Two Weeks and a Day
Finn’s Pub Romance, Book 2
R.G. Alexander
Two Weeks and a Day
Copyright 2018 by R.G. Alexander
Edited by D.S. Editing
Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Dedication
To Cookie--Love is the reason
Thank you Robin, for always being there.
***Finn Club Forever***
And honorable mention to Nicholas Cage and Roberta Flack.
You'll get it later.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
One Night at Finn’s
Thanks for Reading!
Other Books from R.G. Alexander
About R.G. Alexander
Chapter One
Cupid Fail
Miller
A thirty-year-old virgin sits in a crowded pub, fondling his nuts...
Yeah, don’t get your hopes up—this isn’t the start of a porno. As usual when it comes to my social life, it isn’t as exciting as it sounds.
Why did I agree to this again?
“Earth to Miller Day.”
Glancing up from the bowl of bar nuts I’ve been absently sorting through, I freeze like a damn squirrel catching sight of a predator. There’s the look I’ve been dreading all night—Austen Wayne is on to me.
Desperate to delay the inevitable, I say the first thing that pops into my head. “I was just thinking about turning over a new leaf. Going out more, you know? I could see myself being a regular at a place like this. A pub guy. Maybe I’d hang out with those three old men holding down the bar. Though from where I’m sitting now, I’ve got the perfect view of a group of off-duty fireman playing darts.”
I might as well stop selling, because she isn’t buying it. She knows me too well.
I’ll never be a pub guy.
“From where I’m sitting, Mr. Day,” she counters ominously, “you’ve only got two choices.”
Shit, where the hell are they? Brendan’s text this morning swore they’d be five minutes behind us, but Austen and I have been sitting here talking for over an hour with no sign of either of them. And they’re not easy guys to miss.
The longer we wait, the guiltier I feel about Austen. She and I have known each other for a year now. We met at Indulgence, the popular multi-level spa and salon where I work as a massage therapist. She rents space in my section, offering facials and beauty regime counseling, as well as her own line of skincare products. We’ve gotten to know each other between clients, and I genuinely like everything about her.
Which might explain why I’m feeling like an ass right now.
After all, I’m the one that invited her here on the pretext of brainstorming some ideas for her upcoming product parties. The truth is, this whole thing is a setup.
God, I hate matchmaking. Even thinking the word makes my skin crawl. Why did I let Brendan talk me into it?
Brushing the salt off my hands, I lean back, pretending an ease I don’t feel as I continue to bluff my ass off. “These are mixed nuts, Austen. There are four different varieties to choose from in this bowl alone. If we add that to the amount of men currently wandering around this bar, each carrying a pair while trying to get your undivided attention—”
“Oh, you’ve moved on from fidgety to funny now. That’s okay. I’ll wait.” She folds her arms fold gracefully on the table and stares me down, ignoring the half a dozen guys I’ve seen circling our table like hungry hyenas.
I can’t blame them. Austen is gorgeous, with flawless dark skin, eternally perfect hair and a smile that makes everyone feel seen and special. None of her current admirers would guess that the lovely entrepreneur who always dresses like she’s on her way to a fashion shoot also happens to have the soul of an inventor, a keen sense of humor—
And the tenacity of a gritty, B-movie vice cop when she thinks someone isn’t being straight with her.
Damn, I’m so busted.
I sigh. “Okay, I’ll bite—what two choices?”
“Confession or painful torture.” Austen narrows her eyes suspiciously. “There’s something going on with you, Miller Day. Confess.”
In lieu of confession, I’d much rather be at home eating the empanadas currently going to waste in my fridge. Or maybe watching DIY channels on YouTube as I map out my scheduled house project for the weekend.
Look out, Property Brothers—I’m comin’ for you with my mad home improvement skillz.
That’s about as wild as my Friday nights usually get.
“Nothing’s ever going on with me. Isn’t that what they say on the Mean Girl side of the salon?”
The stylists at Indulgence aren’t afraid to vocalize their disappointment when it comes to my lack of lifestyle. I don’t dress to impress, I don’t go clubbing, and I never have noisy, emotional breakups with hot boyfriends named Javier.
Miller Day, ladies and gentlemen—ruining gay stereotypes for catty women everywhere.
But I can’t help who I am. I like to be comfortable, I’d rather eat nails than go to a gay club, and the only guy I’ve dated in the last year was a mildly attractive middle-school teacher named Robbie. Regrettable Robbie, who showed me once and for all why I was better off working on my house than ever dating again.
“Forget those idiots and focus, Miller. Your mind is wandering and I’m about to solve a mystery here.”
I swallow my smile, take a drink of my water and nod obediently. “I’m all ears, Sherlock.”
“I just texted my sister while you were over there gathering wool, and she confirmed that there is neither a surprise party nor a family gathering happening here in my honor.” She points to my glass of sparkling water. “You rarely go out and when you do, you never drink, so bringing me to a bar—this bar in particular—instead of a diner or a donut shop to discuss taking my parties to the next level is highly suspect.”
“Why this bar in particular?” I was just following Brendan’s orders.
And now I’m craving a donut.
“Are you serious?” From her expression I’ve said something so incredibly wrong it might start the apocalypse a week early. “Finn’s pub. Finn’s. As in Chief Fi
nn, my brother’s husband? As in Seamus Finn, the owner of this establishment and the guy who made my other brother, Thoreau, a partner in his micro brewing business? As in—”
“The man who married your big sister, Bronte?” I ask, feeling the need to smack my forehead on the table for not catching on sooner. “The one who owns that new boxing club you thought I should check out?”
Austen raises her hand as if asking for the check. “And he’s finally awake.”
Why didn’t I put that together?
You’ve had other things on your mind.
I shake my head. “It didn’t even occur to me. Everything is named Finn in this town. They can’t all be related.”
I could be wrong about that.
“You’re wrong about that. And you not knowing makes the situation even more peculiar. I talk about them all the time, Miller. Some of them make the news on a regular basis, but even if they didn’t, you work in the most popular spa in the city. My in-laws have been, hands down, the juiciest topic of conversation there for a while now.”
I shrug helplessly. “You know I avoid gossip and current events whenever possible. If I didn’t before, Fred’s summer protest schedule was enough to depress me and put me off the news forever.”
Using my teenage neighbor’s civic responsibility as an excuse for not paying attention is low, even for me, but it makes Austen smile. “Well, I for one am glad that little rebel moved across the street from you. I like her, and you needed more adventure in your life. And friends. Not that I’m judging.”
“I think I’ve hit my limit tonight,” I say sincerely. “Any more adventure and I could have my first nervous breakdown. I’d rather skip it and hold out for that midlife crisis. I hear those are more fun.”
“Which leads us to my final piece of evidence.” Her expression is now the definition of smug. “You are nervous. Fidgety. You’ve been looking over your shoulder every five minutes since we got here, and I don’t think it’s because you have a thing for those dart-throwing firemen. The only conclusion a sane person could reach is that someone else is joining us, and you’re feeling guilty about it. This feels like a setup. Blink twice if I’m right.”
I blink.
Did I mention I knew this was a bad idea from the beginning? Just want to emphasize that for the record.
If you’re wondering why I’m so anti-matchmaking, ask the two women who live next door to me. I’ve been the elderly couple’s pet project since I moved in, but once they found some online blog about a gay man trying to get over his relationship dry spell, they got it into their heads that things were bad out there in dating land, and they had to take matters into their own hands when it came to finding my perfect match. Now, no matter how politely I try to dissuade them, they refuse to give up on their goal.
Those women are tenacious.
Believe me, I get it. People worry about my not having any fun. Or sex. Or a social life of any kind that could eventually lead to fun and sex. But even if I were interested, which I’m not, it’s not like I have that many opportunities to do something about it.
The problem is that all of my coworkers, ninety-nine percent of my clientele and most of my friends are women. Oh, and I was raised by a single mom in an organic, testosterone-free environment.
Mom made sure I participated in most of the required rites of male passage—football tryouts, beer pong and peeing my name in the snow spring immediately to mind—but she and I both knew that if it weren’t for the Internet, I’d never have learned about the gay birds and bees.
Seriously, she sent me a link when I was thirteen so she could be supportive but we wouldn’t have to talk about it out loud.
Welcome to puberty! Think you’re gay? Click here to learn more.
The one thing I couldn’t learn from the privacy of my personal laptop was how to interact with men who wanted more than a professional backrub or my how-to on crown molding. Which is why, when the occasional delivery guy or some be-flannelled rando at the hardware store asks me out, I always manage to screw things up just enough to send them racing in the other direction.
Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe there are no good men left in this city.
Or maybe the only one I want is someone I can’t have, and I’m willing to do weird shit for him that makes me uncomfortable, even though he acted like a jackass the last time we saw each other.
No. That can’t be it.
I run a hand through my shaggy mane and blow out a frustrated breath, upset with the entire situation. Brendan called and I caved, seeing an olive branch after months of silence instead of thinking it through. Now he’s so late I’m starting to think he won’t show at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s stood me up because something better came along. But I thought this time…
Damn you, Brendan.
Austen’s touch gives me a jolt, and she squeezes my hand compassionately. “Who is he? The guy you’re obsessing over.”
I eye her warily. “Does your family descend from a coven of mind-reading witches or something?” At her glare, I raise my hands in surrender. “Just checking, Sherlock.”
“Honey, you’re easier to read than you know. You’ve been distracted for weeks now. Even a little sad, when you thought no one was paying attention. Then a few days ago things changed. You got all antsy and talkative, right around the time you invited me out. You even promised to go out to a place of my choosing next if I agreed. That should have been my first clue—you, voluntarily going out twice in the same month.”
“I’ll grovel if you need me to.”
She squeezes my hand again. “Not necessary, as long as you promise you’re not trying to hook me up with a guy you have the hots for. Friends come first, and I would never be okay with that kind of drama.”
“No, it’s not him.” I shake my head in swift denial. “It’s a mutual friend who wanted our help to meet you.”
And now I’ve just admitted to setting her up and having the hots for Brendan. At least a life of crime was never on my bucket list.
Austen scoffs. “A man worth my time wouldn’t use his friends as a shield or play high school games to get me. He’d come right up and introduce himself.”
“Hey there, beautiful.” The nearest bachelor hyena has decided to make his move after eavesdropping on our conversation.
Am I wearing a sign that says “Just a friend, mostly harmless and totally gay”?
It’s hard not to take that personally, even if it is true. It’s also true that I’m in better shape than he is and could probably dropkick him out the door if Austen asked me to. Still, it rankles.
Someone once told me I give off a harmless vibe, whatever that means.
That vibe might disappear if you wore something besides sweatpants and brushed your hair once in a while, Millie. Just saying.
The voice in my head occasionally channels my mother. It’s awkward.
Before I can say a word, however, Austen responds to hyena number one without even looking in his direction. “No, thank you. Run along now, the adults are talking.”
I’m not sure whether to feel sorry for the guy beating a fast retreat or applaud. I’m friends with a witch.
Since she sees right through me anyway, coming clean may be my only option.
“We had a falling-out a little while ago and took a step back.” A Grand-Canyon-sized step that felt insurmountable at the time. “He reached out recently, asking me to help our friend get to know you without coming off like a player.”
Austen frowns at that. “Is he a player?”
A few weeks ago, my answer would have been different. But now? “I wouldn’t have agreed to it unless he’d personally convinced me that he was seriously interested. I’d never put you through this for any other reason.”
At least that isn’t a lie.
She nods thoughtfully. “So the one who reached out after stepping back—he’s important to you?”
“Brendan?” For some reason the question surprises me.
Is Brendan Kinkaid important to me?
You could say that.
“We met when Mom was at the hospital for some tests about six years ago,” I tell her, skimming over the details. “The two of them—mom and Brendan—just clicked. In one afternoon, he basically charmed her into unofficially adopting him. After that, whenever he was in town we were inseparable. Family dinners, weekly phone calls…he even sent flowers on Mother’s Day. When she died a few years later, he was the one who helped get me through it.”
He did a lot more than help. Anyone who’s known me for more than three years knows how profoundly my mother’s death affected me back then. She’s the reason I decided to do what I do for a living—she’d always loved massages and I wanted to learn how to ease at least some of her pain. She’s also the reason I saved up to buy the house. But complications from lupus got the best of her within days of my signing the closing paperwork. After that, everything I’d done or was planning to do felt pointless.
I shut down.
It was Brendan who moved me in when all I wanted was to curl into a ball and grieve. He invited the neighbors over to meet me. He’s also the one who got me started on my never-ending home projects, giving me something to do so I wouldn’t lose my mind.
In a very real way, Brendan saved me.
“He sounds like a good guy.”
“He can be.”
He’s also the antithesis of me in every way. A straight, charismatic and overconfident daredevil who’s spent more time in the air then on the ground, in a very literal sense. When he isn’t flying a plane full of people across the country or over an ocean, he’s finding new and improved ways to get himself in trouble. Women are always involved.
My mother called him precocious.
The last time I saw him I called him an asshole and kicked him out of my house along with Regrettable Robbie (which was actually the night he earned that nickname).
For weeks afterward, I told myself I was right and it was time. Brendan and I were too different. We’d both cared for my mom, but I didn’t approve of his irresponsible lifestyle and he thought I was wound too tight to have a successful relationship, sexual or otherwise.
Two Weeks and a Day (Finn's Pub Romance Book 2) Page 1
