Harlequin Superromance May 2018 Box Set

by Amber Leigh Williams

  “We’ll find him.” Finn touched her shoulder then quickly withdrew his hand.

  Too quickly. How hard had she come on to him? Was he wary of getting too close now? Perfect. Her first encounter with the crush of her life in twelve years and she’d made a complete idiot of herself.

  “Maybe one of Irene’s friends knew he would need a home and took him,” she suggested hopefully.

  Finn shook his head. “No one takes a dog and doesn’t mention it.”

  “If they were drunk, they might.”

  “Let’s go for a walk and look for him. For all we know he’s mooching around somewhere close by.”

  “Let me grab something quick to eat first.”

  Back inside she checked the fridge but nothing new had appeared overnight. Same old half-empty jars of marmalade and pickles, out-of-date yogurt and Irene’s sourdough starter.

  She opened the jar of starter and sniffed the contents. It smelled fruity and yeasty, a bit overripe. “I think it’s gone off.”

  Finn took the jar from her. “That’s the way it’s supposed to smell. But you probably need to feed it.”

  “Feed it what?” Carly said. “Dead mice?”

  “Flour and water,” he replied. “It’s a bit like a pet, one you knead but you don’t have to walk.”

  Carly bit back a smile at his lame joke and moved to the leftover platters of food on the kitchen table. The past week had been a blur of funeral arrangements. Mundane activities like grocery shopping had gone by the wayside. Irene, who was renowned for her hospitality, would be spinning in her grave—that is, if she’d been buried instead of cremated.

  Carly peeled back the plastic wrap on one of the plates and sniffed the stale sandwiches then chose a couple of the least squashed.

  “Sure you want to eat those?” Finn asked. “They’ve been sitting out all night.”

  “Salmonella poisoning couldn’t be worse than I feel right now.” She took a bite and offered the other sandwich to Finn.

  “Pass.” He let a beat go by, then one dark eyebrow cocked. “I don’t like to start something I can’t finish.”

  She choked on chicken and cucumber. “About that.”

  “About what?” he asked innocently.

  She’d forgotten how he liked teasing her. And how she always fell for it. Forget apologizing. Her minor indiscretion was no big deal. “Funny. But I’m not going to bite.”

  He looked at the sandwich in her hand. “Are you making pun of me?”

  Carly rolled her eyes. “Let’s go find Rufus.”

  She grabbed a leash from the hook in the back porch then slipped on a pair of old tennis shoes and a hoodie and they set off down the block.

  It was a typical Sunday morning in the small, Pacific northwest town. Many of the houses in this neighborhood were, like Irene’s, beautifully maintained period homes. Dads mowed manicured lawns and kids rode bikes. Cherry trees burst with pink blossoms and overhead, the sky was a deep clear blue. Off to the west, the bay was calm with white sails scudding past and a ferry in the distance.

  Her gaze drifted to the top of the hill. Not five blocks away was a narrow strip of woods and beyond that, the highway. Six lanes of speeding traffic which might not stop in time for a goofy red dog. “He’ll never survive out in the wild on his own.”

  “South Hill is hardly the wild,” Finn said. “He’s probably in some little old lady’s kitchen right now, chowing down on pork chops.”

  He sounded so certain she was tempted to believe him. Casting him a sidelong glance she was struck by how good he looked. Today his clothes were casual but stylish, his black hair clean and shiny. “You said you’re still a musician. That’s pretty vague. What do you do exactly?”

  “I’m a studio musician. I play backup on albums.”

  “I heard you singing last night.”

  He froze midstride, just for a split second, then resumed walking. “I thought you were asleep. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Don’t apologize. You were amazing.” Just because she hadn’t heard of him didn’t mean he wasn’t a big deal in California. “Have you recorded anything?”

  “Did Irene never mention my studio work and that I also write songs for a living?” he said, mildly aggrieved.

  “No.” Carly didn’t want to tell him that she’d always been the one to cut short any conversation about Finn. Mention of him shouldn’t hurt so much after so many years…but it did. “Don’t you perform?”

  “Those days are behind me,” Finn said shortly. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Ru-fus.”

  There was no answering woof.

  “He doesn’t know either of us very well,” Carly said. “He might not come to us even if we find him.”

  At the corner they turned to the right and trudged to the top of the hill before making their way down, back and forth along the streets, calling and peering into yards.

  “Have you written any songs that I would recognize?” Carly asked.

  “One or two, maybe.”

  Was it her imagination or did he sound a tad touchy? She peered into a hedge but there was no Rufus hiding beneath the dark green foliage.

  “So, your parents…” Carly began cautiously. “What happened? I gathered from Irene that you’re estranged from them, but she didn’t go into detail.”

  “My mother wanted me to be a classical concert pianist,” Finn said. “Juilliard was her idea and she put a lot of pressure on me to go there. She’s never forgiven me for the wrecked concert or for bailing on the audition and pursuing my own music in Los Angeles.”

  “Twelve years is a long time for her to stay mad at you,” Carly said. “Maybe while you’re here you could reconcile.”

  “I’m mad, too.” Finn stopped, hands on hips. “I called her once or twice over the years but she wasn’t cordial. She’s blown this whole feud up.”

  “Someone has to make the first move,” Carly said. “Just saying.”

  “Not going to happen, at least not on my end,” he said with finality. After a moment’s silence he changed the subject. “When I was a kid my dog Prince got lost.”

  Carly sighed and went with it. She didn’t have the energy to pursue the conversation about his mother anyway. “I remember him. He used to follow when you came to Irene’s for your music lesson. He was a German shepherd, right?”

  “That’s right. He was actually a she but Princess didn’t seem to suit. She got scared during the fireworks on the Fourth of July, jumped the fence and ran away. We never found her. She probably got run over but I told myself that she ended up in the yard of another little boy and had a great home, even if it wasn’t with me.”

  “That’s so sad,” Carly said. “I guess they didn’t put microchips in dogs’ ears back then. Didn’t she have a registration tag?”

  “Registration costs money.” Finn kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. “Any spare cash was spent on my music lessons.”

  “Oh.” His talent had been worth the sacrifices, but Carly could only imagine the stress on the rest of the family. Even the dog had missed out. How betrayed they must have felt when Finn chucked it all in and ran off to Los Angeles, especially his mother, who’d devoted herself to his classical music studies. It must have killed her when he’d thrown away his chance at attending Juilliard.

  “This is hopeless.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, which had begun to churn again. “Let’s go back before I throw up in someone’s flower bed.”

  “What you need is Rhonda’s ‘Morning After’ brunch special,” Finn said.

  “I don’t know what that is, but I’m game for anything that will neutralize the toxins.”

  Rhonda’s turned out to be a trendy corner café in the heart of the old town. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee drew Carly into a light-filled room where potted plants nestled between comfy couches
and restored wooden furniture. Plum-colored walls were crowded with original local artwork. The Sunday café crowd was seriously chill with a fair sprinkling of kids. The buzz of genial conversation mingling with recorded jazz in the background was warm and welcoming. In one corner stood a raised platform with a microphone stand and a stool. Overhead, wooden ceiling fans whirred lazily.

  “Find a table and I’ll order,” Finn said. “The works?”

  “Yes, please. And a very large coffee. Black. Hot. Strong.”

  She secured a table and tried to put Rufus and her abandoned funeral guests out of her mind to relax for a few minutes. Her gaze followed Finn as he wove his way to the counter. She wasn’t the only one watching. Women’s heads turned like dominos.

  At the counter, the young waitress, a rounded girl with mousy hair, gazed at Finn with huge, adoring eyes. When he moved to the cash register to pay, she scurried over to ring up his order. He chatted to her, making her laugh. Good thing he wasn’t the cocky type or all that female attention would make him unbearable. But aside from his annoying habit of teasing Carly, he was genuinely kind, and his thoughtfulness and quiet strength had helped her through Irene’s wake. In fact, she thought drowsily, lulled by the warm atmosphere, she was very grateful for Finn’s presence in her life right now.

  Carly shifted her gaze to the hand-chalked menu board on the wall behind the coffee machine. Real java done in any style with multiple choices of beans roasted on the premises. If New York wasn’t home, she would love living in Fairhaven.

  “I waited while the barista made your coffee,” Finn said, setting a steaming mug in front of her. “Figured this was an emergency.”

  “Thanks.” She took a sip and moaned in pleasure. “Ah, black, hot and strong. Just what I wanted.”

  “Black and bitter, she said,” Finn murmured, his gaze cast up to the ceiling. “Bitter as the life she once led.”

  Carly’s fingers tightened on the mug. Teasing was one thing but mocking her? “My life is not bitter, okay? Rather sad at the moment but not bitter.”

  “No need to be defensive. I wasn’t talking about you.” Finn pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket and scribbled with the stub of a very sharp pencil. A silver ring etched with black runes circled his left index finger.

  “I’m not defensive. Just setting the record straight.” She tried to read upside down but his hand covered the words. “I hope you’re not writing a song about my alleged bitterness.”

  He ripped out the page and showed her. LOST: IRISH SETTER, answers to RUFUS. South Hill area. “Rhonda has a notice board. We can post this on our way out. What’s your cell number?”

  She told him, thankful that his brain cells were working even if hers weren’t.

  Flipping the notebook shut, he leaned back in his chair, one side of his mouth curling up. “So, would you like me to write a song about you?”

  “No! I wouldn’t want my intimate secrets aired in public.”

  Finn leaned forward. “Tell me more about these secrets. They sound interesting.”

  “I hardly know you now,” she said primly. “Why would I tell you secrets?”

  He grinned. “Last night you were ready to haul me off to bed.”

  “You had your chance and muffed it,” she countered with a dismissive flip of her hand. “Too late.”

  The waitress arrived just then with their breakfast. Chorizo, spinach and feta frittata with fried potatoes, mushrooms and roasted tomatoes. Healthy-ish, but with enough carbs and grease to soak up the lingering alcohol in her system.

  The waitress lingered, pulling at her brown ponytail, as Finn took his first bite. “Is it okay?”

  Finn smiled at her. “Delicious, thanks…” He read her name tag. “Annie.”

  Annie broke into a wide smile that transformed her face. “I’ll be right back with your freshly squeezed orange juice.” With a little skip, she hurried back to the kitchen.

  Carly stuffed a forkful of frittata into her mouth. “This is genius. And a lot of food.”

  “Remember…” Finn gave her a wink. “If you can’t finish what you start, I’m your go-to man.”

  “Stop that, right now.” She pointed her fork at him. “I know what you’re doing so don’t pull those innocent eyes on me. I’ve known you since you were a pimply-faced adolescent.”

  “Ouch. So cruel.” He sipped his coffee. “Why did you think I could write a song about your bitterness? Alleged bitterness,” he amended when she bristled. “You have this perfect life in New York complete with a fabulous new job. What could be wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong. My life is great.” She pushed a piece of chorizo around the plate. Yeah, the competitive culture at Hamlin and Brand was tough but she could handle it. In this dog-eat-dog world she needed to be a Rottweiler not a Shih Tzu.

  “Glad to hear it,” Finn said. “Irene must have been worrying needlessly. She sometimes did.”

  “I know, right? For someone so laid-back, she could stress out.” But Irene’s intuition was part of what had made her such a great teacher and musician in her own right. What did she know about Carly that Carly didn’t know herself?

  Finn was still studying her face intently. Was he thinking about a song he was writing…or about kissing her? Goodness, why had that popped into her mind? Now she could barely breathe. Feeling heat creep up her neck, she dropped her gaze and concentrated on spearing a mushroom.

  A buzz of static from the stage heralded the arrival of a man in jeans and a gray T-shirt with a sun-streaked brown ponytail. He bent to speak into the microphone.

  “Welcome to open mike,” he said with an Australian drawl. “My name’s Dingo and I’ll be MC today. If anyone wants to add their name to the list of performers, we have a few slots free.”

  “Is that your friend?” Carly asked, interested.

  “Yep. He has a cover band that plays mostly sixties rock but he does this on Sundays.” Finn waved to Dingo. A pretty brunette sat at the table next to the stage, a sturdy blond toddler on her knee. When the little boy saw Finn he tried to launch himself across the café. “That’s his wife, Marla, and their ankle biter, Tyler.”

  “We have a local hero in the audience today,” Dingo announced. “Finn Farrell, how about singing us your hit song?”

  The crowd began to clap, encouraging Finn to play.

  “What does he mean, your hit?” Carly asked.

  “Just a song I wrote.” Finn shook his head at the stage, mouthing, “No.”

  “Ah, right, sorry.” Dingo’s face twisted into an apologetic grimace as if he’d just remembered about Irene and was mentally kicking himself. “No worries, mate.”

  The café crowd didn’t seem to notice this exchange. Dingo’s apology was drowned out by whistling and applauding. The clapping became rhythmic. Finn half rose and made a small bow with his hands palm out in gracious refusal.

  Still, the audience kept clapping and calling out. Finn sank lower in his seat. Carly frowned. Couldn’t they see that he didn’t want to play? Unable to stand it another second, she moved her elbow and knocked over her glass of juice. It rolled off the table and clattered to the floor. Juice splashed everywhere.

  “I’m so clumsy.” She leaped up and dabbed ineffectually at the mess. “Can’t take me anywhere.”

  All eyes had now turned to her but the clapping stopped, thank goodness. Annie brought over a cloth and mopped up, retrieving the fallen glass. Meanwhile, Dingo strummed his guitar, bringing attention back to the stage. A murmur of approval rose from the audience.

  Carly recognized a recent indie chart-topper. “I love this song.” She glanced at Finn, thinking he’d be pleased no one was looking at him anymore, and was surprised to see he was still tense.

  He tapped out the beat with long fingers on his knee. Now and then he grimaced painfully. Before the song was even finished, he was on his fe
et. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He lifted a hand in Dingo’s direction and headed for the exit. Dingo sang the last bars but his worried gaze followed Finn across the café.

  Carly grabbed her hoodie. She was almost out the door before she remembered the community noticeboard and quickly tacked up the notice Finn had composed.

  “Slow down,” she called, running after him. He strode ahead, his long legs encased in skinny jeans, his broad shoulders hunched. Catching up, she grabbed his jacket sleeve, forcing him to look at her. His face was white and dotted with perspiration.

  Shocked, she let go of his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FINN PULLED ON the neck of his sweater, sucking in air as Carly stared at him, eyes wide. Inside his tight chest his heart thudded like a drum solo. If he’d known Dingo was going to blindside him like that he would never have set foot in Rhonda’s café.

  “What’s going on, Finn?” Carly said. “What happened back there?”

  “You wanted to know if you’d ever heard a song I wrote?” he said. “That was my song. I wrote it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Her eyes popped. “I had no idea you were famous.”

  “I’m not,” he said flatly. “The band who sang it is.”

  “Why didn’t you sing?” she asked. “Why let Dingo do your song?”

  “I don’t perform anymore.” He hated the way Carly was looking at him, all worried and wanting an explanation. He’d enjoyed hanging with her and hoped they could spend a day or two together before he went on his way. Not going to happen now.

  He resumed stalking up the hill. It galled him that fans loved the Screaming Reindeer’s version, and today, Dingo’s. They were all fine musicians, no offense, but no one had ever heard the song the way he’d intended it to be played. The familiar dilemma stuck in Finn’s craw. He couldn’t have it both ways, simultaneously wanting anonymity and recognition. Craving the applause but not willing to risk making a fool of himself by choking onstage.

  “Finn, wait,” Carly persisted, hurrying after him. “Why did you run out? Why do you look like you’re having a heart attack? And why are you scowling? Aren’t you pleased that people like your music?”