“I don’t smoke.”
“Then start. You’re working for Dad now. Welcome to the world of unhealthy coping addictions.”
Flynn sighed. “Fray? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
There was a long pause, and just as Flynn was going to check and make sure Freya was still on the line, she said, “I was worried about you.”
“What? Why?”
“That neighborhood wasn’t safe. I’ve been bugging you to move for years, but you wouldn’t, and it was keeping me up nights, so I lied. Okay?”
Flynn sat back, stunned. “Um. Okay.”
“Okay. So what’s up with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Then why is your voice going all high when you say you’re fine? Don’t lie to me. You woke me up. I’m cranky. What’s going on?”
Flynn rubbed at the tension in her neck. “Aunt Esther made me put her cows back up. Oh, and they just pulled a body from the Hudson that may or may not have been killed by someone in my immediate acquaintance. And I think I’m falling for the bartender. Except he quit. So . . . I don’t know. I guess it’s okay.”
There was a long pause, then, “So, this bartender. Is he cute?”
“He’s . . .” Flynn tried to think of a word to describe Tucker. Something that encompassed his kindness, his humor, the way his smile warmed places inside her she didn’t know had gone cold, what his slightest touch did to her fun parts. “He’s . . .”
“Oh, holy hell,” Freya said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Through the phone, Flynn heard the distinctive sound of a lighter igniting, followed by Freya’s deep inhale.
“They have smoking rooms at the spa?” Flynn asked.
“No.” Exhale. “Look, honey. Call Dad. Tell him he can bite your ass for the stupid reports. Take the incoming reservations on paper, and when your little Annawhatsis comes back, you put the fear of God into her. I’m serious. Threaten her job outright, don’t bother with subtlety. Tell her to start researching hospitality software and get someone else trained on the system you’ve got immediately. Then, go find your bartender and have him make you the biggest margarita allowed by state law.”
“Wow. You’re a fun boss.”
Freya snorted. “Don’t come to any conclusions till we’re back home.”
Flynn felt herself go tense. Back home. Well, that was the plan. And it was what she wanted. Museums. The T. Not a ceramic cow creamer anywhere to be found.
No rose gardens.
No Mercy’s pumpkin risotto.
No Tucker.
“Look, babe, I gotta go,” Freya said. “You got it under control?”
Flynn forced a smile and tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. “You bet.”
She set the phone down on the cradle, and stared at it for a long time. Something was up with Freya, but she knew she wasn’t going to find out until Freya was damn good and ready to tell her. If she was ever damn good and ready to tell her. That’s just the way it was with Freya.
So she might as well deal with her other family member. When she’d called earlier, Dad’s secretary had said he was in a meeting and would be back at his desk around ten. She raised her eyes back to the blinking cursor in the password box. That gave her a little more than an hour to try and get those reports in. She knew Freya was probably right about how to handle things with Dad, but how could she expect Flynn to toss away thirty years of dysfunctional family dynamic just like that? It wasn’t reasonable.
And it wouldn’t hurt to try to get those reports, right?
She tapped her fingernails on the desk as she thought. She’d done all the obvious passwords—Annabelle, DeCross, various combinations thereof, the phone number for the front desk, Annabelle’s birth date, which was in two weeks; Flynn remembered seeing the date circled on the calendar in the break room. There was only one thing left that she thought might work, but it was so juvenile, she was almost embarrassed to have thought of it. She glanced around, then reached for the keyboard and typed in “AD+JT4Ever” and hit enter.
The screen flashed quickly, and then the box came back up. Flynn rolled her eyes at herself for even thinking the password would be such a thing. She decided that she was done, it was over . . . but then something occurred to her. She put her hands back on the keyboard and typed.
“JT+AD4Ever.”
The screen flashed again and then went completely black for a moment. At first Flynn thought she’d tanked the entire system—she and computers didn’t have a friendly history—but then, to her shock, the software popped up on the screen.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered. She pushed herself away from the desk to go get some coffee. It was going to be a long day of trying to figure out how to pull reports while trying to forget that Annabelle was, apparently, mentally fourteen years old.
As was Flynn. Apparently.
It was going to be a long day.
Jake pushed through the swinging doors of the Arms’ kitchen, and was instantly yanked into the walk-in freezer by Mercy.
“Oh, my God, Jake,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you all morning. Where have you been?”
“At the cabin. What’s up?”
“What cabin? Dad’s old cabin? What are you doing at the cabin?”
“Cleaning it out. Which brings me to a favor. I need—”
Mercy smacked his arm. “A favor? No time for favors, Jake. That body they pulled from the river?” Her voice raised into a hysterical whisper. “That was Elaine Placie!”
“I know,” Jake said, rubbing his arms for warmth.
“Only she’s not really Elaine Placie,” Mercy continued. “It’s some other woman whose name I can’t remember.”
“Eileen Dietz. I know.”
Mercy blinked. “You know? You read the paper?”
Jake tried to work up an offended look. “I get the paper.”
Mercy lifted one eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Fine. Flynn gets the paper. I saw it this morning at Flynn’s. Speaking of which, I need you to make me a nice dinner for two that can sit at the cabin for a while. You know, something that doesn’t necessarily need to be hot, but will still impress the hell out of her.”
Mercy crossed her arms over her chest. “This morning? At Flynn’s?”
“Like, you know, a picnic. But a nice one. With a bottle of wine. Maybe some cheese. Those tiny little sandwiches you girls like so much. Oh, and I need it by four. You think you can do that?”
“It’s food. I’m the food miracle worker. I can do anything. Let’s get back to this morning at Flynn’s. Are you sleeping with our boss?”
“Depends on your definition of ‘sleeping with,’ and she’s not my boss anymore. I quit.”
Mercy stared at him blankly for a long moment. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Hey, that’s something new and different. Just put something together for me, okay? I’ll be by to pick it up at four. Oh, and I need your house keys.”
He held out one palm. She glanced down at it, then looked back up at him. “Are you kidding me with this?”
“No. I have a date. With Flynn. We’re going to the cabin for a nice dinner, but first I have a laptop I need to print some documents from, and I need your printer. Come on, Merce. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
Mercy reached into her pocket and held the keys up, just out of his reach.
“I’ll do it. On one condition.”
Jake sighed. He knew what was coming. “Fine. Sunday dinner.”
“Not just you. Bring Flynn, too.”
Jake pulled his hand away. “No. No way am I subjecting her to the five of you and your insane little girlfriend trial.”
“It’s not a trial. It’s an attempt to get to know the girl. Make sure she’s worthy. We don’t tar and feather them, we just ask questions.”
Jake clenched his teeth. “Okay. Sunday night. We come, we eat, we leave. One hour.”
; He reached for the keys, but Mercy pulled them back. “Three hours. You stay for dessert.”
“Two hours. No dessert. And no questions even grazing the subjects of weddings or babies.”
Mercy sighed, dropped the keys into Jake’s open palm.
“Fine. Come back at four and your picnic will be waiting for you.”
Jake grinned, kissed Mercy on the cheek, and headed for the door, stopping only when she called his name. He turned to see her watching him, a look of concern on her face.
“Someone killed Elaine Placie with a pan from my kitchen,” she said.
Jake nodded. “I know.”
“She totally screwed you over.”
“Yep. She did.”
“That gives you motive and means,” she said. “And probably opportunity.”
“You watch too much CSI, Merce.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
He pulled on the most confident expression in his arsenal. “I’m going to find out who really killed her before the police have time to put it all together and consider me a suspect.”
He hoped the plan was as good as it sounded, because for the moment, it was the only one he had. Mercy stared at him for a long time, then nodded.
“Be careful.”
He grinned and put his hand on the lever that opened the freezer door. “I’ll see you later, Merce. And for God’s sake, do something about this place. It’s like a meat locker in here.”
Mercy didn’t smile. “I love you.”
He touched his fingers to his lips and tossed her a kiss. “You, too. And don’t worry. It’s all going to turn out fine.”
He pulled the lever and headed out, ignoring the questioning looks on the kitchen staff and hoping to God that everything would turn out fine.
He really hated being wrong about this kind of thing.
Chapter Eleven
So, where exactly are we going again?” Flynn asked, leaning forward to look into the darkening October sky through the dusty window of the pickup truck. Based on the windy road, the farmland flanking them on either side, and the widely spaced streetlights, she sensed they were officially in the middle of freakin’ nowhere.
“It’s a surprise,” Tucker said. “Now, tell me about your day again.”
Flynn waved a hand at him. “No. We’ve already talked about that.”
“But you like talking about it.”
“Yeah, I do.” Flynn turned toward him, amazed at how big and comfortable the seats were in that clunky old pickup. “So, I got off the phone with Freya and I was totally screwed, right? But then I think really hard, what could the password be? And suddenly, I get it! So I start typing—”
“What is the password, anyway?” Tucker asked.
“Oh. You know. Just something silly.” She cleared her throat. She still hadn’t decided if she should tell Tucker about Annabelle’s crush. On the one hand, it was none of her business. On the other hand, maybe Tucker should know. Flynn guessed that if Annabelle had a say, she’d side with none of Flynn’s business, so Flynn decided to let that be the tiebreaker.
“Anyway. I type it in and blammo! Everything opens up. So then I get some coffee, and I figure it’s gonna take me from here to eternity to figure out this system and pull those reports, but I get back and two hours later, everything’s all set and ready to go. I put off my father by telling him the fax machine was broken—”
“A brilliant move, by the way.”
“Thank you. I thought so.” She leaned back, allowing herself to get all pruny in her pride. “So, I figured it out all by myself. I made it happen. I contributed. I’m not a total loser.”
“Please tell me you already knew that,” he said, throwing a glance her way.
“I mean, I know I’m not a total loser. I pay my own bills. I vote. But . . . when it comes to being a productive member of society, to doing things that make a difference, things that really matter . . .” She shrugged. “It’s a very short résumé.”
Tucker turned the wheel and they ambled onto a dirt road.
“Where exactly are we going?” Flynn asked, glancing around them at the farmland, slightly pungent with the smell of cows and nature. Ick.
Tucker pulled the truck to the edge of the road and put it in park, then turned to face Flynn.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” she asked, a little worried about this sudden change in demeanor. “Ask where we’re going? Is curiosity a big character flaw with you, because if that’s the case—”
“When you got off the train that day, I thought you were beautiful, which—whatever. Pretty women are a dime a dozen, and typically overpriced at that.”
“Is this an attempt at sweet talk? Because, not for nothin’, it could use some fine-tuning.”
“Then you spoke.” Tucker chuckled and shook his head. “And you were snappy and insecure and tough and fragile and weird—”
She hardened her stare. “Perhaps you could memorize a sonnet or two. Lots of girls go for that crap.”
“You’re . . .” He stared at her for a moment, then chuckled and shook his head. “You’re funny, and you’re sharp, and you’re strange in really . . . great ways. I mean, what kind of girl admits that she’s having chats with her dead aunt? Or puts herself on the line for some random guy she hardly even knows? You have no guile. You don’t pretend to be what you’re not. You’re just Flynn, and you don’t apologize for that. Do you have any idea how sexy that is?”
Flynn held her breath, her heart pumping erratically in her chest. “Um . . . no.”
Tucker watched her for a moment, then turned his head to stare straight out at the horizon. “You’re right. I’m not good at this.”
“No,” Flynn said, her voice high and soft even to her own ears. “No, you were getting somewhere there.”
“I don’t know any sonnets. I’m not that kind of guy. To be honest, until now, I didn’t think I was the kind of guy who would pack a special picnic and bring a girl out to a cabin in the country with no ulterior motive other than just getting to know her better.” He chuckled and shook his head, then turned to look at her, his smile light and bemused. “I used to make fun of that guy. And now I am that guy. And I’m fine with it. For the first time in my life, the most important thing is not getting revenge on Gordon fucking Chase, and that’s because of you, so if you could stop with this crap about never doing anything that matters, I’d appreciate it.”
Flynn opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of what to say. She’d been quoted sonnets before—which, in real life, turned out to be a lot hokier than it sounded. One guy had even stood outside her dorm window and serenaded her with a regrettable rendition of “Islands in the Stream.” Also overrated. But no one had ever made the butterflies inside her freak out the way Tucker just did.
She liked it.
“You’re quiet,” Tucker said after a while. “That can’t be good. Did I already blow it? Because the food alone will be worth giving me a second chance, I swear.”
She reached out and put her hand over his. “You didn’t blow it. You did the opposite of blow it.”
He turned to face her, his eyes locking with hers. “Good.”
She turned toward him in what she hoped was an encouraging pose, but found it challenging to strike an encouraging pose in a bucket seat. The silence intensified, the dying sunset bathed them in a dim pinkish glow; the moment couldn’t have been more perfect. She licked her lower lip—if that wasn’t encouraging, then she was out of the game.
Which, apparently, she was, because Tucker chose that moment to turn away and hop out of the truck.
“What the . . . ?” Flynn muttered to herself as she watched him walk around to her side and open the passenger door.
“Are you kidding with this?” she asked.
“Get out.”
“I’m sorry?”
He held out his hand to her. “This is your first driving lesson.”
She didn’t take his hand. “What
are you, crazy? I can’t drive. I don’t even have a permit.”
“It’s okay,” he said, smiling. “You’re on Tucker property now. We’ve only got about a mile to go down this road here.” He raised his hand closer. “Come on.”
Flynn took his hand and let him help her down. “You’re serious?”
He set her on her feet and put his hands on her waist. “When have you ever known me not to be serious?”
“With the exception of thirty seconds ago? You really want the answer to that question?”
He reached up and touched her hair. “Well, I’m serious now. I wanted to take you on a date you wouldn’t forget. I think this is a pretty good idea, if I do say so myself. Which I do.” He grinned. “Now get moving.”
She considered and rejected the idea of telling him she wouldn’t likely forget it anyway, and nodded. “Okay.”
He leaned down and grazed his lips lightly over hers, making her legs tremble a bit with anticipation of what might come next. But instead, he pulled back, cleared his throat, and led her to the other side of the truck. After strapping her into the seat belt and showing her where the gearshift, brake, and accelerator were, he shut her door, walked around, and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Put it in drive and lightly touch the accelerator. Put your hands at ten and two on the wheel, and keep the road between them. You’ll be fine.”
Flynn reached for the gearshift and set it to “D” the way Tucker had shown her. She hit the accelerator with her right foot and the truck lurched out into the road with a lot more acceleration than she’d been expecting. She screamed and hit the brake, sending Tucker shooting forward.
“Should have worn my seat belt,” he said, a chuckle in his voice as he held on to the dashboard for support.
“Yeah, well, hindsight.” Flynn took her foot off the brake and hit the accelerator, lighter this time, and toodled off onto the dirt road, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles.
“Okay, now how long before we get to where we’re going?”
“The cabin’s about a mile or so down the road,” Tucker said, glancing at the speedometer. “At this rate, it should be about an hour.”
“Shut up,” Flynn said, laughing as she punched it from five to ten miles an hour. “Hey. Dig me. I’m driving.”
Crazy in Love Page 17