Rylie

"YOU VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE?" I REPEAT FINN'S WORDS, my eyes wide with both surprise and incredulity. Yeah, sure, Finn has never been shy about his interest in me, but it's always been of a sexual nature. He and I are kindred spirits in a way, flitting from one fling to the next. We're too alike in all the wrong ways to ever fit. If there were a literal red flag for the wrong partner, his would be waving in full lockdown alert.

He grins, those damn dimples popping, and nods, which causes the wavy hair to flop into his eyes. I resist the urge to comb it away. In fact, I'm incessantly resisting urges around this boy, which is a constant source of confusion for me. He's the complete opposite of my type. He's like a man-child that never grew out of his adorable stage, yet there's this sensual appeal that lurks just beneath the surface. It's a dichotomy that somehow lures me in, even against my better judgment.

"Just consider me the Katniss in this scenario. I'm selfless in my endeavor to help you." Those sexy as hell dimples don't relent as he stares at me, and I have to push his face away to concentrate. He laughs, squeezing my wrist and pulling my hand away, tucking it onto his lap between both of his hands. The warmth of his skin shoots shivers down my body; at least that's what I'm attributing the chills to because it certainly cannot be from any sort of attraction. It's Finn, after all. Waving red flag, remember? I've been burned enough times to know to heed warnings.

"How do you even know Hunger Game references? Don't tell me. One of your conquests made you watch the movies?"

He lifts a single eyebrow, a move he no doubt practiced in front of a mirror to get the right effect. "Now, now, Wy," he tsks, and the ridiculous nickname both annoys and delights me—see, a walking, breathing, flirting dichotomy. "Your jealousy is showing, and it's cute as hell. But, no; despite what you might think of me, I actually can read."

"You read The Hunger Games?" I ask skeptically. Because, come on, Finn reading a dystopian series? It just doesn't track.

"Hell yeah, I did. Why is that so hard to believe?" He thumbs the pulse point on my wrist, and I will my body to stand down. I will not respond to this man-child's touch. "But the real question, Wy—" He pauses to flash those ridiculous dimples again, the longer strands of hair on the top of his head falling in his eyes. "Why do you need my services anyway?"

"I don't need yours," I snatch my hand out of his grasp, poking a finger into his chest.

He flips his head in that way he does to tame his hair. I'd like to say he's overdue for a haircut, but it's been this untamable mess since I met him years ago: shorter on the sides and longer on the top, the natural waves allowed to shine in all their glory. It shouldn't work, it really shouldn't, but it somehow just does on him. And doesn't that sum up the man before me?

"Wyatt," he says with a sly smirk, and I narrow my eyes at him: is he calling me Wyatt? He laughs, and repeats the name with a pointedly amused expression, "Wyatt, you just said you're in need of a strapping young lad to fool your parents." With arms held out wide, dimples popping, he declares, "And here I am!"

"First off," I say, raising a finger in the same fashion he did to mine earlier, "Fuck off with that name. Wyatt? Really?" I pause to take in the grin overtaking his deceptively handsome face, and I roll my eyes before I continue, popping up another finger. "Secondly, I never said anything about a strapping lad and if I did, rest assured, I wouldn't categorize you quite like that." Before he can interrupt with an annoying quip, I raise another finger. "And, thirdly—and probably the most important—I'm pretty sure bringing you home wouldn't be conducive to my goal."

Finn grabs my arm at the wrist again, ticking one finger down at a time as he runs through the items I listed. "Firstly, yes with the name. Wyatt is how I will refer to you now. And, no, you can't convince me to stop. Secondly, maybe strapping young lad wasn't the right category. Maybe devilishly handsome and irresistibly charming is more accurate. And, thirdly, what exactly is your goal, Wyatt? Why do you need a fake fiancé? No," he says, smooshing a finger to my lips to shush me, "let me guess. There's an inheritance that you can only receive upon the consummation of your marriage? Because if you're needing to consummate something, I'm definitely your man."

"God," I laugh, being completely unable to help myself. "You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met. And that is exactly why you are not the right man for the job."

"Oh, come on, Wy. I can be whatever you need me to be in front of your parents. But, seriously, why a fake fiancé?" The dimples slowly fade as he transitions from goofy to serious.

I clear my throat. As much as I find the goofy side of Finn charming, the rare glimpses of serious Finn unnerve me. I sip my nearly empty martini, wondering if I should get a third or call it a night early.

"Rylie," Finn says, placing a warm hand on my bare knee. "What's going on? Talk to me."

"It's just my parents being their typical overbearing, controlling selves," I say as casually as I can, although the subject boils my blood. I followed Teddy to this small ass town after college to escape the demands of my parents, yet they still manage to get their hooks in.

I bristle under the examination of those blue eyes as they study me. Finn may throw up protective walls with the use of humor, but those eyes hide nothing. It's why I rarely hold eye contact longer than a few seconds. I look away, fidgeting with the hem of my dress, hoping my divergent strategy will have him refocused on my legs and drop the intense scrutiny.

"Well, there's no way I'm letting some asshole fill the fake fiancé role, so you better get on board quickly. You're stuck with me for however long you need to keep up the sham. And eventually you'll confess the reasons. I'm a patient guy. I'll wait." A single dimple appears and disappears just as quickly with the small smile dusting his lips. I feel slightly cheated, missing the double dimple show.

"Shit," a man covered in melting snowflakes cusses as he slides into an open space at the bar beside Finn. "It's really coming down out there."

The bartender swipes empty glasses and bottles off the bar as he replies, "I got a phone alert that just upgraded it from a winter storm watch to a warning. Doesn't look like it's going to stop any time soon."

Finn pulls his phone out of his pocket, swiping a few times before he groans. "Wy," he whines, showing the weather app on his phone to me, "we have a few choices here. I can stuff you in my Jeep and we can brave the roads home. There's no way I'm letting you drive that sexy but hardly safe car in a snowstorm all the way back to Lake Hope, so don't even waste your breath arguing. Or we can try to find a hotel with vacancies and hunker down here for the night."

When there are no traces of flirting or sexual innuendos, I realize he's serious. "Finn," I hedge, "it's just some snow. Surely, you're not scared. You're a Minnesotan!"

"I'm not scared, Wyatt. I'm smart. I don't mess around with unsafe driving conditions." He tucks away his phone, and levels me with a look. "So what's your decision. It's your call."

Looking around the room, I realize the crowd has thinned out, bringing down the noise level with it. I'm not even sure when that happened. Apparently, I've been caught up in this weird vacuum with the most entertaining Anderson sibling.

"Ok," I sigh, bringing my attention back to Finn. "I guess stay?"

He spends the next several minutes calling hotels and then faces me with a mischievous look. "Good or bad news first? Or, depending on your point of view, good or even better news. In case you're wondering, my POV is definitely good and gooder."

"Just spit it out, you man-child." This earns me both dimples, and I preen a bit. Dammit, knock it off, Rylie. You don't preen.

"I found us a room, but that's what it is. A single room. See, good and gooder."

"Of course it is," I say, sliding off the stool and straightening my dress. Finn helps me into my jacket, a red peacoat that's really more for looks than warmth, and levels me with a disappointing look while he works on the big black buttons.

"Wy, what the hell is this jacket? For show? Because, sure, you look sexy as fuck, but you are going to freeze the short walk to the hotel. And your legs? They're bare. Yes, also sexy as fuck, but it's like negative 300 degrees outside right now. Next time opt for those tight ass jeans I know you own. They'll still show off these sinful legs, but you'll be warmer. Use that beautiful head to make smarter decisions, yeah?"

He stuffs his arms into his puffy black jacket, quickly zipping it up, then produces a green stocking hat from a pocket, unceremoniously cramming it on my head. He yanks down the front of it so it covers my eyes, and I grin at him from the darkness, but the expression quickly morphs to gasp when I feel his breath on my lips.

"You didn't answer the question, Wyatt," his gruff voice whispers.

I step away, pushing the hat up on my head so I can see, blinking at his closeness. "I can dress however I like. If I'm miserable from my choices, then that's on me."

"Fine, be miserable." Grabbing my hand, he leads me through the near-empty bar and holds the door open for me.

And, dammit, he's right. The sharp wind whips against my legs, darting under my dress and freezing all my bits and pieces. Snow swirls around us, coming down from the sky at an angle as it gets caught in the wind. Five steps later, and I'm mentally cursing myself. I curl into Finn's side, and he chuckles as he wraps his big arms around me, engulfing me in his warmth. This position mildly blocks me from the elements, and I'm grateful for his tall frame.

"Miserable, Wyatt?" I can hear the amusement in his tone, and I roll my eyes.

"Shut it and pick up the pace before the objects of your obsession get frost bite and I need a double leg amputation." He quickens the pace, and I laugh as I struggle to keep up.

The dark night is lit by multiple streetlamps, illuminating the snow as it falls, the wet flakes decorating every available surface in their glittery beauty. There's already much more snow accumulated than when I first arrived in Maybury earlier tonight, a testament to how hard it's been snowing the duration of my time in the bar, sequestered away with the most surprising guest.

The short walk to the hotel probably only takes fifteen minutes, but I'm thoroughly frozen by the time we reach the hotel, the warmth from the lobby stabbing the exposed skin of my legs as the extreme change in temperature assaults my body. A whole body shiver causes me to burrow deeper into Finn's side, and I feel like a barnacle at this point, but he doesn't bother trying to extricate me. He simply keeps me tucked tightly under his arm as he ushers us to the front desk, where I gladly stay while he checks us in and retrieves the little paper envelope with our room keys.

"Come on, Wyatt. Let's get you upstairs so you can finish thawing."

In the elevator I find myself staring at the distorted reflection of us in the shiny interior walls. My head barely clears his shoulders, and I lean my head there like a pillow. He turns his head to place a soft kiss on the top of my head, right on his green hat, resting his lips there until the elevator doors ding open on the seventh floor. His arm that was hugging me tightly to his side wanders to the small of my back as he ushers me out into the hallway and then grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers as we walk the corridor to our room, not letting go until he pushes the door open with a flourish.

The room is dark, and it slowly comes to life as I flip switches on my trek through the small space, a warm glow casting shadows everywhere. I try not to notice the romantic ambiance, but it's hard when the king-sized bed takes up the majority of the room. It's like the freaking centerpiece to this unexpected tryst.

"Warm yet?" Finn asks from behind me, and I spin to face him. When I simply nod, he works the buttons of my jacket until they're all undone and then slides it from my arms, tossing it on an armchair in the corner of the room.

I shiver involuntarily, and I'm not completely certain if it's from the loss of my jacket or his intense gaze, but I shake it off. "Yeah, thanks for letting me burrow into you like a little barnacle baby."

He laughs, removing the hat from my head and smoothing down the static in my hair. "I've always loved your hair, Wy. It's this 'fuck me' shade of red that suits you."

With a hand on his chest, I shove him a few feet back, gaining some much-needed space. "Need I remind you that I don't play in the sandboxes in my backyard?" I raise an eyebrow in a challenge, but I might be redrawing the line as a reminder to myself, too. It would be far too easy to fall into bed with this man, but there's a reason I've never gave in to his advances. I don't do messy.

"What? A guy can't compliment a girl's hair without being accused of making a move?" The smirk on his face earns him another brow raise, and he raises his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. I can take a hint. But I assure you, it'd be a great fucking time."

I retreat to the bathroom, and when I come out, I find Finn sprawled on the bed atop the covers with his phone in his hand. He sets it aside when he sees me, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You're going to brag to your Paperback Rider ladies about your real life one bed trope, aren't you?" he asks, referring to the exclusive and supposedly secret book club where we read spicy romance books.

"How do you know about romance tropes, Finnegan? First, you tell me you've read The Hunger Games and now you're whipping out terms like a regular smut reader. What gives?" I crawl onto the bed, sitting with my legs pulled under me, making sure not to flash him my panties. He tries to sneak a peek anyway and I smack him with a pillow. "Behave."

"So maybe I like to read a smutty book from time to time. What's the big deal?" He props both arms behind his head, and I must admit the whole thing is working for me: his messy hair that hangs in his eyes, the ratty graphic tee that he's probably had since high school, the cardigan he surely stole from his grandpa's closet, and—shit, look away, Rylie; avert your damn eyes. Dammit, too late; I did not need to see the exposed skin of his abdomen from his shirt riding up. And is that hair trailing down and disappearing under the waist of his jeans? Holy hell, come on, why did I have to see this? Now I can't unknow that Finn Anderson is hiding a hot body under those unfortunate clothing choices.

He must find me looking because he smooths a hand under the edge of his shirt, exposing more of his abdomen—and, yep, that is a happy trail. "Wy," he says in a husky drawl and my eyes jump to his face. When I'm greeted to the set of deep dimples, I groan inwardly. I do not want to find this man attractive. I've never suffered from this infliction before. Why now? I try to quickly count back to my last hookup and when I have a hard time remembering, I sigh in relief. That's what this is. I'm just extra horny from my random dry spell. I'm not used to going so long without satisfying my needs.

"It's ok to want me." His smug face is like a cold splash of water.

"Yeah, don't flatter yourself. I'm just finding myself in a bit of a dry spell at the moment. My body isn't as picky as my brain. She only cares about her needs."

"Her needs, huh?" His hand skims along his stomach again, revealing even more of his body. Abs? Come on! Why must he have abs? And is that an actual six pack? Surely not. Right? It's Finn, the man-child. He doesn't have a six pack. "And what exactly are her needs and why haven't you been meeting them?"

"Its not by choice, I assure you. I think I might be getting pickier in my old age."

"Old age? Jesus, Wy! You're, what, like 32 or something?" He sits up, the shirt sliding back into place and I'm both relieved and disappointed.

"Whereas men get hotter as they age, it's the opposite for women," I say defensively. "I don't want to waste these golden years on just any dud."

He makes a big show of checking me out, and my cheeks heat without my permission. "I don't know, Wyatt. You're looking pretty good to me. I don't even think you've hit your prime yet. You have lots of years left before you need to worry about being too old. Besides, I'm pretty sure you're going to be one of those women that looks good at every stage. You'll only grow into your sexiness."

"Put those dimples away." I shove a hand into his face, knocking him back against the headboard. "They should be illegal." This just makes said dimples form deeper holes in his cheeks and I roll my eyes.

"Careful, Wy. Any more compliments and I'm bound to think you like me." He tucks his arms behind his head again, but the shirt doesn't ride up this time. I sigh; it's for the best anyway.