When The Rain Falls

21. This Chapter Is Not Romantic

21 THIS CHAPTER IS NOT ROMANTIC

AIMEE

He slapped my ass.

Yesterday he kissed me. And today he slapped my ass. And it’s not even 10:00 a.m. Who knows what will happen next? The day is still young. So very, very young. And I’m so very, very horny. For him.

We’re forty minutes outside the city. The subdivisions and gated communities have turned into farmhouses and barns in all stages of repair. The city blocks have become large lots, boasting crops of all kinds. Hand painted signs dot the highway advertising fresh eggs, corn, and fruit.

Finn keeps stealing glances at me out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know I can see his eyes through his aviator glasses. And it’s kind of adorable. He didn’t shave this morning and stubble darkens his square jaw. I swear the corner of his mouth has been quivering in hidden amusement this entire ride as I sing horribly along to the songs over the radio.

Yep. Radio. His van doesn’t have Bluetooth. So, the options were radio or some scratched-to-shit country album from the 90’s. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other one resting against the side of the window in the sexy way that men do.

He steals another look my way right as I’m stealing my own. I smile and quickly dart my gaze back out my window. For the rest of the ride, I admire his reflection in the window, pretending to show an interest in the scenery.

Finally, we pull into a large, dirt parking lot below a large sign that reads Wilson Farms . Finn finds a parking spot at the edge of the lot and we cross a field of mud before we reach the entrance.

There are two booths set up at the entrance and we all shuffle into one of the lines. The employees are wearing forest green sweatshirts and exchanging cash and credit cards for orange bracelets. We fall into line and Finn rests his elbow on Vivian's shoulder. He looks casual and relaxed. He looks good.

When we reach the front of the line, Finn slips his arm off Vivian's shoulder and pulls out his wallet. I reach into my purse, but Finn beats me to it, sliding his card on the counter first.

"I got it," he says cooly.

"You don’t have to pay for me,” I tell him. “This whole thing was my idea.”

“Oh, I know,” he mutters. But then he follows it up with a sincere, “I kinda owe you.”

“You do?” I ask. “For what?”

“Trust me, I just do.”

“Let him pay,” Vivian says. “He can treat it like a practice date. And maybe it will help him get over his fear of women,” she adds matter-of-factly. I drop my face to hide a grin.

“Vivian Grace Hudson. What the hell makes you say that?” Finn demands. Full names. Shit. This is serious. Also, new goal. Get Finn to say my full name. Preferably when we’re both naked.

"That's what Grandma says,” Vivian says defensively. “Every time Grandma tries to get you a date, you literally freak out at her. She says you’re afraid of girls and can’t remember how to handle feminine energy or something." At that moment, the lady in the booth with the Wilson Farms sweatshirt fans five bright orange event bracelets on the counter and raises an eyebrow.

Finn swipes them angrily with one quick motion and turns back to Vivian.

"Remind me to talk to your grandma later,” he mutters. "And you know what? Women are terrifying. Between you, Ruby, and Aimee, I'm scared out of my mind half the time. Julie's the only normal one here." He jabs a thumb at Julie who gives everyone an awkward look. Julie's so agreeable and quiet that I actually forget she's there most of the time.

We wander away from the booth in front of a little garden with scarecrows. "But girls would be interested in you if you tried a little," Viv offers helpfully. "Like wear cologne. Or slick your hair back nice." Finn rolls his eyes.

"Since when do you know anything about guys or fashion?" Ruby asks. "The problem isn't his hair or his smell. He's a neat freak. And he’s too uptight. His idea of fun is organizing the house. Girls like bad boys. Right Aimee? Like Jack?”

“Leave Jack out of this,” Finn mutters. The face he makes, like he just downed a glass of sour milk, causes me to bend at the waist and cover a chuckle with my palm.

“Don’t pick on your dad,” I say, when I finally recover. “There’s someone out there for everyone. You know, somewhere. Might be somewhere far away, but?—”

"Alright, this episode of Unwanted Advice from Three Single Women is officially over." He takes Vivian's arm and fastens a bracelet to her wrist.

"Well, there's always Maggie," Julie says. "If you get desperate."

Finn chokes. And Vivian laughs.

"Who's Maggie?" I ask quickly. Probably too quickly.

"No one," says Finn. "Absolutely no one."

"My coach. She has a major crush on Dad." Vivian wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"Maggie doesn't count. She likes anyone with a wallet and a dick," Ruby blurts out.

"Ruby Marie Hudson!" Finn scolds. "Goddammit. Watch your mouth."

"Well, it's true," she exclaims. I cover my mouth to hide a snicker. Finn runs a hand down his face in frustration.

“Finnnnnny!” I hear a muffled voice call out over the crowds. What the hell is that?

“Hey look, a corn maze.” Finn puts a hand on my back and begins to aggressively walk me towards a wall of long corn stalks. I’ve never seen him move so quickly. This is suspicious. Just a second ago, he was complaining about there being too many scarecrows and now he’s all balls to the wall over a corn maze? Ooh, maybe he plans to kiss me again. Within the privacy of giant stalks of corn. Romantic.

“Finnnnnny!” I hear the voice again.

“I think someone’s calling you,” I say, digging my heels into the dirt and turning around. The girls found friends from school and dispersed quickly, leaving me to entertain the Halloween Scrooge. Which, up until now, has proven to be more difficult than I expected, since he apparently doesn’t like anything that has the potential to elicit joy. And he especially does not like scarecrows.

“Nope. Don’t think so,” he says quickly, just as a woman parts a crowd of people and comes barreling at us. “Goddammit,” Finn mutters, dropping his arms and slumping his shoulders in obvious frustration.

The woman, who is growing larger by the minute as she marches towards us, is wearing a tight, low-cut v-neck with lettering across it that says fundraiser with the word fun in bold text and underlined. Tight black leggings are plastered to her skin, with ruching on the side and along the seam, specifically designed to accentuate the curves of her ass. Everything about her, from her thick layer of makeup to what is clearly a pushup bra under her large-bosomed t-shirt, screams aggressive.

Who. Is. This. And why do I want to punch her in the tits?

"Hey, there,” she says sweetly, taking a moment to catch her breath. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and bats her eyelashes. Hey, that’s my move. Then she pushes her arms against her breasts to mash them together. I look down at my own much smaller chest and frown. That’s not my move. Life is so unfair.

As she breathes, the fleshy cleavage spilling over the top of her neckline moves distractingly up and down. I have the strong urge to cover Finn’s eyes. It’s so …indecent .

“Oh, Maggie,” Finn says, pretending to act surprised. Wait. Maggie? Did he say Maggie ? The Maggie? The Maggie who likes any man with a dick and a wallet? “You just missed Vivian,” Finn adds.

Maggie laughs. And her laugh is like nails across a chalkboard. God. Do I sound like that?

“I was looking for you, silly man.” She flicks a wrist at him and then casually slides her hand up his bicep. Rude.

She’s touching my things.

Finn grimaces slightly. Ok, that’s a good sign. That means he has good taste.

“Did you get my emails about the soccer tournament?” she asks. “I was hoping someone would step up as snack mom. You know, organize the snacks for the mid-week tournament. I didn’t get any volunteers. But I was thinking, if you’re free, that you and I could?—"

“I’ll do it.” I don’t even remember forming the words. They just come out. The thought of her with him makes me want to puke up all of last week’s dinners.

Maggie blinks a couple times, like she’s only noticing me for the first time and wondering where I’ve come from. She leans forward and studies me, her boobs threatening to fall out of her shirt. God. You have boobs. We get it.

“And who, exactly, are you?” she asks, like she’s asking about a spot on the carpet. As she points a finger at me, her chest ripples like a plate of Jell-O being set down firmly on the counter.

“This is—” Finn starts, but she cuts him off.

“The nanny?” she asks. She scans me from head to toe like she's assessing my threat level. I stand as tall as possible and jut out my chin. I'm ready for her. I’m fully prepared to take her down if I have to.

"This is Aimee," Finn says.

"Oh?" she asks, a hint of condescension in her voice. She’s waiting for more. An explanation. More information about how I’m associated with him. I take a step closer to him, wedging myself under his arm as I sling a hand into his back pocket of his jeans. Finn’s head instantly swivels down in my direction. And, yes. I’m petty. But shit. He has a nice ass. I smile at him as I caress the curve of his glute. God, why is his ass so firm. Is that what happens when you pucker your asshole closed all the time? Finn clears his throat awkwardly. Maggie gives me a look as dirty as a movie theater floor.

Fuck you, too, Maggie.

“I said, I’ll do it,” I repeat. I have no freaking clue what I’m agreeing to. But I’ll do it.

“Aimee, you don’t—” Finn starts. I pinch his ass and he stops talking. Good boy.

“Just give me the details and consider it done.” I give her my biggest, most-obviously fake smile.

The woman crosses her arms. This is not what she wanted. I’m clearly winning.

“Fine,” she finally mumbles. “I’ll pass the details onto Finny and he can give them to you.” The way she says his name. Oh, my God . Maggie flashes Finn one more slimy smile and turns around.

We watch her walk away. I think we both want to make sure the coast is fully clear before we let our guards down.

“You want to remove your hand from my ass now?” Finn asks.

“Not particularly.” And why should I? He slapped my ass earlier. I should be able to touch his.

“You know,” he says. “She’s also looking for a Team parent. You seem like you’d make great friends. Maybe I should volunteer you.”

“Bear,” I warn. “Don’t even think about it.”

“So, snack mom, huh?” He studies me with amused curiosity. I mean, he’s still mostly glaring, but there’s an amused and curious undertone to it.

“What? You think I can’t do it?” I reluctantly pull my hand out of his pocket to cross my arms.

“I think you just didn’t like her talking to me.” He raises an eyebrow and I swear to God the corner of his mouth raises, just a tad. Is that almost a smile?

“Jealousy looks good on you, babe.” He winks before turning his attention to a row of booths in front of us.

Wait. Did he just wink ?

Wait. Did he just call me babe?

My arms fall from my chest and I feel my mouth gape open.

He called me babe!

"Ooh. Smell this one." I shove a candle towards Finn.

He looks at it dubiously, which makes me laugh.

"That's a popular one," comes a new voice. An elderly lady in purple glasses and grey hair styled in a pixie cut approaches us from the opposite side of the table. Finn finally gives the candle a tentative sniff. Right as he does, the lady continues, "It’s sandalwood. It enhances arousal."

Finn immediately jerks his head back. His facial expression is a billboard of utter disgust. I laugh at him again as I hold it up to my face and take my own deep sniff. I give him a knowing look as I set the candle back down on the table.

"Oh, look at you lovebirds." The lady smiles at us as she clasps her hands. "You don't even need the sandalwood."

"We're not—" Finn starts, but I quickly cut him off.

"Swingers," I say, pinching his cheek as I lean into him. And shit. I can suddenly feel the heat of his body. And it's causing a chain reaction straight down to the space between my thighs. "Definitely not swingers. I don't like to share." Finn closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he's enduring a major inconvenience and he's trying to remain calm. Hi, it's me. I'm Finn's major inconvenience.

"Of course you don't want to share," the lady says, eyeing Finn's stature. “I’m going to check out these customers,” the lady says as she tucks a pencil behind her ear and nods to the other end of the booth. “Holler if you need anything. But be sure to try the blood orange candle. Studies show that blood orange is an aphrodisiac," she calls over her shoulder.

"Don't even think about it." Finn gives me a side eye. God, his side eye can melt flesh from bones. I am so attracted to him that it drives me insane. Every ledge and surface in this place is now the scene of a fantasy involving our sticky and sweaty bodies finally giving in to the tension between us.

“And swingers?"

"I only said what was true.” I grin at him. “We aren't swingers. Where's the lie?” I think about how smiles are contagious. For example, when you watch a movie and you see someone smile, you realize that you’re suddenly, involuntarily smiling at yourself. I keep hoping that will happen with Finn. Like, if I smile hard enough, he might accidentally crack a grin. I’d love to see him smile. Even just a small one. But so far, nothing. The man’s impenetrable.

But I’m not. I’m extremely penetrable. And I’d be happy to show him.

I’m not even going to scold myself by saying “Bad Aimee” this time. Because it’s so true .

"You're fucking impossible," Finn murmurs, shaking his head.

“ I’m impossible? You’re the one who cheated in the corn maze,” I say, recalling how not more than ten minutes ago, Finn got so frustrated by coming across the same section of corn maze for a third time, that he literally walked through the corn stalk wall and grumbled something about corn being food, not entertainment.

“I didn’t cheat,” he mumbles. “I gave up.”

I shake my head disapprovingly at him and he runs a hand through his hair mumbling. As I peruse more candles, my hands land on a dark blue one. I pick it up and sniff it.

"Ooh, this one is called Midnight Sky," I say.

"What the fuck is a midnight sky supposed to smell like, anyway?” Finn asks.

"I don't know. Something romantic. A soft bed of grass. Glowing moonlight. Quietly chirping crickets."

"Aimee, none of those things are smells."

"You have to use your imagination,” I chide.

"Yeah, ok.” Finn takes the candle from me and sniffs it. “Midnight Sky. Let’s see. Footsteps behind you, but no one’s there. The rustling of bushes. An ear-piercing scream.”

I tilt my head and give him a look of annoyance. His lips are pressed tightly together and I’m beginning to recognize that as suppressed humor. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. The tiniest, itty, bittiest hint of it. Now that I think about it. All of his glares contain tiny nuances of emotions. So faint you could easily miss them. I think I’m learning to read him.

“I hate your imagination. It sucks,” I declare, like a wounded five-year-old. “Actually, all these candles are disappointing,” I say, swooping my hand over the both in front of us. “Vanilla. Eucalyptus. Cinnamon roll. Boring.” I watch Finn watch me. “Give the people what they really want.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Finn humors me. “What do the people want, Aimee?”

“Sawdust,” I say. Finn snorts, not unlike a horse. “New car smell,” I add. “Oooh, fresh lumber!” I clasp my hands together excitedly.

“Mowed grass,” he adds. I smile. Because it pleases me beyond measure to learn that he, the troll, has a playful side.

“Fresh paint,” I add. “There is nothing better than walking into a freshly painted room and wondering if you might get slightly high.”

“Gasoline?” Finn offers, his tone light and playful. He begins to wander away from the booth. I take his cue and join him.

“I know it’s bad for you. But no one can resist a small whiff of gasoline,” I agree. We wander aimlessly down two long rows of booths, our shoulders brushing every few feet or so.

“A freshly opened deck of cards,” Finn adds.

“Really?” I look up at him with uncertainty.

“Fantastic.”

“I’ll have to test that one myself,” I decide.

Without warning, without so much as any kind of prelude, Finn wraps one of his large hands around mine. He clutches it softly. So casually. Like it’s as automatic as breathing. Like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing. It’s everything. No one has ever held my hand before.

His hand is rough. His fingers slightly dry. But it’s perfect. I glance down and admire how delicate my fingers look next to his. I’ve never enjoyed a single thing in my entire life as much as I enjoy this moment right now. And all he did was take my hand. I try to catch his eye, but he’s not looking at me. Like he’s trying to paint a veneer of insignificance over what he just did. He may be calm and cool. But I’m squealing inside.

“Next year, let’s open our own booth,” Finn says. “We can do so much better than Murder Sky.”

“Oh my God,” I scold. “It’s Midnight Sky! And it’s supposed to be romantic.” I let him guide me down the row of booths, past funnel cakes, and corn on the cob, and fall quilt displays, and other homemade goods. Our fastened hands sway gently between us. His thumb caresses the back of my knuckles.

“Yeah, well, guess I’m not romantic.”

But I completely disagree. Right now, I can’t think of anything more romantic than this man claiming my hand in the middle of a busy pumpkin patch as we trudge around mud puddles. That’s when I realize the art of romance is subtle. It’s the power of a small gesture to make you feel like treasure. And right now, I feel like treasure. His treasure.

“So,” I say, swinging our arms just a little bit higher, my footsteps feeling light, the ground turning into clouds beneath my feet. I feel like if I jumped right now, I might float away. “What exactly is it that you owe me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said you owe me. You know, back in line,” I point out. “I need to know just how much you owe me. So I can fully capitalize on this.”

“Oh no. I’m not giving you that kind of power.” He squeezes my hand and the corner of his lip is doing that thing where it quirks just slightly.

We’re holding hands. We shared fries and now we’re holding hands. You can’t tell me this doesn’t mean something.