When The Rain Falls

29. Making Something Pop

29 MAKING SOMETHING POP

AIMEE

When Finn answers the door, he's wearing an apron over a white crew neck. His gaze rolls up and down my body, clearly devouring my booty shorts and fitted t-shirt. I adjust the large box in my hands by hiking it up with my knee.

"Fucking hell. What are you wearing?” He grabs the box from me, which only gives him a better view. It’s impossible to miss the fluster on his face as his cheeks flush a bright red.

Oops. Did I leave the house without a bra? How did that happen?

When I look down, I notice the chilly night air is puckering my nipples to attention. And I clearly have his.

I shrug casually and give him an innocent grin. And that grin is lying. I came over to drop off the box of soccer snacks. And I knew exactly what I was doing.

I plan to torment him as much as possible. Because if you can’t get even, get petty .

“Aimee, it’s fucking cold outside,” he scolds as he opens the door wider and ushers me in with a hand at the small of my back. God. His touch. His simple, small touch. He's my drug and I suddenly feel like I’m getting a hit. Too bad I’m more likely to overdose on his rejection than an orgasm.

"I brought a sweater,” I point out defensively. “It’s in the box.” I learned my lesson from my date with Jack. Always have a sweater.

“Next time, put the sweater on ,” he commands. “You’ll poke an eye out prancing around the neighborhood with your nipples out like that.” I wonder if he’s thinking about the other night. The way he brought them into his mouth and sucked so tenderly. I know I am.

“Don’t be silly. The only way they’d poke anyone’s eye out is if someone got too close,” I sass him. “And if that was the case, they’d probably deserve it.” I bite my lip and push back my shoulders just enough for the fabric across my chest to tighten.

“Fucking Christ,” he mutters. And I can tell it’s a task of epic proportions for him to keep his eyes on my face right now. “You and your nipples. Assaulting the whole goddamn neighborhood.” He gives me one of his stern glares. I’m guessing the glare is a tool to keep his eyes focused on one place.

I quirk an eyebrow at him. Because he’s trying to look intimidating, but it’s really hard to take him seriously when he’s got an apron on. I lean in to inspect the pattern on the apron, bringing my offensive nipples only closer. “Are those tiny red hearts?” I ask.

“For God’s sake. Leave the apron out of this,” he mumbles as he sets the box on his hip.

“I think what you meant to say when you opened the door was thank you ,” I correct him.

He looks down at the box, suddenly looking a little shy. “Right. Yeah, thanks.”

The box is overflowing with white lunch bags decorated with ribbon and hand drawn sketches of soccer balls. I was supposed to drop it by earlier in the day, but Alicia wasn’t able to go grocery shopping with me until after she got off work. I decide not to tell Finn about the cake and the reason why it took me so long to deliver the box.

“You drew all these?” he asks, gesturing to the sketches on the bags. “They look good.” The compliment drops from his mouth like a tiny crumb of praise. Internally, I gobble it up. Externally, I just shrug. They look like a graphic designer loathes everything about her job, was wallowing in rejection from the hot neighbor across the street, and needed something to fixate on as a distraction. That’s what they look like.

When he turns and walks down the hall, I follow, nearly tripping to catch up to his long strides. When the hallway opens into the kitchen, Finn pulls his apron over his head and drops it on the counter. He smooths out his hair. The gesture makes me want to run my fingers through the smooth strands.

Ok, fine. And sit on his face as I tug it.

Oblivious to the side quest my brain just took, Finn places the box on the counter. He takes one out and turns it over. Then he places it back in the box. Our eyes find each other. He studies me for a moment. Like he’s not sure what to do with me now that I’m here. In his kitchen.

Shit. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to come all the way in. Why did I follow him here? I can’t remember. I’m just a lost puppy following a guy with a bone. Or boner. I could give him one of those.

Finn shifts on his feet. I scratch a spot on my neck. I should say something. Or I should just leave. Yeah, I should leave.

“Well, I guess—" I start.

“I have something for you,” Finn cuts me off quickly. He looks unsure. Like he didn’t really know if he wanted to say that. But now that he has, he’s committed to whatever is about to happen next. He walks to his pantry and disappears for a moment. I hear rummaging around in something before he pops back out clutching a bottle of wine. He sets it on the counter between us, label facing away from me.

"I saw this and I thought of you.” His voice trails off before he continues, “It’s not exactly middle shelf. There were an even number of shelves. And I didn't know the protocol." I picture him standing in the middle of the wine aisle, counting out the shelves just to find the middle. And he did that for me. I can’t imagine he was thinking of Laurel then.

"Well," I tell him, gesturing to the bottle. "Let's see it."

He slowly spins the bottle, revealing a label that reads Wise Guy Hippo . There's a picture of a hippo with a top hat, monocle, and a mustache. I run my fingers over the label, admiring the graphic and the typography. The design is great. Simple, cute. Just like something I'd have picked out.

"This is perfect." I smile up at him. "Boysenberry font. That’s one of my favorites.” My approval causes some of the tension in his shoulders to ease.

"You have a favorite font?" His eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

"I'm a graphic designer," I remind him.

"Oh. Right.” He nods. “So, you want to try it?” he asks nervously. “Or, you know. You can just take it home. Try it there. Whatever.”

“You picked it out,” I explain. “It only makes sense that I try it with you.” He nods again. He walks to a corner cabinet and reaches for the top shelf.

"How was your day?" he asks.

How was my day?

No one asks me that.

“It was fine,” I say quickly. It’s what I always say. Because it’s easier to say things are fine than to dwell on them. But then I reconsider. I feel like I owe him more. “Actually, it kind of sucked.”

He pats the counter, gesturing for me to sit. I obey, hopping onto the smooth surface as he sets a wine glass down.

"Sucked how?" he asks as he pulls a corkscrew out of a drawer. He twists the metal into the top of the cork.

“You know what I did for three-quarters of the day?” I cross my arms angrily. “I photoshopped camel toes out of a swimsuit catalog. It was awful.”

Finn’s mouth twitches and he raises an eyebrow.

“Not all heroes wear capes,” he deadpans. I jab him with a playful elbow.

"Also, I'm designing an ad for a client.” I pick at the corner of the black and white marbled granite counter. “It’s this new outdoor clothing retailer. They may actually become big someday. They have great stuff. Anyway, I came up with something I thought was a pretty great design. Hikers in a hidden lake, dipping their toe into a new adventure. The clients just stared at it disapprovingly." As Finn presses the arms of the wine opener down, his biceps flare for the briefest of moments, pushing against his sleeves. I watch the fabric go taught and then relax again. Damn. Where was I? He bites his lip in concentration and when he pops the cork free his pecs dance across his chest.

"I asked them what they thought." I lean my weight back against an arm. "They kept telling me to make it pop. But they wouldn’t tell me what they meant by that.”

He pushes a wine glass towards me. "I could make something pop for them. But I don't think they'd like it." With his serious imposing frame and his deadpan face, I can’t help but laugh.

"Well, when I'm ready to get fired, I'll let you know. And you can pop away." I take the wine glass he just offered and cup it between my hands.

"Sometimes I feel like I should just go out on my own. You know? Be my own boss.”

"Why don't you?"

"It's too much work. Too intimidating. I wouldn't know where to start."

Finn slides his hand beneath mine, cupping the glass. I watch him bring the rim between his full lips.

"I thought you didn't drink?" I ask, as his throat bobs gently.

He lowers the glass and a muscle in his cheek twitches. "I don't.”

“How is it?” I ask, staring at the way his tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

"Not, uh, bad?" he says it like it's a question.

I take my own sip. It tastes like sweet vinegar and coats my throat like syrup. "Oh God." I make a face. Something about my face must be amusing. Finn's eyebrows raise and his lip quivers. Suddenly, not one, but both ends of his mouth shoot upward. His eyes crinkling at the corners, like tiny little bird prints in the sand. His cheeks form half globes around deep, grooved dimples.

He has dimples?

He has fucking dimples.

For a moment, I recognize him as Finn from the family portrait. And I’m completely mesmerized. The entire world falling away in fuzzy shapes as I take in the giant curve of his smile.

"Yeah. It's pretty bad." Finn smiles again, and even though I've had the smallest sip of alcohol, I'm completely drunk off his smile. "Maybe we don't drink this one. Let's just enjoy the label." He takes the glass from my hand and as we touch it feels like a thousand tiny matches have been struck against my skin. But I almost don’t even notice, because I’m still stuck on his smile. The smile that’s lighting a five-alarm fire in my chest.

“Finn Hudson,” I scold. He freezes and looks at me with alarm.

“You bastard,” I scold. “I’ve known you for over a week and you waited all this time to show me those dimples?!” I reach out to clasp his cheek. I admiringly run my thumb along the indent. “I love them.”

He smiles again. The dimple curving around my thumb as he brings his hand up to my wrist. I feel his fingers flick against my skin, caressing a thin, delicate vein.

Then he flattens his lips. “Aimee,” he says seriously. “I need you to pretend you didn’t see that. I have a reputation, babe.” Even though he’s no longer smiling, his eyes are.

Why is he still babe-ing me?

My head falls back and I laugh from the bottom of my stomach. It clenches and twists happily. My palm still against his cheek and his hand still clasping my wrist. And I can’t do it anymore. I’m not strong. I’m not mature and I’m not making good decisions. Instead, I’m desperate. I’m reckless. I’m impulsive. And even if it means chasing another thrill and waking up in a heap of regret, I want him.

“What if it’s ok?” I ask, lowering my head to study his face as I pull my hand away. He releases my wrist and stares at me, with stormy, grey eyes.

“If what’s ok?” he asks quietly.

Adrenaline is pounding in my chest. “That you think about her when we’re together…” I have to think about my next words carefully, to make sure I don’t stammer. “Now that I know, I mean. Now that there’s full disclosure.”

“Don’t, Aimee.” His warning is harsh and ominous.

“What?” My tone is flippant and light.

“Don’t do this. Put me in this position.” His voice is lined with anger. “You’re worth more than I can give you.”

There’s another moment of silence as I think about how to respond. I’m so torn. The memory of his touch on my skin does not seem like it’s going to fade anytime soon. Not until we finish what we started.

I run both hands up his arms. And I do it again, I slip on that voice. The one that works on men every time. “I need you to touch me,” I rasp.

He slowly draws closer, his eyes darting across my face. When his palm skitters up the side of my neck, I wonder if he can feel my pulse beating wildly. He hesitates and I’m consumed by an anticipation so thrilling that it captures my breath. We both lean in. Our noses brush. He tilts his head. And then his lips are on mine. And it’s like being pulled headfirst into a warm pool. I part his mouth and we explore. It’s gentle and delicious. Decadent. And then he pulls away.

“Aimee, if…” He pauses. And the entire moment hinges on what he’s about to say next. “If we did. There’d be ground rules.” A bloom of hope opens inside me. I force myself to focus on my breathing and not on the gentle heat forming between my legs.

“Like what?” My voice is all air.

“I do all the touching,” he says carefully.

“What—"

“That’s how this is going to work,” he insists, rubbing his thumb along my bottom lip and sending me into another thrilling tailspin. I don’t understand it. This condition. But he’s standing between my legs and I’m finding it hard to argue with anything that might grant me one more second with him.

“I can’t touch at all?” I whisper, flicking my tongue against his thumb.

“Only when I say you can,” he says in a heated whisper. His hand falls to my waist. Then he’s pulling my shirt up. He teases a breast free, rubbing the thumb that I just kissed across my hard nipple. I arch into his touch as the space between my thighs dampen. When he notices the pant in my breath, his eyes flare with heat.

“Aimee,” he all but purrs. “You came here because you wanted this, didn’t you?”

“I always want this,” I confess.

He lowers his lips to my nipple, his eyes never leaving mine. “If I suck, how wet will I make you?”

“I’m already wet,” I moan, arching my back further, teasing my nipple closer. “If you suck, I might come right here.”

“You better not,” he scolds me gently. “We’re just getting started. And I want you to soak my sheets.” He rolls my nipple between his fingers, his mouth achingly close to the tip. Every inch of my skin feels like it’s being warmed over the flames of a bonfire.

He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “Now, I’m taking you upstairs.”