Only in Your Dreams (The Mountains are Calling #2)

17. Grey

Dinner is as awkward as I expected it to be. Dad made his plate and began to head back to the den before my mom stopped him, asking if he wanted to stay. He clearly didn’t, but by the way she phrased it, it wasn’t really a question. So he stayed and sat down at the head of the table, where I can only recall him eating a handful of times, and dug into his ham pot pie.

The three of us followed suit. That was ten minutes ago, and there’s been more scraping of flatware against plates than there has been conversation. It’s so silent I can hear my heart beating in my ears.

Beside me, Finley tries to start up the conversation once more. “So Mrs. Sutton, tell me about your work.”

“I’m the school receptionist at the elementary school in Kingstown.” Kingstown is about the size of Fontana Ridge and ten miles down the highway. Mom has worked there for as long as I can remember, even though she’s never seemed to like it much.

Finley smiles, and I’m surprised at how genuine it looks. She doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable with the quiet, with the stilted conversation, whereas I can feel the sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades.

“I’m sure there’s never a dull day, then. Did you ever want to be a teacher?”

Surprise flickers across Mom’s face, as though no one has ever asked her that question before. And I’m sure no one has. I’m only now realizing how little I know about my parents’ dreams, only that neither of them got to pursue them when they got pregnant with me at twenty.

Mom looks down at her plate, spearing a flavorless canned green bean with her fork. “Yes, I did. But I dropped out of college when I found out I was pregnant with Grey.”

Finley nods in understanding. “My mom also got pregnant with Holden young. I think it’s admirable that you put your dreams on hold to raise him.”

Mom swallows, and when she looks up at Finley, there’s a look on her face that’s unfamiliar to me. Something like respect. “Thank you, Finley,” she says, and I let out a sigh of relief that she got her name right.

“Of course,” Finley says, sincerity in every line of her face. “Young mothers don’t get enough credit.”

At the head of the table, Dad clears his throat, drawing our attention to him. He’s reclined in his chair, an easygoing smile on his face. He looks relaxed, laid-back, as if it’s not strange for him to be here sharing a family dinner.

“So Finley, you own that flower shop in town, right? I think I’ve heard Grey mention it before.” I’m not sure who is more surprised that he’s been listening—me, Finley, or Mom.

A smile blooms across Finley’s face, the same one that always does when she gets to talk about Unlikely Places. “I do. I’ve been running it for a few years now.”

Dad nods, looking as charming as ever. “Starting your own business is hard work. I’ve been running the garage since Grey was a boy.”

I should have known he’d bring the conversation back to himself. Finley casts a look in my direction, and only then do I realize my shoulders have stiffened. She glances back at my father, her smile unwavering.

“Tell me about it. I can only hope I keep Unlikely Places open and successful for as long as you’ve run the garage.”

It’s the exact right thing to say to get my dad talking. I tune him out as he begins detailing the ins and outs of the garage, the day-to-day operations, the ways he’s expanded over the years, the second location he opened five years ago. He likes to say he’s building an empire.

“There’s nothing more satisfying than being your own boss.”

Finley laughs. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I can be a terrible employee.”

A smile stretches across Dad’s face. “I very much doubt that.” His gaze finally moves off her, landing heavily on me. “I always wanted Grey to start his own business.”

Tension coils deep in my stomach at the familiar turn of the conversation.

“You didn’t want him to work with you?”

A hearty, derisive laugh escapes Dad’s throat. “No. I didn’t want to hand him anything he didn’t work for. Maybe that was my mistake, though, since he couldn’t be bothered anyway. He’s content to waste his life working for someone else. In a dangerous field he will eventually age out of, no less.”

I feel Finley’s stare resting on the side of my face, but I don’t look at her. There were many reasons why I didn’t spend much time at my own home growing up. Many more reasons I stayed away as an adult. But this is probably the biggest.

When I don’t look at Finley, she turns back to my father, and I can feel her shoulders squaring beside me, brushing against my own stiff ones.

“I wouldn’t call public service wasting a person’s life, Mr. Sutton.” It’s the tone of voice she uses when she’s putting me in my place, except a shade darker. There’s no teasing in her tone like she reserves for me.

Dad waves her off, stuffing a bite of pie into his mouth. I see red at the gesture, but before I can do or say anything, Finley stops me with a hand on my thigh.

“Firefighting is an extremely difficult industry to break into. And he’s great at his job. Most new businesses fail within five years anyway,” she says. “So he has a much better chance at a steady career than if he were to venture out on his own.”

Dad narrows his eyes, unused to being argued with. I know Mom disagrees with him, that she doesn’t approve of the way he talks to me most of the time, but she’s never stopped him. I’ve only really heard them fight once before. Their disagreements stopped sometime in my childhood. Maybe they do it quietly in private, but I think they mostly don’t care enough to argue anymore.

“And how long has your shop been open, then?”

My jaw clenches, hard enough to crack a tooth, because I know exactly where he’s going with this.

Finley stares my father down, unflinching. “Four years.”

Dad nods, looking smug. “Well, there’s still time for it to fail, then. When you’ve proven yourself, you can start handing out career advice. Until then, I think I know what’s best for my son.”

He digs back into his meal, satisfied. But then Finley says, “Do you?”

His eyes shoot back up to her, hard. “Yes.”

“I’m not sure you know very much at all when it comes to your son.”

The air feels sucked from my lungs, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. But when Finley’s hand tightens on my thigh, something warm seems to spread out from the center of me, suffusing all the parts of me that grew cold the moment we stepped through the door.

Before my father can respond, Finley turns to Mom with a smile on her face. “Thank you so much for dinner, Mrs. Sutton. I hate to cut it short, but Grey and I have somewhere to be. I’d love to come back anytime.”

With that, she stands, her hand slipping from my thigh to tangle with my own. Dad glares at us through angry eyes but doesn’t say another word.

“Th-thank you for coming,” Mom stammers, and my heart pinches when I see the sheen of tears behind her eyes. Dropping Finley’s hand, I move around the table to place a kiss on her cheek, squeezing her shoulder softly.

“I’ll come see you soon,” I say into her ear, quiet enough for only her to hear, and she nods, placing her hand over mine for a second. It’s the most physical affection we’ve shown each other in years, and a sharp pang of regret slices through me at the realization.

Finley’s hand finds mine when I join her once more, and she squeezes it tightly, tugging me down the hall and to the front door. I always feel deep relief walking down this hallway, but today, it’s even more overwhelming. I almost feel as if my knees could buckle with it.

The second we’re out the door, she spins to face me. Her palms slide up my neck to settle on my cheeks, tilting my face down to hers. “Don’t listen to him, okay?”

I nod, wordless.

“Are you okay?”

I take a moment to think before responding. There’s still the gnawing emptiness like every time I leave here, but this time, it feels different. Because I’m not alone. Finley is here with me, her warm hands cupping my face, her eyes soft and her lips so close to my own.

“Surprisingly, yes,” I say, sounding hoarse. I barely spoke the entire time we were there, and my voice reflects it. Or maybe that’s the emotion clogging my throat.

A small smile curls the corners of her lips. “Good.” And then she kisses me, soft and slow but ending much too soon. “Let’s get out of here.”

I nod again, feeling lighter than I ever have when in such close proximity to my childhood home. “I owe you a dessert.”

Her smile stretches wider. “I’m glad you didn’t forget.”

I haven’t invited a woman to my home since I bought this house. I’m not really sure why, but this place, the one I’ve slowly renovated and made my own over the last few years, has felt like a place I only want to bring someone special. Someone like Finley.

“You have a picket fence?” Finley practically squeals as we pull into my driveway.

I swallow thickly, sweat pricking on the back of my neck because I didn’t think this through.

That picket fence dates back to the weekend after Wren and Holden’s wedding, back to when she told me she always dreamed of a house with one.

Palming the back of my neck, I say, “Yeah, in case I ever decide to get a dog. C’mon, we’ve got a dessert to make.”

She flashes me a look, her eyes lighting. “We? I was promised that you’d be making it.”

I climb out of the car without answering and run around the front so I can open her door. Offering her my hand, I say, “I’ll make dessert, and you can sit on my counter and look pretty.”

“I was hoping for a grand piano, but I guess the counter works.”

I pull her tighter, wrapping an arm around her waist, and press a kiss to the top of her head, right where her hair meets her skin. “I’ll try to procure a grand piano before the next time you come over.”

Her eyebrows arch. “I’ll get a second invite? I thought you weren’t known for that.”

“You’re the only woman to get a first invite here,” I reply.

Surprise flickers of her features. Suppressing a smile as she avoids my gaze, she says, “I feel special.”

I want to tell her how special she is to me, but that feels more vulnerable than I can handle being right now, so I keep my mouth shut and instead unlock the door. When I flick on the lights, Finley lets out an awed gasp.

“Grey, this place is…” She trails off.

A smile stretches across my face. “A little different from when I moved in?”

The secluded house with its lakeside views was once full of character, according to the online listing, but out-of-towner flippers had gutted it and replaced everything with cheap gray wood, bleached white walls, and basic silver fixtures. I’m sure it was someone’s style, but it wasn’t mine.

Most importantly, the place was livable, so I was able to move in and, with lots of help from Holden, slowly make updates over the years. We found original pine hardwoods under the peel-and-stick planks. It needed to be refinished, but now they look as good as new. The walls are painted in warm, rich colors, and I installed darker cabinets in the kitchen. I’m still not entirely sure how to decorate, but the bones are good, and I even downloaded Pinterest at Wren’s suggestion. The place is homey, and for the first time, I don’t feel lonely in it.

“Very different,” she echoes. She and Holden helped me move in over five years ago, but I wasn’t lying when I said I haven’t invited any women over. So it looks like a new place now, barely recognizable to what she saw the last time she was here.

I leave her in the living room, examining the changes I’ve made, and make my way into the kitchen. The entire downstairs is open concept, meaning I can watch her trailing her fingers over the fireplace mantel that Holden and I installed as I wash my hands and get out the ingredients for brownies. Neither of my parents are especially good cooks, but Jodi is a master, and the first thing I ever learned to make from scratch was homemade brownies. Her special recipe. There’s finely chopped dark chocolate, high-quality cocoa, and a pinch of nutmeg.

When she hears the sharp thud of the knife hitting the cutting board, she stops her perusing and turns to me with a wide smile. “You’re making brownies?”

I nod, the knife almost slipping when my eyes catch on the smile gracing her lips, the way she looks so content here in my space. It makes my chest warm, my heart race, my mind think of thousands of scenarios I probably shouldn’t be considering with a sharp object in my hand.

“Mom’s recipe?” she asks, moving to the other side of the island, palms resting on the countertop between us.

“Of course.”

“That’s my favorite dessert,” she says.

I glance up at her, my attention snagged once more. It’s hard to focus with her here, looking so good in my house. “I know.” The words slip out, and with them, a pleased flush creeps up her cheeks. I’m showing my hand, and I don’t even care. I think I’m only one careless comment away from her figuring out I’ve been in love with her for the better part of fifteen years.

“Can I help?”

At my nod, Finley moves around the counter and washes her hands. We work in that same easy silence we fell into at the station, the one born from years of cooking beside each other at Jodi’s. My house growing up was always so quiet that I assumed I’d want constant conversation and noise in my own home, but what I’m only starting to realize is that there are different kinds of quiet. There’s the fraught silence that follows an argument and the tense one that precedes it. There’s the type of silence that makes your insides ache, the awkward kind that feels desperate to be filled. There’s the silence that comes from years of not caring enough to fill it. Growing up, I was familiar with all of these, so much so that I began to resent the quiet, needing to constantly fill it with any kind of noise imaginable.

Then I met Holden, and I visited his house. It was always noisy—TVs, music, conversation, laughter, teasing debates, arguments that always ended with apologies and hugs—and I grew addicted to that noise. Craved it from the silence of my childhood bedroom.

I never thought I’d like this more than the noise. That having Finley here, quiet beside me, would fill me up in a way the cacophony of Jodi’s house never has. This feels new and different and exhilarating and addicting.

“What are you thinking so loudly over there?” she asks as I pour the batter into the pan, scraping the sides. It’s a phrase I’ve heard Jodi use before, and it makes a smile tug at my lips.

I feel vulnerable again, and my first instinct is to make a quippy remark to hide it. Instead, I choose honesty. With a shrug, I set the bowl down, hand her the spoon to lick, and say, “I like having you here.”

She holds my gaze, a slight flush creeping up her neck. I want to lean in and taste it, feel its warmth against my skin. “I like being here,” she replies, and that warmth gathers in my stomach, spreading through my limbs.

I’m about to respond when her tongue darts out, dragging across the spoon, and my throat closes up at the sight. All those thoughts I shoved away for my own protection when garnishing a knife come back in full force, making me hot all over. When she catches my attention fixed on her mouth, she grins, something wicked that makes my head spin, and passes the spoon to me. “Want a taste?”

I can feel my eyes dilating, but my brain snaps back to attention when a laugh barks out of her.

“You should see your face.”

I run a palm down the length of my face, groaning. “Finley, you can’t say things like that while licking a spoon and holding eye contact.”

She leans on the counter for support, her chuckle growing louder. “But it’s so fun.”

I fix her with the most serious look I can muster. “You’re trouble.”

She lifts a shoulder in a shrug, her cheeks still pink from laughter, her mouth still stretched wide in a heart-stopping smile. “Never said I wasn’t.”