“It’s that cop’s intuition,” Flynn said, feeling as though it was a new Tucker sitting before her. A Tucker who’d been a cop. A Tucker who cared about more than he let on. A Tucker whose eyes . . .
She blinked and sat up straighter. She must be drunk, thinking about eyes. She set her glass on the nightstand and then edged it a little farther away with her index finger. Just to be safe.
“So, anyway. That’s what all that Gordon Chase stuff is about.” He smiled lightly. “By the way, feel free to light into me at any time for putting you in the middle of that. I’m waiting for that other shoe to drop.”
“Oh, forget it. I’d have done the exact same thing.” She waved her hand in the air and attempted a casual laugh, but it came out in an awkward snort. Tucker chuckled. This is what happens when you start thinking about eyes, she admonished internally. She cleared her throat and asked, “So, how are we going to nab him?”
Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Did I miss a memo? When did the ‘we’ happen?”
“Well, you were using me to get to him anyway—”
“Hey, there’s that shoe.”
“I’m not dropping a shoe. I’m just saying, I don’t think it was all that bad a plan. I can totally string him along while you investigate. And I won’t even have to be all that dishonest about it. I mean, we haven’t made any final decisions yet about this place.” Which was true enough; Freya said it would be at least two weeks before Dad chose a buyer.
Tucker focused on his glass and ran his index finger along the rim. “Really? You’re thinking about staying?”
Flynn shrugged and felt a small shot of excitement ride through her at the thought. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but she was starting to feel kinda . . . warmly toward the place. Her eyes trailed over the room, with the canopy bed and tub chairs and antique writing desk. The roses on the wallpaper. The tall windows. Her gaze landed on Tucker sitting next to her bed, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
The bartender.
“What?” she said, rubbing self-consciously at her nose.
“You’re thinking about staying.” It was a statement this time, as though he’d just read her mind and was merely saying it out loud for the record.
“No,” she said, using the petulant tone of a twelve-year-old denying a crush on her science lab partner. She worked up the nerve to meet his eye, allowing the big humming ball of strange and awkward energy to intensify between them before losing the game of chicken and looking away first.
“You know how many jobs I’ve had in the past eight years?” Flynn angled her head to look at him. Tucker shook his head. “Fourteen. I have been, in no particular order, a nanny; a cashier at a bakery; a database administrator; a slime line worker in an Alaskan fish cannery; a prostitute at a Renaissance Faire . . .” She trailed off and smiled gently at him. “I mean, I played a prostitute.”
He whistled and shook his head. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled the fantasy.”
She laughed, turned her eyes back to the ceiling. “I like animals, so I was a veterinarian’s assistant for a while, until I discovered I really only like healthy, fluffy animals. I’ve done everything, pretty much, at least once, but I never found it. You know, the one thing I really wanted to do for the rest of my life.” She spread out her arms and breathed in deep, then lowered her eyes to Tucker’s and, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, said, “My mother was a dancer. She taught ballet to little girls.” Just as she was working up the energy to explain what that meant, he nodded his head and said, “I get it.”
She blinked in surprise. “You do?”
“Yeah. Dancing isn’t the kind of thing you do to pay the bills. It’s the kind of thing you do because you love it. Because you can’t not do it. That’s what you were looking for.”
Flynn lowered her eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. “So, I mean, yeah, the thought has crossed my mind that if I’m not gonna find it at the Renaissance Faire, I might as well not find it . . .”
“. . . here,” he finished for her. Their eyes met again, and Flynn knew that the heat in her face had nothing to do with the booze, although if asked, she would have sworn otherwise.
“Look,” she said, “even if my father keeps this place, there’s no way he’d ever let me run it. I have no experience. No idea what I’m even doing here. He’ll put someone in here who knows what they’re doing, and I’ll go back to some desk job in Boston.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
She leaned forward, hugging her knees to her chest. “So let me help you.”
Tucker laughed. “You’re gonna give a guy whiplash, you keep taking corners like that.”
“This thing with Gordon Chase, it could be my last chance to . . . I don’t know. Do something that matters, I guess. And you know, I’ve got a stake in this, too. If Chase did kill Esther, then that’s probably why she’s haunting me.”
He stared at her in silence, his eyes narrowing in thought, and she was sure he could see her heart pounding even through the bulky sweatshirt. She waited for him to say something, but he just watched her with an intent gaze.
“Okay,” he said finally.
“Okay? Okay, what?”
“Okay. You can help.” He held up an index finger. “But we’ve gotta have ground rules. Number one is, you don’t so much as look at Chase without me knowing about it. If he calls you or contacts you in any way, you let me know before jumping into anything.”
Flynn sat forward, practically bouncing in excitement. “Okay. Deal.”
“I’m not done. You don’t tell anyone about anything. If Chase did get to Esther, he might have someone here on the inside helping him, so keep quiet about it.”
“You think someone here would harm Esther? It seems like everyone loved her.”
“All it takes is one person who didn’t,” he said. “And I haven’t really wrapped my head around a solid theory yet, so, just keep it all under your hat for the time being, okay?”
“Okay. Fine.” A sudden yawn hit her like a truck. She indulged it, then blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “So what do I do?”
Tucker chuckled, sat forward, and put his glass down on the nightstand. “You get some sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
He shifted, about to get up, and Flynn was surprised by how powerfully she wanted him to stay. It was the smell of his skin, or maybe the kindness in his smile, or the amused tones in his voice—something about him was so innately comforting to her that she hadn’t even noticed until he made the move to leave, threatening to take her comfort away.
“I don’t want you to go.” The words were out before she’d even had time to think them, let alone to stop herself.
He let out a rough sigh. “You know I can’t stay.”
She stared at him for a long time, not sure what to say. She hadn’t intended to hit on him, exactly. It wasn’t that she wanted to sleep with him—although her stomach did take flight at the thought—she just wanted him to stay. Something about him seemed to fill cracks inside her she didn’t know she had, and now that they were filled, she didn’t want to go back.
“You can stay for a little while,” she said quietly, hoping she didn’t sound as pathetic as she felt.
“I can’t, Flynn.” There was regret in his smile, which was only a small comfort. “You’ve been drinking. There are rules.”
“I’m not saying . . . We don’t have to . . . That’s not what I’m asking for. I just don’t want you to go. Not yet. I . . .”
She groaned and put her hand over her eyes. She was the lonely, horny innkeeper, hitting on the bartender. She was a cliché, a tired joke, a sexual harasser.
She heard him get up, and her whole body froze as she prayed that he’d just leave and then she could keep her hand like this, covering her eyes, for the rest of her time here. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be doable, she was sure.
She felt the mattress shift as his weight settled next to her on the
bed. Warm fingers circled her wrist, pulling her hand away from her face. His smile was gentle, and his eyes were kind, and even his tousled, unkempt hair was making her stomach tighten.
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. One of his hands rested next to her hip, his body crossing hers, blocking her from jumping up and running to the bathroom for sanctuary. His other hand still held her wrist, one thumb absently tracing the tendons under her skin. With every second of silence, her heart beat harder, and she was sure her face was practically radioactive with heat by now. He released her wrist and reached up to touch her face, his fingers grazing her cheek, making her skin tingle.
Okay. That’s enough. She pushed her back up against the headboard, putting only maybe an inch or two of extra space between them, but it was space she suddenly needed.
“Tucker—”
“We’re in bed together. I think you can call me Jake now.”
“I can’t.” She swallowed.
A slow smile spread over his face, and he laughed. “Stubborn, thy name is Flynn.”
She could feel heat from his body, hovering so near, not technically touching her but still effecting an intense visceral reaction. This had to stop. He either had to get in that bed for real or leave.
“Jake . . .” she said quietly, hoping he’d understand his choice without her having to lay it out for him. Avoiding that humiliation was worth the concession of using his first name.
He nodded. He understood, and she could tell by the look of resignation on his face that she’d be alone in just another minute. Still, he leaned forward, one hand cupping the back of her head in his hand, and his lips landed softly on hers, at first gentle, but then the energy between them started to crackle and he dove in deeper.
Oh, this is good. This is goooood. Her entire body hummed with the feel of him as he leaned over her. Sensations came at her in bits and pieces; the softness of his hair under her fingers, the strength of his arm as it pulled her up to him, the harmonizing heart-pounding rhythms that reverberated through them both like primal drumbeats. Her fun parts were just getting into the swing of things when he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled back, his eyes heavy-lidded and, she thought with satisfaction, not entirely able to focus.
“Well,” he said. “That was . . .”
She let out a sharp breath. “Yeah. It was.”
“Okay.” He released her shoulders, then ran one hand through his hair. “Okay.” He hopped up off the bed, took a few steps toward the door, then turned back to face her, gesturing over his shoulder toward the door. “I’m gonna go.”
“Fine.” She heard the petulant strain in her voice, but there was nothing to be done about it. She gave him a stiff wave. “See ya.”
A confused look flashed over his face, and he took a step closer. Good God. Was he trying to torture her? Why didn’t he just leave already?
He squinted at her a bit, his expression unsure. “Are you mad?”
“Mad? No. Why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know. I just—”
“I mean, just because you kiss me like that and then run off like it’s Superbowl Sunday. Who would possibly be offended by that?”
“Oh, Christ.” He took another step toward her, looked at her like she was the crazy one here. “Flynn, I’m leaving because I just kissed you like that. I . . .” He shook his head and let out a long breath. “There are rules.”
“Since when do men care if a girl’s been drinking a little? I thought most guys used Jim Beam for their wingman.”
“Well,” he said, his eyes locked on hers, “I’m not most guys.”
“So . . . what, then? Are you gay or something?”
His head reeled back in shock. “Am I . . . ? You think I’m gay?”
“Look, I would have stopped you.” Probably. “But you didn’t even go for the sex. That means gay, married, living with Mother, or crazy. None of which bode well for you.”
Anger flashed over his face. “Or, maybe, I was raised by a family of women who beat it into my brain that there are certain things you don’t do when a girl is—”
He stopped suddenly. Flynn threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, advancing on him as she spoke. “When a girl is what? Weird? Undesirable? From Boston? What?”
“Special.” He raised both hands, his fingers raking the air in frustration. “When a girl is special, you take her on a date first. You shower beforehand. With soap. You buy her flowers or candy, both if she’s really making you nuts. You follow steps, you stick to the rules. God! I’m killing myself to do the right thing here, and you assume I’m gay? What, were you raised by wolves?”
Flynn softened, chose to ignore the raised by wolves comment, and smiled.
“You think I’m special?”
He let loose with a frustrated chuckle. “There are many definitions of special.”
“You think I’m special,” she said in a teasing singsong voice as she took a step closer to him.
He smiled and shook his head. “You thought I was gay?”
“If it helps, I hoped you were just living with Mother.” She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t live with Mother, do you?”
“Oh, hell.” He threw his arms up and headed toward the door. “Good night, Flynn.”
“Good night,” she said softly to his back. His hand touched the doorknob, then he froze where he was. She was just about to say something when he turned suddenly and grabbed her, pulling her to him so fast she thought she might get whiplash. She closed her eyes and fell into the kiss with him, allowing the feel and scent of him to finally silence her internal chatter. Every movement sent off sparks in different parts of her body, and if she had been able to think anything, it would have only been, Don’t stop.
But he did, and they pulled back from each other a bit, both of them breathless and flushed.
“Okay,” she said. “I take back the gay thing.”
He laughed, put his hand on her face, and traced her lower lip with his thumb, making the muscles in her legs tremble. She let out a little moan and his eyes fluttered a bit, but then his face cleared and he released her.
“Do something for me?” he asked softly.
“Yeah?”
He let out a rough breath. “On another night, when the time is right, if you’re so inclined and you haven’t been drinking . . .” He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. “Ask me again.”
She made some kind of guttural sound that she hoped would pass for, “Sure.”
He let out a soft laugh. “Good night, Flynn.”
“Night.”
He shook his head, chuckled lightly to himself, and then let himself out, leaving her alone, dizzy, and unsure. She leaned forward slowly and let her forehead rest against the dark wood of the door. She saw his face when she closed her eyes, and it wasn’t hard work to recall the feel of his arms around her, the earthy scent of his skin, the . . .
“Hoo boy,” she said, releasing a breath as she pulled herself away from the door. She walked to the bathroom, turned the shower on, and stared at herself in the mirror.
“This is a prime example of poor decision-making,” she told herself. “Bad news. Do not get all gooey over the bartender.”
As her reflection smiled back at her, she heard the retort clear as a bell in her head.
Too late.
Chapter Eight
Something was buzzing. Rattling against wood. Something was . . .
Flynn opened one eye just as her cell phone vibrated itself right off the nightstand and clanked perfectly into a glass with about a half inch of Irish whiskey. She’d moved it to the floor in the middle of the night because the smell was bothering her, but she’d lacked the motivation to carry it all the way to the bathroom sink.
“Oh, shit,” she said, reaching in, glancing around, then finally wiping it on the bedspread. The Arms was a nice place, but it was still a hotel. Surely the bed had suffered worse indignities. She flipped the phone open.
> “Yeah?”
“Flynn.” Her father’s voice came through the line. Taut and businesslike, the way it always was, even on birthdays and Christmas. She sat up straight in a Pavlovian response.
“Hey. Dad. Wow. What time is it?”
There was a slight pause. “Nine thirty. Are you in your office?”
She glanced at the half-empty bottle of Jameson’s on the floor. “Yep.”
“Good. I’ll need an update on the situation with the financials. I have some preliminary reports here, but they’re only current as of the end of the second quarter. I’ll need everything up to and including the end of the third quarter.”
“Mmm-hmmm. You bet. I’ll get right on it.” First, of course, she’d have to ask someone what a quarter was. It sounded like a football thing, but somehow Flynn doubted that was the case. “Anything else?”
There was a hint of surprise in his voice when he answered, as though he’d been expecting the football question. “Uh, yes, actually. There’s a local contact down there I’d like you to take a meeting with.” There was a slight pause. “I just want you to make initial contact, establish a relationship.”
“Dad. You know I’m not that kind of girl.”
He didn’t laugh. “I’m talking about a business relationship.”
“Yeah. I know. You see, it was funny because—”
“You’re the face of the company out there, Flynn. Take him to lunch, dinner, coffee. It really doesn’t matter. If he asks you a question you don’t know how to answer, just tell him you don’t know and you’ll get back to him.”
She shrugged her shoulders to release the tightness there. “So anything other than ‘What’s your favorite color?’ then?”
Another joke, landing like a brick. “I’ve got my team working on things here, but apparently this guy can help us work through the local red tape, which is always helpful in little places like Scheintown. They’re notorious for making things hard on outsiders, and I’d like to get this off my plate quickly. The guy’s name is . . .”
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