by Elise Faber
“I-I didn’t mean to—”
Shan opened her mouth to reassure Ry that, of course, she didn’t mean to, but Finn had already moved, scooping Rylie up from the puddle and away from the sharp pieces of glass.
“Of course, you didn’t,” he said. “It was an accident.” He set her on the counter, eyeing her bare feet carefully before extracting the towel from beneath his cutting board and gently wiping the soles. “Did you get cut?” he asked.
Rylie shook her head, eyes drifting down over Finn’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
Shannon had moved to pick up the broken glass and was dumping it into the trash. She shut the cabinet, stepped over the puddle, and moved to her daughter. “Oh, baby. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”
Ry sniffed.
“Come here.” Shan tugged her in for a hug. “There’s no crying over spilled milk,” she said, pulling back and wiping Rylie’s eyes.
“Yes, there is,” her daughter replied, calm now, her eyes slightly reddened.
Shannon laughed but caught Ry when she started to climb down from the counter. “Hang on, baby,” she said. “Let me clean up the milk—”
“It’s done.”
She turned, saw Finn throwing away a wad of dirty paper towels, her bottle of kitchen cleaner in his hands.
“I should sweep.”
He picked up the dustpan he must have pulled from beneath the sink, sweeping quickly and efficiently as her mouth dropped open.
“I—”
“Why don’t you carry Rylie outside?”
“But one of us won’t have milk!” Ry’s bottom lip wobbled. “Because I dropped it.”
“Honey.”
Finn stood. “I don’t need milk.”
“But it’s Mommy’s special drink, and you should have some.” That lip was pushed out into a pout.
“Ry—”
He opened the cabinet with her glasses and pulled out one. “Why don’t you and your mom pour some from your glasses in this one? That way, we can all share.”
Her daughter smiled and grabbed the cup, holding it close to her chest. “Okay!”
Shannon lifted her off the counter and safely out of the way, setting her on her feet just outside the kitchen. “Finn—”
Honey eyes came to hers.
“Go, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I can do this.”
She nodded, turned to follow Ry, but then she turned back. “Finn—”
“Let me help you, dammit,” he gritted, not sharp, but rough and frustrated and punctuated by a sigh. “I can sweep one floor.”
She bit back a smile, somehow charmed by the big, smart, pushy, sweet man whom she’d pushed to grumpiness. “I was just going to say that the vacuum is in the hall closet.”
“Oh.” He bent, started sweeping the floor again.
“Finn?”
A beat then, “Yeah?” Still not sharp. Still gruff.
Still making her smile.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Yeah, still gruff.
Yeah, she liked it.
A lot.
So much that her cheeks hurt when she walked out to join Rylie on the deck, and for the first time in many years, it was because she was happy and touched and not because she was holding back tears.
Eight
All The Baked Goods
Finn
He had to admit that peanut butter milk was the shit.
The apples were . . . well, apples.
But Shannon had been right. Together it was pretty much the perfect snack. Though, Finn knew that was mostly because of the two females sitting next to him. One, rather, since the soon-to-be-seven-year-old Rylie was now perfecting her sandcastle skills on the beach in front of them.
And he was left with a full belly, warm sunshine on his skin, and this woman next to him, silently watching the waves.
Then she turned her eyes, so similar to the color of the ocean, onto him.
Arrested.
His body. His breath.
That gaze pinned him in place more intensely than the hard-ass director who’d given him his big break.
“Why are you here?”
How to answer that?
Did he give the canned answer? Exhaustion. Working too hard for too many years and he just needed some time to himself?
Or did he tell this woman, this virtual stranger, the beautiful sad female who he was somehow connected with, the dark secret that had been eating at him. The reason he’d flipped out on camera. The reason he’d been sent away, and not just by his agent and publicist.
But by his family.
To get the paparazzi away.
Because Finn hadn’t just lost it on camera. He had a meltdown on a live morning TV show, calling out the anchor for something he’d seen backstage—the anchor cornering a young, female intern—thus triggering a media shitstorm, but also the coming forward of victims of that anchor, and a subsequent firing. He’d been lauded—bravo for stepping up!—and reviled—just another male wanting to be a savior when the system was broken—and he’d deserved both actions in equal measures. Especially because his actions and words hadn’t been truly altruistic. He’d seen that girl, young and innocent and her fire and hope dying in her as the anchor had slid his hand over her ass . . . and he had just been so tired of it all, so fucking tired of the duplicity of Hollywood calling for equality and kindness when he saw this same type of mistreatment, time and time again.
Witnessing the assault had been shit timing.
He’d seen it just after he’d found out about his sister the weekend before.
And where he would have normally taken care, treaded carefully, and not thrown the victim’s story straight into the gobbling jaws of the media and its circus, Finn hadn’t been thinking straight.
So . . . he’d snapped.
He’d remembered all the times someone young and vulnerable had been taken advantage of and he hadn’t been able to do anything because he’d heard about it afterward. All the times he’d been there and failed to intervene when he should have.
Crude jokes.
A laughing innuendo that wasn’t shared all around.
And his sister.
His baby sister.
The timing of those two things . . . and he’d lost it.
“My younger sister was raped,” he said quietly.
Shannon’s startled inhale told him everything he needed to know. “Oh no,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry that happened to her.”
“Me, too.”
She nodded, eyes drifting back to the waves. “But”—he held his breath as the rest of her words came—“that doesn’t explain why you’re here,” she finished softly.
His breath slid out. “No,” he murmured. “It doesn’t.”
Gaze on the horizon, she waited, not pushing for an explanation, not demanding he tell her more. Just sitting quietly and patiently, and Finn found that for the first time in a long time, the words just came.
Not a struggle.
Not painful.
Just as easy as breathing.
Thus was the power of Shannon, he supposed. This woman, whom he’d been connected to since returning the pink plastic bucket, a thread extending from him to her as he’d handed it over, looping back around.
And so, he found he could tell her, “She wanted me to go.”
A beat. A soft creak as she shifted in her chair, facing him. Still not speaking, but her expression open and willing to listen.
“I freaked out.” He shook his head. “I absolutely lost it. I wanted to destroy every single male on the planet, myself included. We created this fucked-up world that allows women to be hurt and . . .”
“And it was your baby sister.”
It was that. Exactly that. The little sister he’d helped up when she’d fallen while learning to ride a bike. The one who punched out her asshole of a high school boyfriend when he broke up with her the day before prom and then took her best fri
end to the dance. He’d learned to braid her hair when his older sister Kathy had gone off to college.
“Lexie has the biggest heart of anyone I know.”
“She was hurt in an impossible way.” Shannon released a slow breath. “And you couldn’t protect her.”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Then I upset her more.”
By exposing her to the media. By having a meltdown that was documented everywhere. By making a painful moment even more agonizing.
Shannon went quiet again, but eventually she asked softly, “Are you sure she wanted you to leave?”
“The words Finn, you need to go, made it pretty clear.”
“I’m sorry.” Her hand found his, squeezed lightly. “I don’t think that anyone can ever know the proper way to react in situations like that. It’s such a visceral, hurtful thing, a-and my heart breaks for her.”
His chin dropped to his chest. “Thanks for saying that,” he murmured. “I’m sorry to be a damper on our afternoon.”
Startling blue eyes on his, warm and soft. “Not at all. I needed the reminder.”
He frowned.
She shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I just . . . I’ve had a rough time of it lately, and I needed the kick in the ass to remember that my hurts aren’t any bigger than anyone else’s.”
He flipped his hand over, laced his fingers through hers. “That’s not what I was trying—”
“I know, honey.” A smile.
Different this time. Not sad, but not filled with amusement either. It was warm, soft, and it melted something inside him.
Fuck he liked this woman.
“My husband—”
The blood in his veins froze.
“—well, my soon-to-be-ex-husband, has been cheating on me.” The breath released, relief that she wasn’t married, or well, this wasn’t what he’d imagined for a split second. That relief warred with sympathy because he’d been on the receiving end of cheating more than once, and it sucked.
“I’m sorry.”
She made a noise of disgust. “Me, too. Even more to find out that he’d been cheating since almost our wedding day and that he has another family . . . with a little boy about Rylie’s age.”
“Fuck.”
He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, not with little ears around. But then again, neither of their stories had been meant for little ears.
A ghost of a smile. “You don’t have to look so chagrined,” she teased. “I have heard that word before.”
He chuckled. “My sister, Kathy. The older one with kids,” he added, though she probably didn’t need the extra details of his life. Not after all he’d bombarded her with. “She’s trained me well.”
“We moms are good at that.”
“It’s true.”
“And,” she went on, “just to get it all out there. I let him have everything—the funds in our joint bank accounts, my right to his retirement, refused alimony and child support—on the condition that he would let Rylie and me have the house.”
Finn’s stomach twisted.
Because he had the feeling that this story wasn’t going to end with a surprise, Then my ex let me have the house AND half of everything else.
Unfortunately, he was right.
Shannon’s expression hardened. “Then last week, he sent a real estate agent to the house.”
“To look?”
“To sell,” she said. “Because it’s in his name, not mine.” Then she explained about the bed rest and hospital stay, the complications after Rylie’s delivery and how she’d been out of it when her ex had done all the papers.
“But it’s community property,” Finn said. “If it’s acquired during the marriage, shouldn’t it be part of the settlement?” A shake of his head. “Aren’t you entitled to fifty percent—”
She nodded. “Of the profits.”
“He wants his half.”
“I don’t think Brian knows what he wants,” she said softly. “But I do know that he’s not going to abide by our agreement.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
A shrug. “My lawyer is doing his best.”
“I can—”
He’d started to offer up his lawyers, his resources, but then Rylie appeared in a skid of sand and bare feet. “Mom! Come see!”
Shannon pushed out of the chair, her hand slipping free from his.
Finn missed the contact almost immediately.
But then he realized it was a good thing Ry had interrupted him. The last time he’d gotten involved, pushed his way into a situation that didn’t involve him, it had blown up in his and Lexie’s faces.
He didn’t want that for Shannon.
And him siccing his lawyers on this asshole ex of Shannon’s was sure to get the vultures circling.
Descending.
He watched her smiling as she ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the sandcastle, and he knew that he couldn’t do that to her. So, instead of offering her the power of his name and his retinue of lawyers, Finn carried the dirty glasses and plates into the kitchen, washing and loading them in the dishwasher as his mom had trained him to do many moons before.
Then he slipped quietly from the deck and vowed to leave this woman to her life.
His vow lasted all of twelve hours.
Which was how long it took for the knock to come on his door.
He was reading over a script. Well, reading was a strong word for slogging his way through another uninspired story. Sighing as he set it back onto the pile of scripts his agent had sent over, Finn pushed to his feet and headed for the door.
A freckled nose, blue-brown eyes, and a rapid wave.
He smiled and cracked the door. “Morning, Rylie.”
“Mornin’!” She shoved a foil-wrapped loaf into his hands. “Mom said we could share.”
He took the parcel instinctively. “Th—”
“Bye!”
She ran off, meeting a redheaded female wearing a large floppy hat and a big grin. The woman bent and high-fived Rylie then straightened as she handed her another loaf, presumably to deliver to the next lucky neighbor.
But as she was straightening, she froze in a half-bent position.
“Finn?” She popped up like a whack-a-mole, recognition collecting on her face.
For one heartbeat, his stomach seized, dread at being recognized coalescing in a nearly impossible to resist urge to run into the house and slam the door closed. In fact, he’d actually taken a step back when the bright red hair, the porcelain skin, the—as she tripped over her own feet—charming clumsiness processed.
“Pepper?” he asked.
She nodded, sweeping toward him and tugging him in for a hug.
Well, less hugging and more catching her as she tripped again, but the end result was his old friend in his arms, smiling and . . . happy.
She seemed really happy.
“Married life agrees with you,” he said, releasing her, his eyes drifting over her shoulder to make sure that Rylie hadn’t wandered off.
When he saw Ry, he grinned.
“Oh,” Pepper said, turning. “Ry is good about not running—” She broke off on a laugh.
Because Rylie had plunked down onto the sand, unwrapped the final foil loaf, and was eating it like it was the last food on earth.
“She’s something else,” he murmured.
“Oh, have you met Rylie already?” she asked, lacing her arm through his. “And Shannon? How long have you been in town? How long are you staying?” Emerald eyes flicked up to his. “You’re the one person I like from the old crew, and you didn’t let me know you were coming?”
He waited.
She huffed. “Are you going to answer me?”
“I was just waiting to see if you were done lobbing questions at me,” he teased. “You sure you don’t want back into the industry? You would be an excellent investigative interviewer.”
“Ha.” Pepper snorted. “I’d be more likely to trip them into question submissio
n.”
“Don’t you know that clumsy heroines are in style?” he asked, tugging the end of her ponytail.
A shudder. “I’ve had more than enough clumsy for a lifetime. I don’t need to trade in it.”
“You’re okay, though?” He tugged her to a stop. “Happy with this guy and your art? Happy being away from L.A.?”
“Happier than I ever thought possible.”
His heart squeezed. “I’m so glad to hear that.”
They reached Rylie on the heels of his statement, the little girl’s bare feet covered in sand, the loaf of banana bread—if it was the same deliciousness he could smell wafting up from the loaf in his hand—open as she broke off chunks and crammed them into her mouth.
“Rylie!” Pepper exclaimed.
The little girl looked up guiltily. “Sorry?” she said, the word barely distinguishable around the bite in her mouth.
“I guess the Hamiltons aren’t getting their loaf,” Pepper said.
“Nope,” he agreed. “It doesn’t look that way.”
“Want some?” Rylie asked, holding up the bread.
“No, thanks,” he and Pepper said in unison.
Rylie went back to eating.
“Are you going to answer any of my questions?” Pepper asked again.
“I’ve been in town a week.”
Her head tilted to the side. “Why are you saying that like there’s something else I should know?”
Finn’s jaw dropped open, gaze dropping to the sand and Rylie then back up to Pepper’s face, which was clouded with concern but didn’t have a trace of recognition. “Do you really not know?”
Concern transmuted to worry. “What happened?”
His eyes flicked to Ry. “Lexie. Me. The media.”
She couldn’t possibly ferret everything out from those three words, but Pepper had been part of a long Hollywood dynasty, and that gave her enough.
“So you’re here?”
“For exhaustion,” he quipped.
Her nose wrinkled. “Shi—er, shoot, Finn.”
He shrugged. “It’ll pass.”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s true. It’ll pass, and in the meantime, you get this”—she swung a hand toward the ocean—“waves and privacy. No one in this town cares about movies or the latest gossip.” She nodded toward Ry. “They care about good schools and who has the best recipe for banana bread. Shannon’s is the best,” she added with a smile. “Just in case you were wondering.”
