Page 89 of Strictly Business
“I will fill you in when we don’t have an audience,” Nina says kissing him lightly. “It's time for the last bit of fun before we leave, and then real fun begins.” She winks at her husband before wiggling her eyebrows.
I fake a gag. “You guys are disgusting,” I say earning a small smile from my savior.
“Is this the part where I go up your dress in front of everyone?” Nick asks pulling her close a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t be such a perv.” Nina smacks his chest playfully.
“I haven’t had enough alcohol for either of these conversations.” I quickly take the opportunity to escape before the DJ welcomes the single ladies to meet in the middle of the dance floor. I find my way to the bar ordering a new glass of wine.
“Shouldn’t you be out there?” Warmth blooms across my skin when I hear his voice. I refuse to look at him as he leans casually against the bar as the bartender pushes the glass my way.
“Shouldn’t you?” I reply from behind the glass.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Great observation, Sheffield. You went into the wrong business, you should’ve started a private detective service, instead. You have the pretending part down.”
His hand grips my arm when I try to walk away. His touch sends a shock through my system. “I wasn’t pretending, Shortcake.”
Shortcake.
My resolve melts a little at the nickname.
“It never came up, and maybe that’s my fault, but I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Of course, it mattered, Finn!” The outburst catches the attention of a few guests nearby, but they’re not the only ones — my brother's narrowed eyes from the edge of the dance floor dare me to cause a scene.
“Come with me.” Finn grips my hand pulling me into the night.
Chapter Forty-Seven
FINN
"FINN, STOP.” MICHAELA TRIES to free her hand from mine, but I continue down the path around the side of the mansion and into the garden. God, this place is so big. Why is it so big? It feels like we’ve walked a mile before the sounds from the party begin to blend with the night. "Would you please let go?" She asks again, but I maintain my hold, my thumb grazing across the skin on the back of her hand. “What do you want?”
"I didn't lie."
"You can't be serious," her scoff cuts through me and I release her hand when she tries to pull away again. I didn’t lie, though. And, I wasn't hiding anything. It wasn’t like I was going to walk around with a big sign saying: Will work to save my inheritance.
“You never asked, Michaela. I would’ve told you.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You barely spoke to me when we first started. You weren’t ever going to tell me the truth or you would’ve come clean when we started dating. This was all to keep your inheritance intact. Nothing more. You only did it because Daddy was going to cut you off.”
“Was the initial reason to save my own skin? Yes. I don’t deny that, I never have. But it’s not the only reason I started Sheffield House.”
"Finn, I don't care. Okay? It doesn't matter. You got what you wanted and then some. You got your money back and some ass while doing it. Sleeping with me was just a bonus, right?"
"No! Michaela—”
"Something to wet your whistle until you could get back to the big leagues."
“That is not true, Shortcake." I brush a strand of hair that had fallen into her face and cradle her cheek. A slight tug on the corner of my lips when she leans into my touch. "I want this, I want you. Fuck everything else. I’d let it all go if it meant you’d give me another chance.”
"David asked me to reconsider the divorce." The words tumble out at a rapid speed and her confession sits between us briefly before it starts to sink in. Reconsider the divorce? She can't be serious. My hand falls from her cheek taking a step back. She no longer looks me in the eye when she says, “He wants to try again."
“You cannot be that stupid.” I regret it the second I say it. Her blue eyes shine in the moonlight — tears filled with hurt and disappointment. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. Saying that makes me no better than Asshole. I want nothing more than to pull her in my arms and beg her not to do this. She can’t do this. Instead, I keep my hands stuffed in my pockets. The comforting job is no longer my responsibility; it’s reserved for another man.
“You’re an asshole,” she hisses.