Heaven Sent (Lupine Bay Book 1)

by Maribel Fox

  Rue makes a face and shakes her head. “Nope. He’s not for me.”

  “But you just—”

  “Not for me. He’s hot, yeah, but…” She shakes her head and huffs. “It’s hard to explain. I like flirting with him, but it’s not real, you know. It’s just like a fun game we play. But you—”

  “What about me?” I snap, nearly stabbing myself with a letter opener when I whip my head around to look at her.

  “Well, nothing. Just—”

  “What about me, Rue?” I press harder.

  “You’ve got a wonderful establishment,” comes a familiar voice making us both freeze. Seamus steps up to the front desk, grinning as always. “Hello again. I’ve reconsidered your offer of a hot shower, but I’ll not be putting you out. How much for a room?”

  I blink. Then blink again. Nope, he’s still there.

  “A room?”

  “Aye, you offer those for a sum here, do ye not?”

  “Ava,” Rue hisses under her breath, elbowing me behind the counter.

  Somehow, that snaps me out of the shock. I shake my head and clear my throat, dropping what’s in my hands, heading to my laptop. “Of course, yeah. For how long?”

  “Not sure,” he says. “Start with the remainder of the month and we’ll go from there, how’s that?”

  I’m frozen again.

  A month of occupancy? Granted, it’s only one room, but I’m generally lucky to book ten nights a month total. He’s single-handedly tripling my typical revenue.

  “Are you serious?” I have to ask. I feel like I’m being punked.

  “Ever known me to be anything else?” he asks, that sparkle in his emerald eyes again. Something about that twinkle makes me uneasy. Like it spells trouble for me.

  But shit, I can’t turn down this kind of gift. No way. No matter if I have to wonder where the hell this guy’s money is coming from. Or what his motivations are for coming from out of nowhere and just… settling in the woods? Who does that?

  It’s strange, no doubt about it. And in less desperate circumstances, I might not take the offer. As it is though? I need the money, and he’s offering me a lot.

  He doesn’t blink at the total figure, producing the full sum in cash. If that doesn’t scream ‘serial killer’ I don’t know what does.

  I really hope I’m not making a terrible mistake.

  “Do you have any preferences in a room?” I ask, finalizing all the paperwork.

  “No stairs,” he says, making me laugh. Of course the guy that seems to live off of beer wouldn’t want any stairs.

  “Well, there’s a room on the ground floor I think you’ll like.”

  Rue’s grinning as I walk past and lead him down the hall. I try to erase the smug look from my mind, but it sticks there, needling at me. I don’t know what she thinks is happening here, but it’s nothing more than a hotelier renting to a guest. Completely professional.

  “So, here’s your room,” I say, opening up and leading the way in. There’s a bed made up with white linens and a writing desk with old-fashioned quills for decoration. But the part I figured Seamus would enjoy is the set of French doors that open up directly to a stand of big cedars and pines. “Not too far from sleeping in the woods,” I say, turning to see his reaction when he’s too quiet for too long.

  He’s looking all around, but mostly, his eyes keep traveling back to the doors I’m standing in front of. I can’t tell if he’s looking past me or at me, but either way, I feel like I should move.

  “Beautiful,” he says. “Perfect. Spot-on. Thanks a million.”

  “There’s a communal bathroom down the hall, not that there’s anyone here you’ll have to share with. If you need anything, linens, cleaning services, you know where to find me.”

  He nods, eyes drifting with me as I shuffle out awkwardly. Finally, I make it to the door, and I send a last look back at him.

  “Sleep well!” I say, ducking out of the room, cringing inwardly.

  Sleep well? What?!

  That’s it. Time to change my name and move to the other side of the planet. No coming back from that.

  It’s not even dark outside.

  Of course, Rue missed that little lapse of sanity, so she’s still grinning like a madwoman when I get back to the front desk.

  “That guy sure is spending a lot of time around here,” she says.

  “We’re the only place around,” I answer, trying my best to get my embarrassment under control before she catches on.

  “But he’s been asking about you specifically while spending all this time here,” she says, dropping the bombshell.

  “What?”

  “He’s got the hots for you, A.” She nudges me with her elbow, still grinning ear-to-ear. I grimace. Mostly it’s at the memory of what a fool I just made of myself.

  “Oh, come on,” Rue huffs, throwing up her arms. “What’s so bad about him?”

  “Other than being a sword-wielding, forest-dwelling alcoholic?”

  That shuts her up for all of a split-second. “He’s not in the forest anymore,” she helpfully points out.

  “Right,” I say, unconvinced. “Besides, I’ve got way too much on my plate to even consider dating.”

  “Who said anything about dating?” Rue asks, waggling her eyebrows.

  I roll my eyes. Can’t encourage her at all or it’ll never end.

  Seamus isn’t just a sword-toting, tree-hugging alcoholic though — to be fair, for all the beer I’ve seen him drink, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him drunk, miraculous as that may be. He’s more than that, though. Even if I can’t let on to my best friend, why wouldn’t I be interested in a charismatic, attractive, independently wealthy Irishman that humors my brother?

  Because he’s troubles and you can sense it, a voice in my head warns.

  It’s that same voice that tells me not to start on the second row of Oreos or the next episode of my latest Netflix binge. I hate that voice.

  “Look, he’s a guest now. You don’t mix business and pleasure. End of story.” My tone’s hard enough that Rue holds up her hands in defeat.

  “Alright, alright, you win. Don’t fuck the highland hottie. See if I care.”

  4

  Seamus

  “Come on then, you bleedin’—” I crank the wrench and the sprinkler head doesn’t budge. The same as it’s presumably been since the middle of the last century by the looks of the rust on the thing. Doesn’t have to be. Not if I can get the damn thing apart.

  The three before it didn’t put up nearly as much resistance. They had the decency to be easy enough work that I could enjoy my frosty beverage whilst I toiled under the balmy Oregonian sun.

  This one, however, is a stubborn piece of work and I’ve let my beer go unattended — I’ve gone so far as to break a sweat.

  I don’t appreciate the lack of cooperation, to be frank. I’ve quite enjoyed sprucing things up around Brigid’s B&B — a namesake I’ve not yet discovered the origins of — and I don’t leave a job half-done. It’s not in my nature. Stubborn though this sprinkler head may be, I’ve got it beat. I can’t give up. It’s not just my stubbornness on the line here.

  I know I’ve got an audience.

  The lad’s keeping his distance still, but he’s eyed me no doubt. Can’t have this whole thing going arseways and having him think less of me.

  The wrench sits in snug around the bolt and I grip it firm with both hands, sweat trickling down the back of my neck, down the now-warm can of beer beside me as well.

  “This ends now ya blarmy bastard,” I grunt, yanking with all me might. It doesn’t do. Not at first. I keep at it, and there’s a shift. The tiniest of wiggles.

  Putting my back into it now, I shove the wrench, hearing soft footsteps approaching in the grass behind me. Perfect timing to watch my victory over this neglected bit of scrap metal.

  “What are you doing over—”

  Now, it’s hard to convey how so much can happen simultaneously, but I’ll do my bes
t. The first thing that happens is the wrench gives — gives up, that is, taking off for outer space. That sends me off-balance and I’ve got to roll to not suckerpunch the kid in his gob with the momentum.

  He has the good sense to duck — something I unfortunately lack — so when the now-fractured-by-my-incredibly-strong-grip sprinkler head snaps like a twig, he’s not the one getting showered with strange brown sludge.

  That pleasure — no, honor — is all mine.

  “Shite in a bucket!”

  I’ve brought this upon myself, I have. There’s nothing I can do but stand in the fruits of my own labor. Dripping who knows what.

  “Uh… Are you oka—” I groan at the reminder that Ian’s there behind me to witness my humiliation. It stops him and we’re both silent again for a spell.

  “Fetch me a towel, won’t you?” I ask with a sigh, scraping what I’m desperately hoping is mud off my face.

  He hesitates for a moment, and I get the impression that he’s committing this image to memory for later regaling. His hesitation’s only a short time before he makes a face and says, “I’ll bring a couple.”

  “Good lad,” I mutter and he’s already running off to the house. The sprinkler head — now relieved of the pressure built up behind it — is gurgling silt onto the lawn but is otherwise inoffensive. I glare at it nonetheless. This project’s scope wasn’t meant to be so large. Involving Ava has never been the plan. It’s only one head though. Finding someone to craft a replacement can’t be that difficult, surely.

  There’s a hose back at the main house for rinsing myself off with and I make it a priority to climb the grassy hill up there while ground water soaks through my clothes. As far as I can tell, the color of the water was mostly rust, not mud. I can tell because my skin feels like it’s on fire until I’m washing it off. Clurichauns — from what I know of our kind, limited though it may be from my personal endeavors — aren’t as sensitive to iron and its derivatives as other Fae. Would put quite the hindrance on treasure hunting and the like. Still there’s no escaping the encounter without a final ‘feck off’ from whatever spirit’s decided the sprinklers are to remain dormant and useless. I’m pink as the foxglove growing in bushels in the shade of the bar’s pergola — not an attractive look, even for a fellow of my considerable allure.

  Ian finds me with the towels and shoves them at me quickly before noticing the no doubt alarming alteration to my pigment.

  “Oh… Wow… What’s wrong with you?”

  Though my skin seems to be blistering from within, his charming way of getting right at the heart of the matter makes me laugh.

  “Not seen a ginger in the sun before have ye now?”

  Ian frowns and winds the hose back up for me. I take a seat in the grass and lay back, the overgrown carpet swallowing me up, kissing away the pain.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting out of the sun if it’s making you turn that color?”

  He’s got another chuckle out of me.

  “Right you are. I’ve not finished the job though,” I say, sitting up after another minute of soaking up the earth. It’s not much — a good beer or twelve will set me right later, and maybe a night in that tempting cedar that’s been peeking in my bedroom window — but it’s enough to soften the red glow, to cool the burning itch, and to get on with it.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, head cocked to the side, concern for my well-being forgotten. Beautiful thing about young boys, that is. Curiosity always wins out.

  “Your lawn’s looking a bit patchy and I figured it could use with a healthy drink. I know I always feel better after a drink.”

  “My sister says she’s never seen you without one—” He narrows his eyes at one hand, then the other.

  “Guess you’ve got one up on her then, eh lad?”

  He beams at me. “Can I help with… whatever that thing is you said?”

  He’s a funny one. “Afraid it’ll need some more attention, but you can help me cap it off.”

  No comprehension. Might as well be explaining it to the house.

  “Have any idea how sprinklers work, do ye?” I ask him, finally standing. Can’t say I feel top notch, but that’s what I get for masquerading as useful.

  Ian’s got a look of someone not sure if they’re being taken for a ride. “Water comes out,” he says, miming the spray with his hands. “What’s to know?”

  “Where d’ya think the water comes from?”

  He frowns, look of concentration etched in deep. “Pipes?”

  “Give the lad a prize.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. What did I figure out?”

  My laughing at him doesn’t do anything to erase his frown, though that doesn’t stop me.

  “The pipes go from the house—” I point behind us, trailing my finger in a line along the ground “—and connect to each one of these heads,” I add, walking him down the lawn.

  “They’re all on the same pipe?”

  I nod. Then we get to the gurgling mess at the end of the line. “And if all the water comes out here…” I spread my hand out and wave it over the boggy ground.

  “Then it doesn’t get to the next one,” he says, everything clicking together in his head.

  Might make a grand apprentice for someone someday, quick as he is.

  “So, to get around that,” I say, shuffling around in the tool box that’s presently partially submerged for a cap, “we put a lid on it.”

  “That’s it?” Ian asks, incredulous as always.

  “Aye. Would you like to do the honors?” I ask, my fingers tingling from the mere thought of shoving them down in the rusty-water-pool. Gloves will be an integral part of this task going forward, it seems.

  “Can I?”

  “I dunno, can ye?”

  The look of exasperation he sends my way would suggest a long-time partnership between the two of us. Doesn’t say a word, he just takes the cap, looks at it for a moment and squishes it in.

  “Bang up job,” I say, patting him on the back. “What do you say we head to the pub for a pint?”

  “Seamus, I’m seven.”

  “Do they not have pints other than ale at this disreputable establishment?” I tease, only realizing once I’ve said it that it’s lost on him. I sigh and wave him on after me. “Surely there’s something for you? Ava wouldn’t leave you out.”

  “There’s Rogue Root Beer on tap,” he finally says.

  “Is that a thing you can drink?”

  Ian sighs. “Yes.” He’s got nothing more to say to me before hiking back up the hill, golden mop of curls shining in the afternoon sun.

  I’ve more than earned a refreshment and it takes me no time to pack up the toolbox and tuck it away in my hidden bag of tricks. Catching up to the boy isn’t challenging either. He’s a bit scrawny. I reckon Ava doesn’t feed him enough mutton.

  Ian charges into The Shamrock from the patio door, and I’m not far behind, his call to the bartender on duty already ringing through the place.

  “Rue! Seamus is buying me a root beer,” he calls. Too bad it’s not Ava waiting and offering her service.

  Rue looks at me and raises a skeptical brow — she’s attractive enough, under other circumstances I may have paid her more attention, but not with Ava around. I’ve not yet decided what my unsettling reactions to Ava mean, but they’re all that I can handle. I needn’t be adding more complications to an already perplexing pickle.

  “What the boy saying true Homer?” the curly-haired bartender asks with her hip jutted out.

  Despite my intent to someday find the origin of that particular nickname, I’m otherwise preoccupied with the presence of another at the bar.

  Raj.

  “Aye, he’ll have what he wants,” I say, sidling up to the bar with a sideways eye trained on the devil. He’s not in the same get-up this time. He’s now opted for more casual slacks, a button-down shirt — more un-buttoned down the way he wears it — and the demure gold stud in his ear’s been swa
pped for a sparkly ruby. Two carats at least. Predictable bastard that he is, he’s got naught but black on aside from the ruby, and as I take my spot only feet away from him, neither of us looks the other’s way.

  Rue the cute bartender looks between the two of us, sensing something amiss. “You want your usual?” she asks, the joking lilt gone from her voice.

  “How about you pour myself a whiskey or two?” I say, all thoughts of the beer gone. If Bali Raj is back, it means Hell’s committed to meddling in my affairs. Beer’s not going to get me drunk, not even if I drink every drop on the planet. But whiskey?

  Oh, now whiskey’s another story all together.

  “We’ve got a bottle of Pendleton Midnight I’ve been itching to open?”

  “Whiskey is it?”

  She nods, ebony curls bouncing above her shoulders.

  “Have one yourself if you like,” I say, producing my customary payment.

  Raj says nothing. I say nothing. Rue says nothing.

  “Can I have a straw?” asks Ian, clutching his frosty mug.

  “Sure bud.” Rue passes him a paper-wrapped straw, all while pouring the whiskey and never taking her eyes off the two of us. Talented lass.

  Whiskey in hand — and short order in belly — I know it’s time to address the steaming pile of excrement likely headed my way.

  “You’re back,” I say, whiskey sliding through my veins with its all-too familiar burn.

  “Yeah,” he says casually, sipping his beer, looking straight ahead. “Figured I’d stick around for a bit after all.”

  My shoulders tense. “Keeping tabs on me, are ye now?”

  “Those are my orders,” he says, sounding awfully contrite. ‘Mazing how convincing he can be. “To be honest, I don’t mind the thought of an extended vacation topside.”

  “Hmph. Don’t imagine you would. Reckon you’re planning on getting yourself a room here too, aren’t ye?”

  Shite. I’ve made a mistake with that line. Raj’s eyes get wider and he turns my way.

  “Is that possible?”