Page 5 of Game Plan

Finn: I could make that happen.

My stomach rumbles as I respond.

Me: I love it when you talk dirty to me.

Finn: I know.

Me: See you tonight? I’ll text if we’re delayed again.

Finn:

I shove my phone back in my bag and rest my head against the seat.

No matter how bad a day has been, ending it with Finn Miller is always a good thing.

Back in the day when I wanted a relationship, I would’ve begged for a chance with Finn. I would’ve done a hell of a lot more for a date with him than Cade Samuels, that’s for sure. Because Finn isn’t just gorgeous. He’s every woman’s dream—fun, smart, and great with his tongue.

But I’m older now, and so much wiser, I know better than to get involved with anyone on that level.

Even gorgeous, perfect Finn.

CHAPTER

TWO

Poppy

“Welcome to Chicago,” a flight attendant says, smiling as I step out of the jetway.

The terminal looks a lot like what I left in Denver. Bodies are huddled around flight information boards, checking whether their flights are leaving on time or if they should get comfortable on the floor. The sky is the same eerie shade as it was in Colorado, and I’ve never been happier to have my feet on solid ground … at home.

I weave through the crowd, spotting a restroom just before the escalators descend to baggage claim. There are crumbs on my shirt from the little cookies the stewardess handed out. I feel crusty, and I know my hair is a rat’s nest.

There’s no way in the world that I’m knowingly seeing Finn Miller while looking like crap.

I squeeze through a bachelorette party and slip into the restroom. What in the actual hell is this mess? My reflection in the mirror over the only open sink is a jump scare.

As bad as I thought I looked, it’s worse.

“Of all the times to look like shit,” I mumble, digging through my bag for something to make me somewhat presentable. But because I was meant to be home hours ago and Finn wasn’t supposed to be part of the equation, I didn’t prepare for this. At all.

Giving up, I clean the black confetti off my cheeks as best as I can, finger-comb my hair into a rudimentary bun, and dab on a bit of lip balm that smells faintly of perfume.

“That will have to do,” I say, heading for the exit again.

I check the time as I ride the escalator down to the ground floor, wondering whether to text Finn to let him know I’m here or wait until I have my luggage. But as I step off the escalator, I look up straight into his eyes.

Oh.

Finn is leaning against a pillar, one thick shoulder resting on it. A white T-shirt stretches across his ridiculous shoulders and worn jeans clad his muscled thighs. I’d wager my access to caffeine that he rolled out of bed this morning, put on the first thing he could get his hands on—probably off the floor—and still looks like that.

After I’ve just spent ten minutes in the airport bathroom trying to look presentable. Fucker.

He stands straight, towering over me as I approach him, peering down at me with his gorgeous green eyes. I can’t stop a slow smile from stretching across my face. Every woman who passes gives him a lingering once-over, and a group of men whispers among themselves, undoubtedly trying to figure out whether this is the Finn Miller, the star tight end for the Illinois Legends. But Finn? He doesn’t look anywhere but at me with a steady, mischievous gaze that makes me shiver.

This is why he’s so much fun. I don’t have to have him naked to enjoy him. Even a look from the man is foreplay.

“Hey, Poppy Quinn,” he says, the dimples in his cheeks doing the devil’s work.