turned up in Copper Ridge to live with her brother. Finn was the wrong man for fragile.
The first time he’d ever felt attracted to her had come as a shock. Like getting hit in the chest with a bolt of lightning. She’d been eighteen to his twenty-four and he’d been at her and her brother Mark’s house for dinner. Mark had gone to bed, citing an early morning, and he and Lane had ended up staying up to watch a movie.
It was a comedy, and Finn could barely remember what it was. But he remembered Lane laughing. It had been the sweetest sound, and it had done something to him. Then she’d leaned up against him and placed her hand on his thigh to brace herself, and that something had become abundantly clear.
He’d been so disgusted with himself he’d made a thousand excuses and gone straight home. It had never gone away. Not after that. Not once he’d seen her as a woman.
But it had dulled to a vague ache now, instead of that sharp shock of heat. And that was how it had to stay. Repressed. Controlled.
Given that he’d made his decision early on, normally, he made a show of controlling his desire to check her out. Right now, he didn’t see the point. Right now, his grandfather was dead and he was going to be invaded by family that he hadn’t seen in longer than he cared to admit.
Right now, his focus was dedicated to dealing with that.
Amid a host of unenjoyable things, he was going to go ahead and enjoy the sight of Lane’s ass in those jeans.
“I’m sorry, Lane,” he said. “I will try to be more appreciative of the fact that I’m going to die buried beneath a pile of bereavement foods.”
“At least you won’t die of starvation,” she said, straightening and turning to face him, her smile brilliant, her brown eyes glittering. She picked up the casserole pan and put it in the newly cleared space in the fridge, then closed the door.
“Well, that’s a small comfort.” He crossed the kitchen, making his way over to the sink, pressing his palms flat on the countertop and gazing out the window. The house—which was a giant monstrosity that Finn had never understood, given the fact that for as long as he’d known his grandfather the old man had lived here alone—was nestled into a hillside, overlooking interlocking mountains covered in pine trees that stretched on into the distance until they faded from deep green to a misted blue.
The back of the house faced the ranching operation. The fields, containing herds of dairy cows, and the barns.
His blood, sweat and tears were there. Soaked into the ground, the wood and basically every other damn surface in the place. Like the rest of his brothers he had spent summers here as a kid. Unlike them, when he was sixteen he had decided that he was here to stay.
Finn had never felt anything quite like the peace that came from working his body boneless out in the field. And after a life spent with his volatile mother and completely unreliable father, he had liked finding something that he could control.
If he did the work, he got a result. If he spent the day fixing a fence, at the end of the day he had a functioning fence. It was tangible. It was real.
It completely boggled his mind that his grandfather had decided to give any of the property to the grandsons who had never showed an interest. But there was no arguing with a dead man. Hell, there had been no point arguing with the old man when he was alive.
“Do you want to stay and eat?” Finn asked, now that Lane had put the food away.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said. “Of course, I spent most of the day tasting different products that came into the store. I got some pistachio cream from Italy. You have no idea. It was amazing.”
He frowned. “What do you do with pistachio cream?”
“Eat it with a spoon? Bathe in it?”
“As long as the food you made me is normal.”
She waved a hand. “Normal. Dull. Your palate needs work.”
“If loving chicken nuggets is wrong I don’t want to be right.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that the casserole I brought tonight is mostly pasta-based, and is in no way in violation of your steak and potatoes philosophy on food.”
“Pasta-based and steak and potatoes? That sounds weird.”
“I meant that in the metaphorical sense. The metaphor being that you like boring food and it grieves me.”
“I think you’re adventurous enough for the both of us, Lane.”
“Well, tonight I think we’re going to have a combination of potpie and pot roast. There’s a theme.” She took two containers out of the fridge and set them on the counter. “I shall commence warming them.”
“Why don’t you let me take care of that?” he asked.
Lane arched a brow. “Oooh. You mean I don’t have to microwave my own dinner? And they say chivalry is dead.”
“I am a chivalrous bastard, Lane Jensen.” Something about the way the corner of her mouth turned up just then caused a tug low and deep in his stomach.
“You’re a study in contradictions, Finn Donnelly,” Lane said as she continued to assemble the dinner as though he hadn’t offered to be the one to do so.
But this was how things went. He took care of everything in her house that she considered to be man’s work. Any kind of plumbing or wiring issue, arachnid-related concerns and the extermination of the odd errant vole in her yard.
In return, she often took care of things like feeding him, or buying him clothes when she went into Portland or Eugene. He never even had to ask. She just appeared with things. Usually after noticing that he had worn a hole through his boots or something like that.
Basically, Lane was his wife. But with virtually none of the perks a man actually wanted from a marriage.
But, considering he didn’t ever want a wife, that was fine by him.
A blow job. Sometimes he would like a blow job. But a friendship was hardly worth detonating over that.
“That’s me, a walking contradiction. Complicated and shit,” he returned, his voice a little harder than he’d intended it to be.
Due in large part to the fact that he had just been thinking about Lane’s lips on his body. Always a mistake. One he didn’t usually make.
“Yes, a man of deep complexity. And steak and potatoes,” she said, a laugh hovering on the edges of her words.
The sounds of domesticity settled around them, and he let them wash over him just for a moment. There was something nice about watching her bustle around the kitchen.
Probably because he had never really experienced that growing up. His father had taken off when he’d been little, making a new life with another woman, and for a while with the two kids that had come from that union—Liam and Alex.
After his father had left, his mother had been more concerned with the drama in her love life than dealing with her son.
Finn
