Finn (Breakaway Hockey #4)

Chapter Fifteen

Sammie

F inn is truly a lifesaver. And I mean that literally. What I didn’t tell him when I talked to him on the phone a few minutes ago is that when I tried to scoot the bookshelf over to between the windows and it wouldn’t budge, I turned to my side and, using my hip and all of my strength, pushed against it as hard as I could.

Bad idea.

The stupid thing actually lifted up some. But due to how heavy it is, it began to tip over.

I quickly let go, and it then almost fell back on me.

Crushed by my own bookshelf.

I shake my head as I adjust my ponytail.

God, that’d be awful.

And so embarrassing.

That is if I even lived to tell the tale.

Anyway, that was when I decided to call Finn.

As I wait for him to arrive, I pace around the piles of books in the middle of my living room floor while straightening my running shorts and smoothing down my light pink tee.

Don’t want to look too much of a mess when Finn arrives.

He’s just a friend, so it shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

It always does.

Every time we see each other, I want to look nice.

I don’t have time to stress about it, though. The doorbell just rang.

Stepping over a pile of books, I head over and let him in.

“Wow,” he says as he steps inside and scans the floor. “You sure have been busy.”

“I have,” I confirm. “But I think I overestimated my strength. Taking all the books off the shelves was a snap, but moving that thing”—I jerk my thumb to the bookshelf and growl—“is damn near impossible.”

Chuckling, he says, “Don’t worry. I got it.”

He sure does.

After verifying with me exactly where I want the bookshelf, he lifts it from the front and just freaking moves it down with ease to in between the two long windows, exactly where I want it.

He adjusts the bookshelf a little to straighten it out.

Clapping my hands, I exclaim, “Perfect! That looks so good.”

Glancing over his shoulder, hands still on the sides of the bookshelf, he asks, “You sure?”

It takes me a few seconds to reply, seeing as I’m busy admiring how freaking wide his back is and how his arms look so strong.

Because they are strong .

I know.

I’ve been wrapped up in them.

Sighing, I tell him, “Yes, it’s exactly where I want it.” And then, when he turns to face me, I shake my head and add, “The strength difference between men and women is just unfair.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But you guys have many qualities we lack. You in particular, Sammie.”

“Me?” I cock my head. “Like what?”

“Well, for one thing.” His eyes travel down, then up my body, which makes me tingle, remembering his touch. When he reaches my face, he says, “You’re much better looking.”

He means me specifically, and that makes me blush. The fact that I’m still tingling from the lusty way he scanned my body isn’t helping. Not to mention, his arms are still all pumped up from lifting that bookshelf.

When he crosses them over his chest, without thinking, I blurt out, “Oh, please. You look like a damn Adonis standing there.”

Well, he does.

Now it’s his turn to blush.

Looking down, he says, “Thanks, Sammie.”

“It’s true,” I murmur.

God, would I love to walk over and kiss him right now. The worst part is, when he looks up and catches my gaze, I swear he’s thinking the same thing.

And probably much more.

Oh, if only…

An awkward beat passes, and then he clears his throat and says, “Hey, do you want me to stay and help you put these books away?” He waves his hand over the mess on the floor.

Ahh, now we’re back on track.

I actually could use the assistance, and okay, I don’t really want him to leave already, so I say, “That would be great.”

“So…” He glances around at the many piles of books. “Where should we start? Is there some sort of order you want them to go in?”

“Ha!” I laugh. “Is there ever. I’m very serious about my literature and how it’s displayed.”

“Okay, then.” He looks wary as to what he’s gotten into.

It’s actually endearing.

Yet another quality to make me like him more than I should.

And not as a freaking friend, damn it!

Ugh, stop it, Sammie.

I do, by focusing on my books. We get to work putting them back on the bookshelf, in order of course.

I explain how I have a romance section, a horror section, a mystery section, and some self-help books. Within each category, the books are grouped by author and collections.

After a short while, we’re almost done.

There’s only one pile left.

As I stare at it reverently, I explain in a hushed tone, “Those are my signed books. There are a few special editions in there too. They get their own space.”

Since the only shelf left is on the top left, Finn points to it and says, “I’m assuming you mean right there.”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

“I can put them up there for you,” he offers.

I accept right away. He’s taller, so it’ll be easier for him to reach up and place the titles nice and neatly.

I was planning on using a step stool, but with Finn here, that’s unnecessary.

I tell him I’ll hand each one to him, so he’ll be able to place them on the shelf in the order I’d like.

“You got it,” he replies.

We get to work, and we’re like a finely tuned machine.

We have fun too.

I love that Finn checks out who signed each book before placing it on the shelf. He’s not overly interested in the signed romances; they just get a glance. But he does think a few of my special editions are cool, especially the foil cover ones.

But it’s when I hand him my one lone signed Stephen King novel that his interest is sparked.

Holding it aloft, he asks, “Did you get to meet him, or did you order this already signed?”

“I actually got to meet him,” I say excitedly. “I went through a big horror phase when I was about thirteen. He was doing a signing at a local bookstore here in Atlanta, so my mom took me. We waited in a big-ass line for so long, but it was totally worth it.”

“For sure,” he says as he places the book on the shelf with care. Then, turning back to me, he shares, “I went through my own horror phase when I was about eleven. I was really into it. Looking back, I probably read books I shouldn’t have at that age.”

I laugh. “I think we’ve all been there. It’s like a rite of passage or something.”

“It is,” he agrees, chuckling.

I’m always amazed at how so many people have the same experiences growing up. Alaska and Atlanta, a hockey kid and a book nerd, a boy and a girl, but we’re not all that different after all.

Since we’re done with the bookshelf, but I don’t want my time with Finn to end, I throw out, “Are you hungry? Would you want to order a pizza or something?”

“Hell, yeah,” he says right away. “Pizza sounds great.”

Man, I feel happy, like really freaking good. Spending time with Finn has a sort of healing effect on me. I find I’m not beating myself up all the time anymore over things in the past.

Sure, what happened all those years ago weighs on me—it always will—but I’m thinking maybe I do deserve a tiny bit of happiness.

Yeah, Sammie, maybe you do.