Page 100 of How To Plot a Payback

But his ears are pink.

And his cheeks and eyes are glowing.

And he has a quiet enthusiasm about this entire scene.

And that is when I realize I am all in.

Because this isn’t just a sweet little get-together, do-gooder thing he does for his neighbors. He loves this. Truly loves this. He loves them. They haven’t just adopted him; he has adopted them as well. I can see it in the way he so casually picked up dry cleaning on the walk here and dropped it off at Mr. Hankins’s door. In the way he subtly glanced past me while I spoke, then wordlessly moved a tipped terra-cotta pot out of the way just before Mr. Phillips came by with his walker.

He can say all he wants about the unbeatable rent and high ceilings and Spanish architecture, but the fact is, these are his people, and he has achieved something in reality that my entire job has revolved around all these years: neighbors who are family.

Delilah had explained it to me as her boyfriend’s strange obsession with living in an old folks’ home, but now I see it for what it really is.

Perfection.

And frankly, if a flat came open, I’d drop my own place in a minute.

Because this. This is what I’ve been searching for since the moment I snapped awake. This . . . is real community.

And I have a feeling Finn has a lot to do with creating it.

I look at him and the cat who has found its way to his lap. He is distractedly rubbing it as he watches the show.

Apparently, I’ve fallen for a man who’s an old soul.

Finn catches me smiling and raises a brow. “Okay?” he whispers. “They can be a bit much.”

“What, the twenty people packing us in so we can’t get out? No. No, it feels cozy. Like a blanket.”

A woman pats my knee and points. “There’s you!” she whispers energetically, just as she has every other minute of the past twenty.

“A really tight blanket,” I add, grinning, “but still cozy.”

“Really, Lavender. Whenever you want to go—”

“Don’t try to get me to go,” I say, settling back, eyes on the screen. “You couldn’t get me to go if you tried.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve learned never to get in your way.”

We watch the show a few more minutes, then after a bit I find myself tapping him in the side with my elbow. “I did like that part. That was funny.”

To which he smiles and says after a pause, “You know, I did come up with that one.”

“Pipe down, you two, or we’re going to have to start it all over,” Mrs. Teaberry calls over her shoulder. “You are taping it, aren’t you, Finn?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, then gives me a little grin as if we are two children caught cutting up on the playground.

A few minutes pass by, but I find myself watching his arm resting on the edge of his folding chair. The cat sits on his lap, the tabby rubbing its head on his forearm, begging for attention.

I set my paper plate on the ground.

My hair falls over one shoulder as I reach in, my face just an inch from his, and then I see it. I even hear it.

How he holds the air in his chest as I pick up the black tabby cat from its perch and bring it to my seat.

“Hello, you,” I whisper, settling the tabby on my lap. I shift position and swallow that last inch of space between Finn and me.

His arm matches mine, shoulder to wrist.