In Like Flynn

by Dorien Kelly

  “That saves us the trouble of the liquor license since we’ve already got one. We’re shaking things up, you included. This is your baby. I’ve told Richard and the boys that it’s hands-off as far as they’re concerned. We’re doing this on a need-to-know basis, and they don’t need to.”

  Dandy. Now she’d been placed smack in the middle of the Donovan generational conflict. Hal might as well hand her a shovel and tell her to dig her own grave.

  “If you want to try to argue me out of this, do it on Monday,” Hal said. “Right now, Flynn’s on his way from New York. I want you to head to Metro and pick him up. Mrs. D. has the flight details.”

  “You want me to get him? Like a chauffeur?”

  Hal chuckled. “Damn undemocratic response, Annie. This is no different than the month I had you spend in front of the pizza oven.”

  “But that was about learning the business!”

  “Sure was,” he replied as he stowed his cigar into a fancy leather carrying case, then tucked it into his jacket’s breast pocket. “Think of yourself as Flynn’s welcoming committee.”

  “Right.” She preferred to imagine herself waving a farewell hankie and getting on with her life. When she returned to her office, she’d do both this Flynn and herself a favor and call him a limo. She stood. “I’ll see you on Monday, Hal.”

  She was nearly to the door when Hal’s voice brought her up short. “No delegating.”

  “But—”

  “Humor me.”

  So when was someone going to humor her?

  ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Annie stood along the fringe of the McNamara Terminal’s baggage-claim area. Her purse was slung over her shoulder, and she held a sign labeled Flynn in one hand and the remains of a bag of pretzels in the other. As designated gofer, she’d sunk low, but what gave her an uncontrollable case of the munchies was the thought that this moment might be the high point of the next three months.

  Hal Donovan’s idea of a “secret weapon” scared the hell out of her. If he had retained a top restaurant consultant…great! She would have tagged behind the demigod and learned all she could. But even decades behind the bar had nothing to do with big business.

  She didn’t want to see Hal get conned or his concept fail. True, it was Hal’s money and Hal’s project and maybe she shouldn’t be taking it so much to heart. Problem was, it would be easier to stop stress eating than it would be to give less than her all.

  On the drive to Metro Airport, she’d already decided to marginalize the Irishman. She’d provide him with a nice desk, a phone and lots of make-work. Then she’d do what countless other businesspeople and politicians did—she’d cloak her lack of knowledge with a top-notch team and deliver Hal’s pub chain the launch it deserved. She had no other choice.

  Temporarily tucking the sign under her arm, Annie finished off the last few broken pretzel bits. As she used her fingertip to gather the coarse salt from the bottom of the bag, she speculated on what this Flynn would look like. If he was the old guy from the snapshots she’d perused, she’d have no problem spotting him. She just needed to find Hal’s secret twin, from whom he’d been separated at birth.

  Activity picked up as travelers began to stream down the escalator. She quickly tossed the pretzel bag in the trash and held up her sign. Some likely suspects glanced her way, but all passed by. The crowd drifted toward the luggage carousel with the New York flight number showing on the sign above it.

  Minutes passed, and traffic thinned. Annie folded the sign and tucked it into her purse, then retrieved her phone and dialed Mrs. D.

  Hal’s secretary said that there had been no messages from Mr. Flynn and didn’t Annie think that she’d have contacted her if there were? Duly reprimanded, Annie settled in at one of the clusters of plastic seats and watched loving couples, weary businessmen and families with whiny kids get on with their lives.

  Lucky buggers.

  At the far end of the area, the escalator hummed, empty of passengers. In time, only a few stragglers, some redcaps and the lost luggage guy were there to keep Annie company. Just when she was readying to send out a Flynn search team, another group rode down the escalator. Ever hopeful, Annie stood and walked toward them, hastily pulling the crumpled Flynn sign from her purse.

  The first two of the group were women in flowing robes and veils—clearly not Flynn. Next was a man with a half-dressed blonde clinging to his arm. J.Lo at an awards ceremony had nothing on this female. Annie skipped all the cleavage and focused on the guy.

  He was tall…make that tall, dark-haired and arrogantly handsome. He wasn’t dressed to thrill, yet he made a pair of blue jeans and a white button-down shirt look like art. Over his free shoulder was slung a laptop computer in its black travel bag, and he held a blue jacket or sweatshirt or something in that hand.

  Annie was more interested in his face. This guy was Pierce Brosnan’s kid brother, not Hal’s lost twin. For him to be Flynn, with his decades of pub wisdom, he’d have to have started behind the bar as an infant.

  He said something to the blonde. She simpered in a way that Annie considered a slap in the face to all womankind. Of course, no guy this good-looking had ever found the time of day for Annie. She was damn sure that even if one did, she wouldn’t produce a heartbeat-from-an-orgasm squeal like blondie’s. The guy smiled, almost as though he considered blondie’s response his due.

  The happy couple had begun to depress her on some visceral level that she was too hungover to think about. As they stepped off the escalator, then neared, she held the Flynn sign higher, practically daring Mr. Amazingly Gorgeous to be the missing Irishman.

  At first, it seemed that he’d seen her and counted her as irrelevant to his perfect life. Then his gaze returned, and he smiled. He walked her way, blondie teetering along beside him in pointy shoes that had to kill her feet. As he approached, Annie heard the easy Irish cadence of his speech and felt her stiff spine begin to relax as she was drawn within his pull.

  She was going to marginalize this man?

  She dug deep to embrace her inner bitch, who she knew had to be in residence even on non-PMS days. After ordering the traitorous shrew within to can the sighing and mewling, Annie Rutherford got down to business. She had a man to handle.

  FOUR OUT OF FIVE women generally liked Daniel, which made it lamentable that the fifth was standing before him. Even sadder was the fact that she was beautiful in a wholesome, wholly American way. Her shoulder-length hair was a shiny golden brown and her gray eyes would have been exceptionally fine had they not been narrowed with cold intent. Yes, he’d much rather have an unattractive woman hate him.

  “You’re Flynn?”

  He winced at the way she said the name.

  “Daniel Flynn. You’d be Annie?” he asked while trying to free his right arm from its current attachment. “Mrs. D’Onfrio told me to be expecting you.” Once freed, he offered his hand for a shake.

  She didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m Ms. Rutherford,” she said, stretching out the Ms. until it rode the air buzz-saw sharp. “And you’re late.”

  She had that spot-on. He felt nearly dead. Even though his face already hurt from smiling, he offered another in hopes that it would force one from her.

  “Abit of a problem getting off the plane is all,” he said.

  April, his bit of extra baggage, cut in. “He’s a hero! I started choking, and he saved me! You should have seen it! It was—”

  “Nothing,” he said. “No more than anyone else would have done.”

  He’d been seated at the very back of the plane—no place for a quiet rest, which he sorely needed. Always game to renew acquaintances, Daniel had arrived in America a few days prior to the start of his new job. His Manhattan friends had done their best to murder him by sleep deprivation, and as it happened, having an aircraft engine directly behind his head today wasn’t to be the last of his suffering.

  As he’d waited his turn to exit the aircraft, April had been standing in front of him, to
ssing down hard candies as though they’d be confiscated at the door. When she’d grabbed her throat with one hand and waved the other about, Daniel had gotten her into position and heaved the air—and sweets—right out of her.

  He supposed he should be buoyed by his good deed. Instead, he was weary and feeling oddly alone. He didn’t deserve this enthusiasm from April, and though he’d been raised to be polite, his manners were wearing thin.

  He needn’t have worried about undue adulation from Ms. Rutherford, though. She was now scowling at the bags lined up near the sleeping luggage carousel.

  “Those are yours?”

  “Not the lavender monogrammed ones.” Those, he’d wager, were vapid April’s.

  “Then get them and let’s go.”

  “I’ve apologized for being late. Is there something else bothering you?” Daniel watched as expressions flitted across her face. She was an easy read, this unhappy American.

  “I hate airports,” she finally said, but Daniel knew his name could have just as neatly filled in that blank.

  After he’d gathered his bags and said goodbye to his new friend—collecting an unwanted offer in the process—he decided to give it one more try.

  “So,” he said as they walked toward the escalator, “we’ll be working together, I’ve been told. Have you known Hal long?”

  “Professionally, five years.”

  “And you’ve experience in the bar business?” he asked as they ascended.

  “None,” she said, then strode on to the garage’s automated payment machine.

  None. And he thought this was to have been an easy bit of money. He dropped the bag in his right hand and felt his jacket pocket for a pack of smokes. There were none, of course. He’d have to make do with the memory of the one he’d cadged on the drive to the airport.

  “Are you coming?” his escort prodded, her voice echoing into the largely empty space around them.

  He’d been a fecking idiot, second only to his brothers, when he’d said yes to Hal. Daniel should have offered to come for a quick look-see, then decided if the job suited him. But here he was, and damned if he’d serve less than his sentence because one pretty American found him inconvenient.

  “I don’t suppose you smoke?” he asked, all the while knowing it was more likely that she worked in Amsterdam’s red-light district on the weekend.

  “It’s unhealthy.”

  Ah, but the quitting was killing him.

  They were in her car—which he found to be an intriguing mine of paper and files—and driving down the freeway before she pried loose any more words. “So where, exactly, am I taking you?”

  After wrestling with the seat belt, Daniel pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Six eighty-four Cobblestone Court.”

  She turned to stare at him, and the car swerved.

  “Mind your lane,” he yelped, leaning away from the massive truck now within touching distance.

  She yanked the wheel in the opposite direction. After both of them had drawn ragged breaths, she said, “Let me get this straight. You said Cobblestone Court?”

  “I did.”

  “And you’ll be living there?”

  He gave his answer carefully, timing it for a gap in traffic. “Yes.”

  A sweep of color rose on her cheeks. Daniel couldn’t believe that he noticed it when he’d do better minding the road for her. Last year’s Amazon trip was beginning to feel tame by comparison.

  “This is some sort of joke, isn’t it? Hal put you up to this.”

  He briefly closed his eyes, thinking of the bottle of aspirin just a few short feet behind him, buried in his suitcase.

  “No joke,” he said. “Just a place to sleep.”

  “Come on… Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

  “And here I was ready to ask the same of you,” he said.

  “You first.”

  “Fine, then.” Doing his best to ignore the sheer number of cars flying by—and the anger coming even closer—Daniel settled into his tale. “While he was visiting Ireland, Hal Donovan and I met up at my family’s pub in Clifden. He liked the town, liked us, and we liked him, too, so he stayed a few weeks beyond what he’d planned. When he was leaving, he asked me if I’d be willing to lend a hand in a new business venture. I was, so here I am.

  “As for where I’ll be staying, since I’ve no love for sterile hotels, Mrs. D’Onfrio put me in contact with a rental agent. I looked at the files she sent me and decided to rent a town house on Cobblestone Court. It’s no grand conspiracy to muck up your life, Ms. Rutherford. And now if you don’t mind, I’ll just close my eyes until we get there. Are you needing directions?” He waved the map he’d printed off the Internet.

  She laughed, not that it sounded especially cheery. “No thanks. I live two doors down.”

  Aye, the Amazon and its serpents were sounding placid, indeed.

  “Neighbors. Grand,” he said, then feigned death.

  3

  ANNIE STOOD WITH the Irishman in the middle of a living room that exactly matched hers, except this one was empty, with not so much as an extra dust mote for company. Not good news, since she was in need of distraction.

  She refused to meet his eyes and risk working up any humane feelings toward him. In some remote way, Annie recognized that she needed a behavior-modification device—maybe a fat rubber band around her wrist. She could snap it good and hard as a reminder that aiming her frustration at Flynn instead of Hal Donovan was bad. Unfortunately, she was rubber-band free. Beyond that, she’d already discovered that once she focused on the Irishman, it was unnaturally difficult to look away.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a furniture truck coming?” she asked as she surveyed the freshly painted white walls and new buff-colored carpet.

  “I’ll be visiting a rental place on Monday.”

  For lack of any other focal point, she looked in his general direction as he set down two overstuffed bags, then slipped the strap of his laptop case from his shoulder. Her gaze was drawn upward as he stood taller.

  Damn, he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He scrutinized her, and as though he could sense her thoughts, his mouth quirked into a smile that did unacceptable things to her pulse. She needed to keep the upper hand, assuming she’d ever had it.

  “Mrs. D’Onfrio gave me a list,” he said. “She’s good at that, isn’t she?”

  “The best.” Annie glanced at her watch, since she’d already done the wall-and-floor thing. When she looked back, he was still watching her. She waited an instant to be sure she wasn’t paranoid, but he kept looking. “Do I have crumbs on my face or something?”

  “Freckles,” he said, sounding surprised.

  “Yeah, well…” To hide the blush she knew was coming, she walked toward the sliding glass door that led onto the small balcony, also exactly like hers. They shared the same view of green treetops, with Riverside Park downhill, only a block away.

  He came to stand beside her. He was silent, a state she found almost as unsettling as his nearness. She worked up some tour-guide chat.

  “They built the Cobblestone complex just a couple of years ago. Before that, it was all light industry around here, which was kind of a waste of a view. That’s the Huron River,” she said, pointing to the ribbon of gray-green just visible past the trees. “Downtown Ann Arbor is across the river and a little south. Behind us is the University Hospital complex.”

  The Irishman made some polite sound of interest, or maybe he yawned. Either way, her heart kept drumming at a humiliatingly quick pace.

  “Along the river is a chain of parks and…”

  And what? She was out of words, nearly empty of thought, except that she needed to escape, but her parents had raised her too damn well. Much as she wanted to ditch Daniel Flynn, guilt had shaped itself into a mile-high roadblock.

  “Why don’t I at least take you to a supermarket?” she blurted. “You need some food and, I dunno, stuff, I’m sure.”


  “A shower and sleep, mostly.”

  She edged toward the center of the room. “You don’t even have a bed.”

  He gestured at the floor. “I’ve slept on worse.”

  That was territory she didn’t want to explore. Not where he slept, or when, or whether he did it naked. Okay, so she was human. Even if he didn’t exactly float her boat on a personal level, the naked concept deserved some consideration.

  “Look, Ms. Rutherford—”

  “You probably should call me Annie,” she said, which was as close to charm as she could manage while quelling images of the Irishman stripped bare.

  “Ms. Rutherford,” he repeated firmly. “You’ve made it clear that you’re none too glad to have me working with you, so if it’s somehow bothering your conscience to leave me here, don’t let it. You’ve done your duty, and I can find my way back should I venture out. Fair enough?”

  Annie worked up the guts to really look at him. What she saw made her feel smaller than the time she was five and gave her sister’s favorite Barbie a punk hairdo. He appeared tired, maybe a bit sad, and totally sick of her.

  “Sure. Fair enough,” she said, then turned to the door. “I’ll see you in the office on Monday.”

  As Annie left Daniel Flynn alone in his empty home, all she could think was how guilt totally sucked. She walked the six steps from the stoop of Flynn’s brick-and-fieldstone town house with its garage tucked below, to the sidewalk, turned right and headed to her identical unit, too busy mentally flogging herself over her pissy attitude to look up. Then her progress was stopped by a roadblock even more solid than her guilt.

  “Whoa, Annie. Watch where you’re going,” advised the second—or was that third?—unwelcome male of her day.

  Through the glare of the noontime June sun, Annie squinted up at her next-door neighbor, who unfortunately was also her ex-boyfriend, Garth “the perpetual grad student” Walker.

  “Sorry,” she said automatically while backing from his grip. Once freed, she scowled at him, wondering how she had ever found his fake hippie act sexy. At least she’d never been stupid enough to fall in love with him. Viewing the whole mess in retrospect, admitting to lust was bad enough.