of cologne model.
She’d expected . . . Well, she didn’t know what she expected. But she didn’t expect
this
. She expected him to maybe be a little shocking, like a good renegade surfer date should be—maybe messy hair, or a mismatched suit, or a childish tie. Instead he just looked gorgeous.
“You look . . .” She searched for words.
He stood quietly, waiting for her verdict.
“. . . like a Wall Street broker,” she said.
His mouth quirked up at one side. “How tragic.”
“I don’t mean—”
“Do you hate Wall Street brokers?”
“No.”
“Is your ex a Wall Street broker?”
“No, it’s just—”
“All right, then.” He shifted his attention to Coco, who was dipping her head beneath Giselle’s arm to see around the side.
“Hi!” She bounded out the door in her little navy dress with the butterflies on it and reached for Fin’s hand. “I surfed today!”
“How was it?”
“It was
stellar
.”
He laughed—a real, from-the-gut kind of laugh she hadn’t heard yet from him. “Spoken like a true surfer.”
“Mommy was scared.”
He glanced up at Giselle, but she let her gaze slip away before that line of questioning could get started.
“Do you still have the abalone?” Coco pressed.
“I do.”
“Then we can go.” She thrust her hand out again.
He stared at her little fingers, as if not sure what to do with them, then finally tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “M’lady, your chariot awaits.”
Coco giggled. “Just like the prince.” She started her rapid-fire steps across the patio, dragging Fin behind her.
“The prince?”
“The one for Mommy, who lives in the castle.”
Fin raised an eyebrow back at Giselle, but she ducked her head to lock the door.
“Your abalone will help,” Coco told Fin in a very loud whisper.
“My abalone will help with what?”
“It’ll make you a prince,” she said, as if the answer were obvious. “It’s used for jewelry, so it makes you a prince. But you have to carry it with you, so it will work.”
Giselle watched Fin nod, seemingly trying to follow the turns the conversation was taking. She wondered whether she should try to rescue him.
“Are you carrying it with you?” Coco asked sternly.
“I put it on my window ledge,” he said.
“In your kitchen?”
“In my bathroom.”
Giselle followed them down the stairs and wondered again whether she should intervene. Obviously, Fin thought he could spin a tall tale with her little girl, but maybe she should put a stop to this. He probably wasn’t used to getting the third degree from a five-year-old, but it was brutal, and they were truth detectors.
“But if you want to be a prince, you have to carry it with you,” Coco said.
From the back, she saw him nod again. “I’ll remember that.” His voice sounded more amused than annoyed.
Fin beeped open his car. As she got closer, Giselle came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk. He drove a BMW—much like the car Roy drove.
“What’s the matter now?” he said.
“I just thought . . .” She shrugged. “I thought you’d drive something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled. “Like a surf van?”
Her cheeks heated. Maybe. It wasn’t that she thought he was Jeff Spicoli from
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
or anything, but she wanted to make a splash. If he dressed like a doctor and drove a doctor’s car, what kind of new image was she showing off?
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, yanking open the passenger door.
“I’m . . . sorry. This is nice.” She was lucky he was deigning to come at all, really. She needed to pull herself together and stop projecting her anxiety. She’d lost him at “hello.”
He lifted the leather seat to let Coco climb in the back, then leaned in to tug at the seat belts. Giselle caught a great view of his behind, supported by some amazing hamstrings, as he held himself steady in the frame with one hand. The seat belts were still
She’d expected . . . Well, she didn’t know what she expected. But she didn’t expect
this
. She expected him to maybe be a little shocking, like a good renegade surfer date should be—maybe messy hair, or a mismatched suit, or a childish tie. Instead he just looked gorgeous.
“You look . . .” She searched for words.
He stood quietly, waiting for her verdict.
“. . . like a Wall Street broker,” she said.
His mouth quirked up at one side. “How tragic.”
“I don’t mean—”
“Do you hate Wall Street brokers?”
“No.”
“Is your ex a Wall Street broker?”
“No, it’s just—”
“All right, then.” He shifted his attention to Coco, who was dipping her head beneath Giselle’s arm to see around the side.
“Hi!” She bounded out the door in her little navy dress with the butterflies on it and reached for Fin’s hand. “I surfed today!”
“How was it?”
“It was
stellar
.”
He laughed—a real, from-the-gut kind of laugh she hadn’t heard yet from him. “Spoken like a true surfer.”
“Mommy was scared.”
He glanced up at Giselle, but she let her gaze slip away before that line of questioning could get started.
“Do you still have the abalone?” Coco pressed.
“I do.”
“Then we can go.” She thrust her hand out again.
He stared at her little fingers, as if not sure what to do with them, then finally tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “M’lady, your chariot awaits.”
Coco giggled. “Just like the prince.” She started her rapid-fire steps across the patio, dragging Fin behind her.
“The prince?”
“The one for Mommy, who lives in the castle.”
Fin raised an eyebrow back at Giselle, but she ducked her head to lock the door.
“Your abalone will help,” Coco told Fin in a very loud whisper.
“My abalone will help with what?”
“It’ll make you a prince,” she said, as if the answer were obvious. “It’s used for jewelry, so it makes you a prince. But you have to carry it with you, so it will work.”
Giselle watched Fin nod, seemingly trying to follow the turns the conversation was taking. She wondered whether she should try to rescue him.
“Are you carrying it with you?” Coco asked sternly.
“I put it on my window ledge,” he said.
“In your kitchen?”
“In my bathroom.”
Giselle followed them down the stairs and wondered again whether she should intervene. Obviously, Fin thought he could spin a tall tale with her little girl, but maybe she should put a stop to this. He probably wasn’t used to getting the third degree from a five-year-old, but it was brutal, and they were truth detectors.
“But if you want to be a prince, you have to carry it with you,” Coco said.
From the back, she saw him nod again. “I’ll remember that.” His voice sounded more amused than annoyed.
Fin beeped open his car. As she got closer, Giselle came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk. He drove a BMW—much like the car Roy drove.
“What’s the matter now?” he said.
“I just thought . . .” She shrugged. “I thought you’d drive something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled. “Like a surf van?”
Her cheeks heated. Maybe. It wasn’t that she thought he was Jeff Spicoli from
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
or anything, but she wanted to make a splash. If he dressed like a doctor and drove a doctor’s car, what kind of new image was she showing off?
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, yanking open the passenger door.
“I’m . . . sorry. This is nice.” She was lucky he was deigning to come at all, really. She needed to pull herself together and stop projecting her anxiety. She’d lost him at “hello.”
He lifted the leather seat to let Coco climb in the back, then leaned in to tug at the seat belts. Giselle caught a great view of his behind, supported by some amazing hamstrings, as he held himself steady in the frame with one hand. The seat belts were still
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