Cradling her useless arm, she hobbled slowly into the main part of her little bedroom and a half apartment following the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. Food along with the bucket of Joe would make her feel a whole lot better.
Her foot smacked the leg of a side table; causing the lamp on top to wobble precariously when she gasped and collided with the furniture as the bare chested torso of a strange man standing in her kitchen—not Jace—was framed between a hanging cabinet and the countertop below.
Finn’s head appeared around the corner of the cabinet. “You’re up!” His friendly chirp seemed out of place in this unexpected scenario.
“What are you doing here?” she asked trying super hard not to drool on his stupendously eye-opening muscles.
He chuckled and skirted around the counter to offer her assistance.
“And good morning to you too,” he sniggered with a censuring drawl.
She glared at him but accepted his help, allowing the cocky Irish shithead to guide her slowly into a seat at the kitchen table. Why the hell does he have to be so hot?
“Didn’t know what you’d like so I made a bit of everything,” he admitted. The embarrassed, self-deprecating smirk on his face as he motioned to the breakfast buffet littering the stove top and tiny island gave her a glimpse at a side of Finn she bet not many people saw.
Wondering if she could do a pull-up on his huge bicep, she grumbled tersely, “Coffee first.”
He openly snickered. “Ah. So you’re one of those, huh?”
Eyeing him balefully, she tracked his coffee prep and held up two fingers when he pointed to the sugar bowl. Apparently being a chatterbox before his audience could seek reinforcement from caffeine was his thing. Fantastic.
“Fire houses and police stations run on coffee. The electricity could go out and all anyone would care about was what would happen to the coffee supply.”
He pushed the mug of fragrant brew in front of her.
“My parents also take their coffee seriously.”
He was blithely rambling on as though convivial conversations were what they did.
“Dad is standard issue old school cop. Coffee is coffee. Instant. Brewed. Whatever. But my mom? Oh my god. She takes it to an eleven. She’s the one shopper at the supermarket hogging the bean grinder and thanks to her influence, we all know what a coffee press is. Taking a coffee break with Ma is a real treat. You’d love it. Fair warning. She has a loose wrist when it comes to adding booze. You wanna have a seat reserved once she starts making Irish Coffee. She’s an old school Jameson’s gal by the way.”
Remy knew what that meant. She’d heard the endless jokes and taunts around the epic Jameson’s versus Glenfiddich rivalry kicked off by Meghan O’Brien’s arrival at the villa. Ben went on and on about mini bottles of Jameson’s at every place setting for the Major’s wedding. On the bottle hung a small tag that read Glenfiddich is for pussies. The first time she heard the story, Remy knew she’d like the newly married Mrs. Marquez. Being around a group of ballsy women was one advantage of joining Justice that she hadn’t known about before making the jump.
It was completely unlike her to supply personal information without a damn good reason so nobody was more shocked than she was when she sipped the perfect mug of coffee and casually dropped in a comment.
“You’d think that with my background…the military and all,” she murmured, “that knocking back a few beers after a long day would be common.”
“It’s not?” he asked.
She had a flash of introspection before answering. “Not anymore. Can’t stand the taste.” A shallow tingling shiver danced unseen along her nerves. “Guilt by association, I suppose. Sometimes social beer drinking can’t be helped though so I’ve been known to gag one down.”
He brought a plate of home fries and two forks to the table and sat down. Handing off a fork he casually asked, “So are you saying that you don’t drink?”
Forking a clump of potatoes she brought them to her mouth and pulled them off with her teeth. “Actually,” she admitted in a dry, semi-snotty drawl, “being French by birth and having a very European father, my wine palette was fairly well developed by the time I could drive.”
“Really?”
He seemed surprised. And something else too murky to pin down. She took another stab at the potatoes.
“Maybe you could help me out then,” Finn said.
He was being straightforward and she didn’t detect any bullshit in his manner.
“Barry knows exactly zero about wine and while we could load up on whatever crap the distributor is pushing this month, I think it’d be better to pick one really good bottle to be the house wine. And then create careful selections customers could count on. A wine list that reads like the fucking fifteen-page menu at the Cheesecake Factory is nothing but stupid.”
“You should develop a sangria exclusive to Pete’s. Call it the Bendover Blend or something. With families and a more upscale clientele checking you guys out, a tasty sangria will sell like warm socks in the winter.”
“I like that idea,” he told her through a mouthful of potatoes.
“And I’d be happy to lend my dubious knowledge of the grape although to be honest, Jace is the real expert.”
They ate and drank in silence after that. At one point he brought a football sized pile of fluffy scrambled eggs to the table and refilled their coffee.
When she felt better, her mouth opened and the questions started coming. “What’s up with my arm and who knows what happened?”
It took him a good long time to answer. Curious.
“We talked it over. Your cousin had some hard-line shit to say about what information you’d be comfortable with others knowing.”
She knew a set-up when she heard one and waited to see where this was leading.
“So we stuck with the story I gave the hospital. We were having a picnic when it started to rain. Shit happened and you took a tumble. Didn’t think it was all that necessary to go into detail.”
The exhale of relief because he’d had the foresight to cover her ass gave way too much away. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“I brought you home from the emergency room and took your vitals every couple of hours. Slept on the couch. Your cousin is covering your duties at work. The arm? Bet it hurts like a mother, huh? Would help if you bothered with the sling.”
“What sling?”
“Wow.”
She didn’t know what the hell he thought was so funny.
“They must have given you the good drugs, Remy.”
“What’s that mean?” she hissed.
“It means that you bitched and complained about the sling when they put it on, then during the ride home, and non-stop to Jace once he got here.”
“Oh.”
He shook his head at her and made her feel like a dumb kid. Then he walked into the living room and came back with the sling. With sure efficiency, he had it on her and the aching arm was secured in no time.
“Thanks.”
She did a little double-take when his grin took on the self-deprecation she saw earlier.
“Ever been to a roping competition?”
She shrugged. “Kind of hard to avoid around here.”
“Barry and Shelly make me watch that crap on TV.” He grunted and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, it made me think. I might not win a rodeo but if the competition was for fastest bandaging?” Finn laughed and winked. “Honey, I’d win that shit in a heartbeat.”
“We all have our talents,” she agreed.
He eyed her pensively for a minute and then murmured, “You’re a talented artist, Ms. Bissett.”
The hand brushing hair off her forehead dropped onto the table with a loud slam. She winced from the shockwave radiating up her arm. He’d been in her studio. Shit. Her eyes darted frantically around her apartment. What else had he seen?
* * *
And that folks, is what a trapped animal looks like.
Finn sighed heavily. Gauging her reaction to an innocent observation wasn’t exactly difficult. She was on the run. Emotionally. Something he understood. But the way her face fell when he mentioned her art gave him pause. Not only didn’t she look pleased by the compliment, if he was reading her correctly she was definitely putting off a worried, anxious air.
What the hell was she hiding? Or protecting?
He knew within five minutes of carrying Remy into her apartment that he was in restricted territory. The main portion of her place, where they were now, looked like an Ikea ad. Straight lines and perfect placement.
At first he figured the hospital corners look was because of her military background. Another thing he assumed they had in common because his dad was a spit shined shoes sort of a guy. Came with the uniform.
But that assumption eventually gave way the more time he spent in her apartment. Just like at her office, the lack of personal stuff made an impression. No pictures. No souvenir spoons. No stupid collectibles.
As if that wasn’t curious enough, practically everywhere he turned there were breadcrumbs leading him to conclusions that made his gut churn.
In the short hallway outside her bedroom was a Khalil Gibran quote written in calligraphy over a background of fire and smoke. It read:
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.
That was only the first of many disturbing references scattered around her space suggesting she had something dark and painful in her past. In a small gilt frame on her bed stand was a watercolor and the words Broken Crayons Still Color.
He’d wondered before what made the uncommonly beautiful woman choose radical isolation and now that he’d snuck a look at her personal life, things were falling into place. A deeply troubling and uncomfortable place.
But it was stumbling into her little half bedroom, where anyone else would squeeze in an office, and discovering she was an artist, that set Finn back on his heels. While every other square inch of her home was neat and tidy, the studio was an eye-opening look into another side of her personality.
About as messy and cluttered as a small space could be, the place was alive with color from a breathtaking display of paintings on easels and scattered here and there on the walls. Some were even stacked against the leg of a table.
He was stunned by the discovery.
That’s when he saw the pen and ink sketch—part of a clutter of drawings and line drawings piled on every surface. She sketched him in profile. He nearly stopped breathing. Between that and the little shamrocks she doodled in her office Finn slowed down and thought about what he was doing.
Like right now. It wouldn’t take any effort at all to jack her up and trigger a fight. Her shield was arguing and being disagreeable but that’s not what he wanted.
The way he saw it, there was a choice in front of him. He could dance around the mulberry bush with her, playing word games and getting nowhere—which is probably what she wanted. That way she wouldn’t have to let him in even though he suspected she was battling herself on that score.
Or he could cut out the extraneous bullshit and go right to what he was sure would be the heart of the matter. Finn knew which path to take. Remington was different and he liked that about her. But she was also scared, something he knew she’d never admit. If he didn’t want to drive her away he had to stay true to himself and that meant being straightforward.
But be nice. Go easy. The words in his head were better than signals from a third base coach.
“You are stronger than whatever hurt you.”
If looks could kill he’d be in serious trouble.
“Don’t assume you know me Finn O’Brien.”
Nice try. He pointed to the vibrant oil painting across the room on the main wall of her apartment. The form of a woman rising out of flames. A phoenix.
“I know more than you think.”
She sat back with a rough huff and shot arrows at him with her eyes. He almost felt a little sorry for her when the best she could offer was the standard, throw the bastard out comeback.
“I want you to leave.”
He was twenty steps ahead of her. “I just bet you do but that doesn’t change two things.”
Finn was relatively sure if she could hurl something at his head she would.
“First, and let me be clear about this Remington, I’m not a threat to you. Believe it or not, and yes, I do realize that as of this second you’re on the not side of the argument, you really can trust me.”
The arrows turned to lethal daggers. He stumbled on a trigger without trying.
“My Facebook is for fangirling over the Red Sox and sharing the occasional dirty joke with friends. I’m not thirteen and don’t post personal shit for half the fucking world to piss on. Where I come from we don’t gossip about our women for the amusement of others.”
“Do you listen to yourself, Beantown?”
He knew exactly what set her off and smirked. She was too damn easy to rile up.
“Yes, and I chose my phrasing deliberately.”
“Finn!” she spouted. “What are you up to?”
“And this brings me to my second point. As far as Justice is concerned and pretty much anyone in Bendover with their ear to the latest gossip, we are a thing.”
“A thing? What the hell is a thing?”
“A thing Ms. Bissett happens when two people go on a picnic in the desert.”
“Aw, shit.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing at how pissed off she looked.
“So, I’m not going anywhere until I’m damn good and ready. Don’t think for a minute that half the compound isn’t tittering about my truck being parked overnight outside your place.”
“Goddammit,” she groused. “I don’t want Justice thinking I’m accident prone or unable to get the job done. That’s why Jace is so protective. He knows my struggle to be accepted the same as the men. But fuck, Beantown! Pretending to be involved is a step too far.”
“I completely agree. Pretending is stupid.”
She flashed him a triumphant smirk. He let her wallow in the satisfaction for a minute and then lowered the boom.
“That’s why we’re gonna do this thing for real.”
He put out his hand like they were just meeting. She took it without thinking.
“Hi, beautiful lady. My name is Finn. Would you go to dinner with me? I know this fantastic bar that serves authentic Boston brisket every Sunday.”
Her jaw dropped and the hand he was holding went limp.
“Better yet,” he announced enthusiastically when a masterful alternative occurred to him. “Let’s take in the grand opening of the family center together.”
He finished scarfing down some eggs as she sat there and speechlessly gaped at him.
33
“Hello!” Drae yelled when not a single sound greeted him at the door. Where the hell was everybody? And Raven. Where was their fearless watchdog? What the hell was she doing? Taking a nap?
“We’re out here, Daddy,” Victoria hollered.
Carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, he trooped across the living room and stepped out onto the enormous tiered patio where he found his adorable wife and beautiful son practicing Danny’s wobble-walk while Raven kept a watchful eye.
His just shy of one-year-old kid was marching along like a drunken sailor with his mom’s fingers in a death grip over his head and a goofy grin that got brighter and happier when Drae appeared.
“Dog,” he yelled. Dog was Danny’s go-to word for everything.
“Are those for me?” his wife asked with an eye on the bouquet. “Or did one of your Ninja groupies lose a bet?”
“Thank god my wellbeing isn’t determined by having a sweet-tongued wife.” Drae bent over and dropped a smacking good kiss on Victoria’s cupid bow lips. “And yes, you harridan. The flowers are for you. Although I’ve no idea why I bother.”
His wife’s beaming smile f
illed him with more happiness than he had any right to feel. There was blood in his history, something he wasn’t particularly proud of, but when you’re a warrior for most of your adult life, giving two shits what others think goes by the wayside.
But still. He couldn’t run away from the plain, brutal truth. The military made him into a deadly weapon and though he channeled those talents into helping the white hats, the bad guys in the black hats hadn’t gone anywhere. Not really. Sometimes it all weighed heavily on his heart. Especially now that he had a family.
“We better hit the road soon, babe. Everyone’s expecting us.”
He’d already made an early morning run out to the family center complex. Angie called at the ass crack of dawn; frantic over a screw-up with the people doing the pony rides for the big opening day. For some ungodly reason they arrived four hours early. Luckily, there was on site security that tried to handle the surprise arrival but he dragged his ass out there anyway and took charge.
That’s how he ended up with a flower arrangement bigger than his kid. Just as he was about to leave the florist pulled up with the flowers Angie reserved. Seeing an opportunity open right in front of him he worked a deal with the owner and walked away with the enormous colorful bouquet.
Bitches like romance, right?
On a whim he made a declaration worthy of his romance hero name. “You need flowers. All the time. I’m going to ask Angie to use her contacts to arrange weekly deliveries.”
“Yes!” she cried with happy exuberance. “For the table in the foyer. We’d see them from the front door and the second floor. I’d love that, Draegyn.”
He exchanged armloads with her, handing off the gargantuan bouquet and taking the wiggling one-year-old off her hands. Victoria’s joy filled expression above the colorful display made his heart do a back-flip.
“I’m ready to go when you are. Packed up enough equipment and supplies to move in though.” Her amused giggle matched Danny’s. “Pulling an all-dayer with this little guy is a challenge.”
Unforgettable (Family Justice Book 5) Page 42