by Mindy Klasky
CHAPTER 2
The entire world shifted into slow motion.
Lexi heard Chris’s nail gun in the back room, a single shot cut off by her brother’s startled exclamation, followed by his immediate swearing. Surprised by the sound, she caught her breath, tasting the shop’s ubiquitous cinnamon and cedar at the back of her throat. She watched Anne startle, slopping coffee onto her already-stained sweater.
She saw her customer respond to the nail gun’s report as well. Every muscle in his body tightened into wire. He whirled toward the noise, toward her, toward the back of the shop. With the grace of training, like a football player, like a dancer, he turned his side to the violence, instinctively presenting a smaller target. At the same time, his left hand flew to his side, clutching at empty air as if he were accustomed to finding a weapon ready to fire. The absence of a gun clearly set him off balance, and he staggered into the waiting arms of an artificial balsam fir.
For one impossible moment, the tree’s springy limbs held him upright. But the man was bigger than the tree, and he spun with too much momentum. The fir leaned all the way back to the wall, its branches crushing each other, collapsing in on their hand-made, blown-glass, one-of-a-kind artisanal ornaments.
Before Lexi could cry out, before she could leap across the store and try to salvage her inventory, the man lunged toward the back room, rushing toward the threat and crying out a challenge. Released, the Christmas tree swung upright, each branch crazily stretching for its proper place. Dozens of glass baubles sprang free, arcing through the air, as light as confetti. The sound of shattering glass was like a fairy concert, delicate and perfect, never to be repeated.
The man staggered forward three full steps, grinding glass shards into the rough pine floor. When he came to a stop, his face was a perfect portrait of rage.
Then, he looked down at the ruined ornaments beneath his feet.
Chris burst out of the back room, dragging a banner of profanity behind him. “What the fu—”
The other guy drew himself upright, taking only a moment to stare at the nail gun trailing from Chris’s hand. Chris gaped at the destruction on the far side of the store.
If the stranger had been on a mission to identify the most expensive goods in The Christmas Cat, he couldn’t have done a better job destroying Lexi’s livelihood. She was staring at thousands of dollars worth of broken glass. Her stomach filled with ice.
Anne must have realized the extent of the disaster. She hurried to Lexi’s side, offering silent moral support.
“Dude!” Chris said, setting the damned nail gun on the counter and taking a step toward the guy.
Lexi lashed out at her brother because that was the safest thing to do. “What the hell were you doing back there?”
Chris blinked, transferring his attention to Lexi, to Anne. “I was just putting together the frame!” he argued. “The first nail split the goddamn wood!”
“You don’t have a clue what you’re doing,” Lexi said. “You’re going to ruin everything!”
“Looks like someone else got there first.” Chris glanced across the room, as if Lexi might have somehow missed the devastation.
The man stared at them. He was standing straight now, arms hanging by his sides as if he’d given them an order: At ease. His fingers curled into fists though, and Lexi couldn’t miss the twitch beneath his left eye.
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally moving down the aisle. “Are you okay?”
She automatically clutched her skirt in her good hand, her left, to keep it from brushing against the display of stocking-stuffer dollhouse miniatures on a nearby table. Feeling glass crunch beneath the soft leather soles of her knock-around ballet flats, she drew herself to a sudden stop. She leaned forward and reached out for the man’s arm. Her fingers closed on muscle, solid and hard beneath the leather sleeve.
He jerked away as if a thousand volts zapped through her fingertips. She moved automatically, trying to bridge the distance between them again, only stopping when the contracture of her right elbow sent hot wires to her shoulder. She hissed then, clutching her fingers tight and folding her arm to ease the pain.
It only took her a moment to recover and then she asked, “Did you cut yourself? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” the man said, his lips tightening in obvious annoyance. He stared at her fist for just long enough that she shoved her hand inside her pocket.
“Get out of there, then.” She waved her left hand at him, urging him down the central aisle of the store. She called over her shoulder, “Chris? A little help please?”
But Anne was the one who had ducked into the back room, heading for the storage closet, for a broom and dustpan. God knows Lexi had needed to sweep up an ornament or two before. That’s why she kept signs scattered throughout the shop: “Santa always knows! You break it, you buy it.”
She’d waved off broken ornaments in the past. A glass ball here and there didn’t matter in the long run. But this was different. This was disaster. Especially with the lean months looming.
Anne offered her the broom, refusing to meet her eye.
“I’ve got it,” the guy said, and there was another one of those pointed looks at her hidden right hand.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice tighter than her stretched skin.
“I’ve got it,” he repeated, cutting her off before she could take the broom from Anne. And as he set to work, she realized he did. He moved like a panther in the tight space. His motions were brutally efficient as he shoved the broom across the floor, collecting the multi-colored shards into a shimmering pile of garbage.
Chris obviously wasn’t as mesmerized as she was. After grabbing the trashcan from behind the counter and plunking it in the middle of the disaster zone, he folded his arms across his chest like he was critiquing a new line chef’s skill at cutting carrots into matchsticks.
Lexi found herself feeling sorry for the other guy. After all, now that her heart had stopped pounding, now that her belly was starting to thaw, she saw exactly what had happened. Chris had made that god-awful noise with the nail gun, and the soldier had reacted like he was under fire.
Because he had to be a soldier, ex-soldier now, with his brand new clothes and those fresh-out-of-the-box boots. Army explained his ramrod spine and his edge of command as he took the broom. He squared his shoulders and carried the trashcan back to her desk, setting it precisely in its place beneath the counter. He even marched the broom and the dustpan to the back room, only hesitating a heartbeat when he saw whatever mess Chris had made of the shelves.
That hesitation gave her a perfect view of his well-worn jeans. It didn’t take much for her imagination to step up, to show her the even-more-perfect butt beneath the denim.
Anne cleared her throat pointedly, and Lexi tumbled back to reality before the guy turned around. He shoved a hand into his back pocket—don’t think about pockets. Don’t think about those jeans—and fished out a wallet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll make it right, of course.”
“Of course,” she repeated, because she was still trying desperately to get her mind back on business.
He pulled out a red, white, and blue credit card. She stared at the American flag printed beneath its sixteen digits, irrationally pleased that she’d nailed his profession.
Nailed…
She felt her cheeks flush red. Nobody was getting nailed. He wasn’t going to have anything to do with her after she told him the cost of the ornaments he’d broken.
She shook herself free and moved back to the sales desk, to her trusty laptop with its automatically updated inventory of every item in the shop. A few keystrokes narrowed her search to the prize hand-made ornaments, and she generated a mock sales receipt as if she’d just sold the damn things. She glanced at the figure to make sure it was correct and winced at the bottom line.
But if he could handle it, so could she. She had to, if she was going to keep the store open during the coming slow season. She raised her
chin and announced, “Four thousand nine hundred twenty-three dollars.”
~~~
Holy shit.
He shook his head, wondering if the Tunnel had ruined his hearing. But no, there wasn’t anything wrong with his ears. He could hear the gasp as that jackass with the nail gun registered the total. He heard coffee slosh as Coffee Woman set down her cup, disbelief on her face.
The Tunnel hadn’t cost him his hearing. It just fucked up his mind, jacked his body with useless adrenaline, then left him sick to his stomach, nursing a pounding headache worse than any hangover in his life. He’d hoped the goddamn Tunnel would stay behind in Parwan, where he’d first fallen in, but it obviously hadn’t.
And now it was going to cost him five thousand bucks. Five grand he didn’t have.
She had to be shitting him. They were Christmas ornaments, not crown jewels. This was just a game, a way for Schoolmarm to get a little revenge after he’d fucked up her nice display.
He’d smile and nod. She’d ring up the sale. He’d swipe his card and type in his PIN, easy enough, and he could get the hell out of Dodge, get to the goddamn packie, where he should have gone in the first place. He still had enough time to drive back to the run-down motel at the edge of town, throw back a shot or three, maybe even shave before he headed over to meet J-Dawg’s folks.
He nodded toward the register. Didn’t actually manage the smile.
Her fingers flew across the register keys, left hand only, finalizing the sale. He ordered his eyes to stay on the debit card keypad. He wasn’t going to look at her arm again. Not when he’d seen her right hand, seen her wince when she tried to straighten her arm. He knew what caused the shiny skin from her wrist to her knuckles. He’d seen enough burns in Parwan to recognize one here, stateside.
“There we go,” she said, her voice bright with that TV weather-girl smile. She waved him toward the keypad’s display.
$4923.00
“This is a joke, right?” He didn’t realize how harsh his voice had become until he saw the color drain from her cheeks. She shook her head, sending those curls flying. He told his idiot dick to stop paying attention to her. He had more important things to deal with.
“It’s not a joke,” she said, wounded. “Those were handmade ornaments. One of a kind. Artisanal.”
What the fuck was it with artisanal? Everything was artisanal now, from goddamn ketchup to…Christmas ornaments.
“Buddy,” Golden Boy said, stepping to like some sort of bulldog. He had to be Schoolmarm’s brother—same grey-green eyes, same hair caught between blond and brown. The asshole didn’t have the first clue how to handle a nail gun, that was clear. And from one quick look in the back room, a circular saw was beyond him too.
“I’m not your buddy,” Finn growled.
Which only made Schoolmarm look distinctly uneasy. She glanced at the other woman like she needed support, but she didn’t back down. “Look, Mister…”
“Finnegan,” he gave her, purposely not looking at her watchdog. “Tom Finnegan.”
She swallowed determinedly, but she offered up her hand, rotating her wrist just enough that he couldn’t see her scar. She probably didn’t have a clue how much she revealed, just trying to hide her weakness.
But Finn saw. Because it was his job to see, to see and to exploit every crack in his enemy’s armor.
Not that she was his enemy.
Not that he had a job, any more.
“Alexandra Taylor,” she said, her voice all business. “Mr. Finnegan, I can show you certificates of authenticity for every ornament that was on that tree. Each one was hand-blown by a local artist, by one of the craftsmen in the Apple Blossom Co-op.” She lugged a three-ring binder onto the counter and slipped her finger past a manila divider, turning to the first of several dozen pages.
He glanced at the book but waved her off. He’d never seen the fancy lettering on the forms before, and he’d sure as shit never heard of the Apple Blossom Co-op. But he knew exactly what he’d read if he bothered to look, the sort of words that would draw in the local equivalent of the Brahmins back home, the Back Bay matrons who’d clutch their pearls at his Southie ass ruining their idea of art.
“Got it,” he said curtly. And that only made Golden Boy bristle more—enough that both women noticed.
“Chris,” Alexandra said in a warning tone. “Why don’t you go clean up the back room?”
“I’m not leaving you two alone with this guy!”
“I’m not asking.”
Three words, that’s all she said. But she poured solid steel into them, leaving absolutely no doubt about who was in charge. Chris muttered something under his breath, something Alexandra chose not to respond to. The guy stomped out of the room like a three-year-old sent to take a nap.
But he left. Even if he did hover inside the back room, just out of sight from the doorway. At least that’s what Finn assumed he was doing. That’s what Finn would do, if he’d had his balls handed to him by the woman who ran the shop. And Chris, no matter how much he was whipped, wasn’t moving around back there. He was silent. Waiting. Ready to beat the crap out of Finn if he thought the women were in danger.
Let him try.
Besides, Finn was the one in danger. There was no way in hell he could cover five thousand bucks. Not five hundred, after the civilian clothes he’d bought and the piece-of-shit truck he’d driven off the lot. The beater only got ten miles a gallon, and he still had to get back to Boston before Christmas. He’d have to settle up for his room at the motel before he could leave Harmony Fucking Springs, and his phone bill was due in three days.
He cleared his throat. “Look,” he said. “I can pay you two fifty now.”
A huff came from the back room. Alexandra didn’t bother glancing toward her disapproving brother, but she did look at her friend. She stood a little taller as she said, “Mr. Finnegan, those ornaments were the key to this store’s long-term success. If The Christmas Cat doesn’t turn a profit during the Christmas season, I can’t keep the store open for the rest of the year.”
“I’m between jobs right now,” Finn said, trying to make his voice soothing. “Once I get home to Boston, I’ll get something lined up.”
This time, the back room snorted. Coffee Woman shook her head, a tiny motion filled with unlimited doubt. Alexandra grimaced, but she said, “You understand, I can’t wait until you happen to get a new job.”
“I don’t know what else to say,” Finn said. “I’m tapped out.”
“I bet.” The back room was clearly audible.
Alexandra called over her shoulder, “You aren’t helping, Chris.”
Because Finn didn’t have any other advantage, he nodded toward the asshole. Maybe she was annoyed enough with her jackass brother to cut him some slack. “What’s he working on, anyway?”
“Shelves. And a platform to keep stuff off the ground. It floods back there.”
“What’s it worth if I do the job?”
What the hell was he thinking? The last thing he wanted to do was spend more time in Harmony Springs. J-Dawg had to be laughing now. All those stories of Perfectville, of everyone having their noses in everyone else’s shit. And Finn had just volunteered to jump in, feet first. But what the hell else was he supposed to do, with four hundred bucks and change to his name?
The back room gave a strangled cry of frustration. Coffee Woman took a step back, eying him appraisingly. And Alexandra Taylor chewed her bottom lip.
At least staying in Harmony Springs would give him an excuse to keep from heading home for a few days, from dealing with his mother and his sisters, with his brother hanging on his every word like he was some sort of war hero.
But Alexandra said, “My brother is taking care of it.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Finn made himself smile as he said the words. Sure, he probably looked more like a cat eating a canary than a trustworthy guy. But under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.
She stared
in disbelief. “Four thousand dollars worth of labor? You think a lot of yourself.”
“I’ll give you a month. Forty hours a week. That’s twenty-five bucks an hour. For carpentry, plumbing. Whatever you need.”
Her sudden blush made him realize the double meaning behind his words. Hell, he hadn’t meant that.
Chris stormed out of the back room. “Lexi, you can’t seriously be thinking about—”
She shot her brother one searing look, adding another for Coffee Woman, who’d flattened both palms on the counter. But she held out her hand toward him. There was that twist again, the careful disguise of her burn scar. She raised her chin and looked straight in his eyes. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Finnegan.”
He shook. “That’s Finn, to my friends.”
“And I’m Lexi.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lexi.” And despite everything—the grave he hadn’t yet visited on the edge of town, the doorbell he hadn’t rung at the Dawson house, the twenty-five-watt lightbulb in the lamp by his sagging motel bed—Finn was telling the truth. His fingers closed around Lexi’s, and he shook.
CHAPTER 3
Lexi had known Chris wouldn’t let things drop after Tom Finnegan left the store. But she hadn’t thought her brother would nag her until she shut up shop.
“All right!” she finally said as she locked down the register. “Take your boxes, Chris. Take your books and your armchair and all the rest of it and leave me the hell alone.”
“I’m just worried about you.”
She turned the sign in the front window to “Closed.” “I got that, big brother. Loud and clear.”
“You don’t know anything about that guy!”
“I don’t know anything about any cidiot who walks in off the street.” She was really ticked. She knew better than to use the epithet where any potential customer, any city idiot spending the day in Harmony Springs, might overhear her. Well, there weren’t any tourists around, not this late in the day. That was the whole point. She needed to get her money back. “What’s it going to be, Chris? Are you taking your stock? Or letting me run my shop as I see fit?”
