by Maribel Fox
Heaven Sent
A Lupine Bay Romance
Maribel Fox
Copyright © 2018 Maribel Fox LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Aaron & Jake, our biggest fans.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
1
Ava
“I’m so sorry to do this, A, I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Rue says, grabbing her jacket in a hurry to get out of the bar.
“That’s alright,” I reassure her. It’s not like Rue to need to leave work in a rush like this. Even though she didn’t tell me what’s going on, I know it has to be important for her to ask to go early. “I would’ve been here sooner, but I needed to dump the bucket in the front closet.”
Rue makes a face. “The upstairs shower still leaking?”
I nod. “It’s not like I can afford to call a plumber.” Though what I’m going to do when the floor all comes crashing down from water damage, I have no idea. Being poor is too expensive. “I’m just going to avoid putting anyone on the second floor while I can help it,” I say, laughing at my own dumb joke.
It’s dumb because the B&B doesn’t exactly have a waiting list. Even being the only accommodations in town, Lupine Bay isn’t really a town crawling with tourists. Back in the day, my mom did better business. Or so I’ve been told. I don’t remember it much, I was never around to help a whole lot — I much preferred running off to play in the woods. That was always more fun than the responsibilities of the B&B, and later, it got me away from my pesky little brother.
But then Mom died, and I’ve been trying to keep the place afloat for the last three years without having the first clue about what I’m doing.
Rue pats me on the arm, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Business will pick up, you’ll see,” she says reassuringly. Then she looks over to the only table in the bar that’s occupied.
“He’s drinking the Banished Tough Love stout,” she says, giving me a quick hug. “Thanks again, I owe you one!”
And then Rue’s gone, leaving me alone in the bar with the stranger huddled in the dark corner. I look at him a little longer, but he’s not familiar. Just intriguing, and I can’t say why.
He’s gorgeous, there’s that of course, I think with a flush creeping up to my face. He’s got mussed red hair, ginger scruff along his jawline, and — if I’m not mistaken — I can even see some freckles on his hands.
“Need another one?” I call to him, not moving from behind the bar.
He looks up, cocks a grin at me, and nods. “Aye, that would be lovely,” he says, Irish accent thick as pudding.
That’s unusual.
Lupine Bay’s tourists are few and far between, but foreigners? Even more unheard of.
Except Alistair, of course. But he’s been here longer than anyone I know, so I guess he gets a pass.
I pour the guy another stout — from one of the local breweries, like all our offerings — and deliver it to the table, taking his empty away.
“Anything else I can get you?” I ask.
He picks up the glass, downs it in two big gulps. I’m transfixed, watching his Adam’s apple bob as the beer disappears.
“Yeah, I’ll have another, thanks.”
“You got a tab?”
The hundred-dollar bill seems to appear out of nowhere as he plucks it from the air and slides it across the table. “Let me know when I’ve run out of credit, won’t you?”
I narrow my eyes at him, unnerved by the easy smile that never falters, but never quite reaches his eyes either. Then I look at the bill, still sitting between us, wondering what he’s getting at. A hundred dollars’ worth of 11.5% ABV stout is going to have him on his ass.
But when I take it back to the register and mark it with the counterfeit pen, it comes up clean. I guess his money’s good here, as long as he doesn’t get sloppy drunk and make me call someone to drag him away.
“You always so friendly, love?” he calls, while I’m wiping down the bar, cleaning glasses that only need to be cleaned because they haven’t been used in so long. I stiffen and straighten up, looking at him through the dimly-lit room.
“Did you need another?” I ask him, deciding it’s better to not take the bait.
“Always,” he says, giving me that genial grin again.
“You want a pitcher?”
“Nah. Then you wouldn’t have reason to pay me visits frequent as they are.”
“Uh… Right,” I answer, bringing him another pint. It’s not that I don’t recognize when someone’s trying to flirt with me, I’m just not sure that was exactly English.
No matter how many drinks I bring him, though, the guy never slows down. He never seems to be affected by it at all. I don’t even want to think about the hell he’s put his poor liver through to have a tolerance like that.
But the money’s good and it keeps flowing. And even though I only work in the bar on Rue’s days off, he’s quickly an ever-present fixture at The Shamrock. Much to my chagrin, I find myself skulking around, hoping for the chance to sneak a peek at him. Part of it has to be his looks — even I can’t deny that — but there’s something else about him I can’t put my finger on. Something that makes me think he’s not what he appears. That he’s got some kind of secret.
And secrets spell trouble.
Trouble is something I do not need in my life.
Though, in the two months since he first appeared, there hasn’t been any trouble to speak of, so maybe I’m judging him too harshly.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite bartender,” he says, sidling up to the bar one afternoon.
I roll my eyes at him. He never misses an opportunity to flirt, but I’m starting to think it’s all an act. He’s never actually made a move, and he’s never told me anything personal.
“You shouldn’t say that too loud, Rue might get jealous.”
He chuckles. “Aw, she’ll be fine.”
“The usual?”
“You know me too well,” he says, still grinning as I pour him his favorite stout. All he ever orders is beer — stout, specifically — and that’s literally all I know about him. ‘Too well’, ha! Hilarious.
“And for you, m’dear,” he says, reaching up like he’s picking an apple from a tree, and then there’s an origami bill, a hundred folded into the shape of a tree.
I shake my head, clucking my tongue as I unfold it. “Those parlor tricks ever actually do you any good?”
He laughs. “You’d be surprised.”
“Would I really?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps not. Immune to surprise, are ye
?”
I give him a noncommittal shrug of my own. “Immune to silly magic tricks. I know it’s all just being quick with your fingers.”
He drinks his beer and stays by the bar, waiting for me to refill it. “Oh, I’ve got quick fingers on me, alright,” he says with a wink before leaving with his fresh drink.
I groan at yet another toothless innuendo and shake my head at his retreating form. That guy’s infuriating.
“Who’s your friend?”
I look up and see Alistair — an old friend of my mom’s and now mine — walking into the bar, taking a seat right in front of me.
“He’s not my friend,” I mutter, still watching the Irishman dubiously.
“Someone I should be worried about then?” he asks, his crisp British accent dotted with menace. Alistair’s a sweetheart — owns the local antique shop in town — and I can’t imagine him threatening anyone or being violent, but that menace almost makes me reconsider. Ever since my mom died, Alistair’s been there to fill in the gaps where I couldn’t handle everything on my own. I don’t know how I would have managed Ian on my own without his help and guidance.
Not to mention that he’s been the only real father figure I’ve ever had in my life. It’s not surprising that he wants to threaten a boy for flirting with me.
“No,” I sigh. “I think he’s harmless. Just weird.”
Alistair’s thin eyebrows go up in question as I pass him his usual glass of Burgundy. “Weird how, precisely?”
I shrug, still eying the guy unabashedly. “I don’t know where he’s from or why he’s in Lupine Bay. I’ve never seen him before a couple months ago. He always pays in cash, hasn’t even told us his name…”
Rue and I have secretly — much to Rue’s dismay — been calling him ‘Homer’ like from the Simpsons. Because of all the beer. Rue didn’t like the idea. She said he’s way too hot to be a Homer, but when I asked if she had anything better to call him, she wasn’t any help.
So ‘Homer’ he’s been.
Alistair looks like he has something to say, but he’s cut off, Ian running into the bar.
“Ava, Ava!” he says excitedly, tossing his backpack onto one of the barstools and hopping up next to Alistair.
“What, what?”
“Did you see?” he asks, pushing his floppy golden-blond hair off of his forehead.
“See what?” It’s hard not to grin at him when he gets like this. So excited he’s practically vibrating with energy.
“The hole in the wall! It’s fixed.”
“What?”
“The one in the hallway…”
“Yeah, I know what you’re talking about, but—”
“It’s fixed! Just like the shower upstairs and the lock on the back door,” he says, beaming. Ian’s excited because things are getting fixed. He’s too young to understand how weird it is that things are getting fixed around here without anyone taking credit for it. Holes in the wall don’t just patch themselves, and I feel like I would notice construction work going on around me.
“That’s cool,” I say cautiously, not wanting to totally crush Ian’s enthusiasm, but… As thankful as I am that the repairs are happening, I’m also confused. Maybe Rue’s been watching home improvement YouTube videos again. Last time she tried to fix something, the garbage disposal nearly mangled her hand. I thought she’d sworn off repairs, but then again, Rue’s not the type to let fear stop her for long. The situation is unsettling, but I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Can I have a sandwich?” Ian asks, opening up his backpack, pulling out his textbooks. The kid’s in fourth grade and I swear he’s learning Calculus or something judging by how thick his books are.
“Sure thing, kiddo. How about a turkey club?”
He makes a face. “No tomato?”
“If you have a fruit for dessert,” I compromise.
“Okay!”
“Let me know if I’m needed up here, will you?” I ask Alistair. He nods, quiet amusement curling his lips as Ian starts telling him about things that happened at school. As long as I’ve known Alistair, he’s never talked about any family of his or his background. He seems content to be alone, but also… lonely, if that makes sense. Like he thinks it’s too late for him or something. He’s an older guy, yeah, but he’s not that old. I’d probably guess mid-forties? It’s not like his life is over or anything. And still, he seems resigned to be alone. I get the feeling that he doesn’t mind hanging out with Ian though. At least for short bursts of time.
The sandwich takes me a few minutes to make, and the whole time I’m thinking about ‘Homer’ and the mysterious repairs, wondering if there’s any connection there. But that’s ridiculous. I’ve never seen the guy without a beer in his hand, and you can’t exactly patch a hole in a wall one-handed. When I head back out, I drop Ian’s sandwich off, then look over to Homer’s table, my eyes going wide.
He’s not alone anymore. There’s another guy — this one Indian, his eyes rimmed with thick, lush lashes, his hair black as pitch, wearing a suit that looks like it cost as much as a sports car — and he’s taking a seat at Homer’s table without being asked. There’s no missing that look of annoyance from the Irishman.
I don’t know what to make of this development, but I know I need to fill in my best friend or she’ll never forgive me.
New hot guy at the bar tonight — sitting with Homer!!! I text her. Immediately, she responds with a gif of someone freaking out. I laugh and shove my phone back in my pocket, eyes glued on the table of interest.
2
Raj
The moment my shadow darkens his table, Seamus looks up at me. His brows go high, but other than that he doesn’t show how surprised he is to see me in front of him. He must be, though. It’s been ages.
I don’t wait for his invitation to sit. I don’t expect there’s one coming. Not after the way I left things.
“Come to slum it with the mud-dwellers again after all this time, have ye?” he says, not doing a good job of masking his bitterness.
There was a time — a century or more ago — when Seamus and I were friendly. Perhaps even friends. That time is past, though. Things happened, things changed. My family came to rely on me for their status and influence, and it was made very clear to me that associating with feckless Fae treasure hunters is below my station. Of course, part of earning the respect of Hell again meant that there was no time to explain things or have one last hoorah with my old friend.
It meant that I’d just disappeared, and for a hundred years we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of one another.
So his surprise is expected, as is his irritation.
To be perfectly honest, I’m not thrilled with the situation either. I don’t appreciate being controlled. I take issue with being told to abandon my friend when it’s convenient for the upper echelons and told to exploit our familiarity later when they see that is to their benefit.
I have no idea what their interest in Seamus is this time. For some reason, the fact that he’s been stationary in this tiny Oregon town is cause for concern to the powers that be down below. It’s news to me that Hell has even been tracking Seamus, and I have no choice but to face the fact that it’s possible he’s only on their radar because of his association with me.
If he wasn’t already angry with me, knowing that I brought him to Hell’s attention certainly won’t help.
I shrug, watching him from across the table. “I’ve been thinking about you. Wondering if you’re up to any interesting hijinks,” I say.
Seamus scoffs, letting out a humorless laugh. “Oh, aye, and all me treasure to charity I’ve given,” he says, rolling his eyes. “What do those bastards really want?”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re—”
“Blow it up someone else’s arse,” he grumbles, waving his empty glass toward the bar.
“Barkeep, I’ve not got any beer left.”
The woman behind the bar looks our direction, pushes lon
g, wavy blonde hair behind her ear, and gives Seamus a nod.
“Just a sec.”
He pointedly ignores me until she comes over with a glass of beer for him.
“Anything for you?” she asks, directing the question at me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been up here. A long time since I’ve given myself the opportunity to think about a woman. And I’m not giving myself the opportunity this time, as much as the opportunity is slapping me in the face. I give her my best grin, letting my eyes slowly travel up her body, lingering longer than necessary on the swell of her hips, the curve of her firm breasts. When I meet her eyes, I lick my lips purposefully.
“What are you offering?” I ask, voice smooth as sin.
She makes a face at me, brows knitting together. Then she waves behind her dismissively. “There’s a whole bar of things. I can get you a menu if you’re hungry.”
“My hunger isn’t one that can be sated with something off a menu,” I say, laying it on a little thicker. I don’t expect it to go anywhere — especially because she seems somehow immune to my charms, a curious thing in its own right — but it’s not like I can help myself. I’m a Devil, after all.
“Riiiight,” she says, looking at Seamus, but the Clurichaun is too busy glaring at me. “Well, if you need something, I’m Ava, just… Let me know,” she says, still sounding kind of confused, maybe curious about what’s going on here.
“A pleasure to meet you, Ava,” I say, taking her hand, kissing it softly.