Page 45 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
“Want to watch27 Dresses, then?”
“Sure,” he says agreeably. “After you show me your room.”
I bite my lip, and Finn stops walking. “Cassidy,” he says, and there’s my name again. “If that’s your space and you don’t want me in it, then that’s fine. Say that. But if you’re insecure that I’ll judge you—don’t be. At all. I’m curious about you. I want to know everything that makes you happy.”
Damn him. The sweetness, the sincerity, the big eyes boring into mine—I can’t resist it. “Fine,” I say shortly. “Come see the mess of projects.”
He follows me through the house, up the stairs, and to the converted bedroom at the end of the hallway.
There’s no bed in here, just a desk, an easel, and bins upon bins of stuff. Some of it is house storage, like the Christmas decorations and some of G’s old stuff that I’m too sentimental to get rid of, but most of it is materials and projects. The bin by the window has all my yarn from several half-assed knitting projects. There’s a bin that’s entirely paint. One bin holds sketchbooks.
Finn takes it all in with a slow sweep of his eyes, turning from one side of the room to the other. “So, this is it,” I say. The extra mason jars for canning preserves are in the corner, because I once bought way more than I could ever need. Our blackberry bushes don’t produce that much. There are a few finished canvases stacked against the wall, because I don’t have any great place to put them when I’m done. The half-knittedsweater I’ve been swearing I’ll finish for two years is on the back of the desk chair.
“I love it,” he announces. He studies my half-finished canvas, started in the week before G left for school. I’m not much of a painter. I never studied anything, and I’m aware I have no technical skills. But I like to try to make something, and I’d been doing my best to capture the trees outside my window.
“You know,” he says softly, “if you wanted to be accurate, then my workshop goes there.” He points to the side of the canvas.
“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” I mutter. The truth is I’d been debating what to do with it. This was just for me, so it’s not like there’s anyone to impress, but I’d thought his workshop marred the natural beauty of my view.
What a difference such a short period of time makes. I love how close by it is now.
I turn away from the easel. “Cross-stich,” I point to two finished pieces hung on the wall. “Knitting,” I point to the pile of messy supplies on the floor. “Painting,” I point to the big tub of paints. “You know. Whatever keeps me busy.”
I haven’t been excellent at any of these hobbies, but I’d needed something that wasn’t Georgia to pour some time and energy into. Not because I didn’t love her. I do love her, and always will. But I’d needed something for me, even if it wasn’t good.
“I’m glad,” he says, settling over by the desk. There are some little-kid artworks tacked to the wall, because when I’d startedthis, G had been an absolute clinger. I cherished each and every piece of prepubescent art, and each one is up on the wall to this day. Georgia doesn’t come in here much anymore, but she does a big show of eye-rolling every time she sees it. I’ve invited her to give me more art to replace it with, but she left the artistic little kid behind. My supernatural little sister, the only person I know who can do literal magic and yet wants to study chemistry. She and I are definitely not the same.
“Guess I should turn this into a proper office, now that you’ve offered me a job where I’d actually need one,” I muse, wondering what the best way to pack everything up will be.
“No,” he says it so firmly that I do a double-take, turning toward him. “If you want an office, then we’ll build one in the workshop; I can get the walls up in a week. If that’s too close, you can take over the apartment upstairs. If you need it, I’ll get my parents to agree we can use my childhood bedroom. I really don’t care. But you’re not giving up your space.”
“It’s not that important, Finn.”
“It is,” he argues, prowling toward me like I’m a prey animal he’s hunting. I step backward, and he uses his huge arms to box me in against the wall. “I love that you have this space. I always want you to have this for whatever hobbies you feel like doing at any time.”
My breath catches and I look up at him. “The back corner of your workshop works, too,” I say weakly, staring into those dark eyes. The intensity that he looks at me with makes me melt.
“Good. We’ll order you a desk. I’ll talk to my Dad about where would be best, and we’ll throw up some walls so you have privacy.”
“I don’t need walls,” I object. A corner of the workshop is good enough.
“Walls might be for me,” he admits. “Not sure I’ll work well if I’m watching you all day. But please, feel free to interrupt me whenever you want.” He closes his eyes for a second. “Going to love having you close.”
I think I’m going to like it, too, walls or no walls. Although he might be right that they’re good for focus.
“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning up for a kiss.
He takes the hint, bending toward me, but when our lips connect, his wings flare out, knocking into one of my piles of boxes and sending the topmost one toppling to the ground.
“Oh, shit,” he hisses, turning away from me way too soon. I pout, because I’d be more than happy to ignore the mess for a while, but he’s already on his hands and knees, wings tucked in tight, so he can pick up my stuff.
It’s sketchpads, but I feel like there’s something special about this box, but I can’t quite put my finger on it…
“What’s this?” he asks, all the breath sucked out of my lungs when he holds up my rose vibrator, a devilish smile on his face.
Oh,fuck. I tossed it in the sketch book bucket. It had seemed like the best idea at the time; I didn’t want it in my room wherehe could find it, and bringing it into Georgia’s room felt wrong. This felt out of the way and discrete.
Well. So much for that.
