out for Mr. Joseph, will ya?”
Hanging up the phone, I slide my feet into a pair of slippers by the door. If she is here, what is she doing, and how did she figure out my address? Probably the same way I figured out hers — Liv. She can’t possibly know I showed up at her place earlier… Can she? I didn't mention it, I only asked if she was there. That doesn't mean I was standing outside her building hoping to ring the buzzer and tell her even if we're going to put what happened behind us, that doesn't mean we have to go back to the way things were before. That I don’t want things to go back to how they’ve been.
Stepping off the elevator, I’m greeted by the bright smile of Mr. Joseph, the delivery man and owner of the Thai restaurant. “Mr. Finn! Your food.”
“Oh, Mr. Joseph, hey. Can you give me one—”
He lifts the bag towards me when I try to step past. “Don’t worry ‘bout it; it’s on the house this time.”
“What? No! That’s not necessary. Here,” I pull my wallet out of my sweats pocket, but he shoos my hand away.
“On the house. You overpay every time.” He finally shoves the bag into my hands and waves goodbye over his shoulder as he turns the corner to the main lobby. “I’ll see you end of the week.”
God, this food smells amazing. I hope she doesn’t put up too much of a fight because I’m starving. Maybe I can convince her to come upstairs, we can fight while I eat. Shit, I'll even give her some if that means getting to go back upstairs sooner. Compromise, right?
Rounding the corner, I’m greeted first by Paul’s tight smile and then the most annoyed look I’ve ever seen on Michaela’s face. She sits on one of the benches along the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she waits. “She says she knows you,” Paul motions towards her.
“Looks familiar, but the girl I know doesn’t pout so much.”
“I’m not pouting, you ass. Tell him to let me upstairs,” Michaela glares at me.