by Rula Sinara
“Here, let me see that,” he said, holding her hand up to the light.
He hadn’t seemed tall, seated in the booth or kneeling beside her in the muddle of broken dishes. Bending slightly to inspect the cut, he towered over her, and something told her that even if he hadn’t been wearing stack-heeled cowboy boots, she’d still feel tiny standing alongside him.
“If you tell me where to find some gauze and peroxide, I’ll clean it up and bandage it for you. I’m a firefighter, so I have first-aid training.”
He was talking a lot. Talking fast, too. Her snappish reaction to the fall—and the mess—had clearly unnerved him.
She wriggled free of his grasp. “It’s just a little scratch. I’ll clean it up later.”
His pained expression told her his apology and the concern that followed had probably been authentic. But then, Finn could count on one hand the number of honest and decent men who’d crossed her path, and have fingers left over.
Well, at least he wasn’t a musician, like his pal. Mark, band leader and owner of The Meetinghouse, was a regular customer. He often stopped by alone to hunch over sheet music or ledger pages. Other times, the rest of the Marks Brothers Band tagged along to discuss sets or work out four-part harmonies...much to her customers’ delight. Her years as a waitress had taught her to accept their generous tips with grace and ignore their blatant flirtations without insulting them.
“You’re sure? Because I’m happy to—”
“I’m sure. But thanks.”
“Well, okay. But FYI, peroxide will foam up and help work out any glass particles that might still be in there.”
She hid the hand in her apron pocket. “I’ve cut myself a thousand times, with things way bigger than a splinter of glass. So don’t give it another thought. It’ll be better before I’m married.”
His left eyebrow rose slightly and so did one corner of his mouth.
What a stupid, stupid thing to say! she thought, making note of his dimples. Pete used to say, “Small talk won’t kill you,” but at times like these, it sure seemed as though it could.
“I’ll just get Rowdy to, ah, redo your order.”
“No need to go to all that trouble.”
Other customers were watching and listening, so yes, she did.
“Hey, Teddy? Bring me the broom and dustpan, will you, please? And send Bean out here to help with this mess.”
Discomfort sparked in his eyes as he shifted his weight from his bad leg to the good one. He’s a little careless, she thought, staring into eyes as blue as cornflowers, but he sure is easy to look at.
She focused on Mark. “You guys sit tight, okay? We’ll have your new order out here before this mess is cleaned up.”
The kids appeared as if on cue, freckle-faced Ted carrying the broom and dustpan, tall, reedy Bean holding a plastic tub. The firefighter took a step forward, as if planning to return to his seat. Instead, he bent again and retrieved silverware and one unbroken plate. He eased them into the girl’s tub, then relieved the boy of his broom.
“If you’ll just hold the dustpan, son, we’ll have this cleaned up in no time.”
Finn was about to repeat, Thanks, but I’ve got this, when Mark shook his head.
“No point trying to stop him,” he told her. “Ol’ Sam here can’t help himself—he’s a public servant, through and through.”
Funny. He didn’t look like a Sam.
The cook stepped around the fragments—and the group of Right Note employees still gathered in the aisle—and delivered the replacement sandwich. “Here y’go. Just give a holler if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Sam said as Rowdy, Ted and Bean made their way back to the kitchen.
“Well, don’t just stand there takin’ up space, Marshall,” Mark said. “Take a load off, why don’t you.”
He slid onto the bench seat and gazed up at her. “When you bring the check, let me know what I owe you for the stuff I broke, okay?”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“I’ll just have to guess, then.”
“Things get broken in here every day.” Finn shrugged. “So forget it. Really.”
The slight lift of his chin told Finn that he meant to reimburse her no matter what she said.
“More iced tea?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Finn turned, picking up a few empty glasses on the way to the service counter. Did he practice that dimple-exposing grin, or was the guileless expression genuine?
She added the glasses to the washtub as Ciara waved from across the room, reminding her that it didn’t make a whit of difference if Sam Marshall was interested or not, the real deal or as phony as a used car salesman.
Because romance and Finn Leary didn’t belong in the same sentence.
CHAPTER THREE
SAM GLANCED ACROSS the diner, where the gal he’d tripped stood talking with the cook.
“You sure know how to make a first impression,” Mark said, following his gaze.
“Yeah, well...” He squeezed a dollop of catsup on to his plate. “At the risk of sounding redundant, why am I here?”
“Good grief. You’re about as patient as a kid on Christmas Eve.” Mark rooted around in the briefcase beside him, withdrew a black ledger and slid it across the table.
Sam flipped it open, but peripheral vision told him that the pretty brunette was watching, making it all but impossible to concentrate on column headings, let alone dollar amounts.
“So what’s her story?”
Mark scrubbed a palm over his face. “Her name is Finn Leary, and she owns this place. Now quit worrying about that mess and the lousy first impression you made. It’s history.” He tapped the ledger. “This isn’t.”
Sam did his best to focus. In the left-hand column, a list of monthly expenses—food and beverages, utilities, insurance, taxes—for The Meetinghouse. In the center, the club’s employee roster and salaries. On the right, end-of-year profits split by Mark and Eli.
“Are these numbers accurate?”
“Yep.”
“It’s good to see how well you’re doing—” he slid the book back to Mark’s side of the table “—’cause it means you can afford to pay me in real dollars one of these days.”
“Owners get paid last.”
“Poor, poor, pitiful you,” Sam teased. He pointed at the impressive after-taxes total. “My heart bleeds for you and Eli.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll be good news for you, too...if you say yes to my offer.”
The girl with Finn laughed, too long and too loud. She looked perfectly normal, but her actions and reactions said otherwise. He ran down a mental list of possible explanations for her behavior. Autism. Asperger’s Syndrome. Brain damage...
“I booked a flight on that rocket ship to Mars. How ’bout if I buy you a ticket, too?”
“Ticket?” Sam sat up straighter. “Wait. What?”
“Man. When you take a trip to la-la-land, you really go, don’t ya?” He leaned forward, tapped the tablet again. “I’m trying to cut a deal with you, here, so quit gawking at Finn and pay attention, okay?”
“I wasn’t gawking.” But Mark knew better, so Sam humored him. “What kind of a deal?”
“Let me cut to the chase—while I still have your undivided attention. Eli asked me to buy him out of the business so he can use his share for a new guitar and amp, a mic and gooseneck stand, clothes to wear onstage.”
“And you want me to take his place? As partner?” Sam laughed. “Maybe I need to show you my year-end total.” He shook his head. “I’m a city employee. Trust me, it’s nothing close to that!”
“I know it’s last minute, so I don’t need the whole shebang right now. I can deduct your share out of your weekly paychecks until you’re full in. Or
you can skip paychecks altogether and get there sooner.”
Sam had some savings, but between fire department responsibilities, performing and auditioning for producers every chance he got, where would he find the time to comanage a place like The Meetinghouse?
“Business is booming,” he told Mark. “Why not keep the profits all to yourself?”
“Workload, man. Workload. Takes hours to manage the place.”
“Just how many hours do you need from me?”
“That’s up to you.”
“I’d still have time for the Marks Brothers?”
“Absolutely.”
Well, that certainly sweetened the pot. The rumor he’d heard upon arriving in Nashville had proved true: agents, producers and other career makers often paid surprise visits to The Meetinghouse. Maybe if he was in the club more often, one of them would make his career dreams come true.
“If help is all you need,” Sam pointed out, “I can do that without the whole partnership thing.”
“You know the old saying, in for a penny, in for a pound?”
Sam got it: Mark believed he’d work harder if he had more to lose.
“But why me? Torry already knows the business.”
“True, but with the movie roles he’s been getting, he wants the freedom to come and go as he pleases.”
“He said no?”
“He said no.”
Sam chuckled. “Not sure I like being second choice.”
“Does that mean you’re in?”
Finn stepped up to the table. “Do yourself a favor,” she said, refilling their glasses, “and say no.”
“Why?”
One perfectly arched eyebrow rose. “Because it sounds like a pipe dream, and nothing good ever comes of Nashville dreams.”
Finn turned to leave, pausing just long enough to add, “The sandwiches are on the house.”
Sam watched until she disappeared into the kitchen, then looked at Mark.
“What was that was all about?”
Mark picked up a sweet potato fry. “Y’got me by the feet, but don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You probably broke ten bucks worth of dishes.” He took a bite. “So? What do you say? Can I count on you?”
Sam glanced toward the serving counter, where Finn was engaged in an animated conversation with the cook. She shot a glance over one shoulder and locked gazes with him. He’d read somewhere that according to Indian legend, when a man and wolf locked eyes, their spirits merged. In that mind-numbing, heart-pounding instant, he understood how that might be possible.
Somehow, he found the strength to look away.
“I thought you were picking up the tab...partner.”
CHAPTER FOUR
FINN REFILLED MARK’S coffee mug. “How long have you known that guy you brought in here the other night?”
“Which guy?”
She could tell by the teasing look on his face that he knew exactly which guy.
“The firefighter you were in here with the other day.”
“You mean Sam?” He grinned. “Guess you haven’t heard that curiosity kills that cat, huh?”
“Then, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a cat.” She winked. “So what’s his story?”
“Story?”
Finn held the coffeepot over his lap, and Mark laughed.
“Okay, all right, I’ll talk...if you sit down.”
Sliding into the booth across from him, Finn placed the coffeepot on a napkin.
“Sam came to Nashville for the same reason as most of us did,” Mark explained. “And when he couldn’t find a label to sign him or a band to hire him, he parlayed his volunteer firefighter skills into a full-time job.”
Part-time musicians, in her opinion, were more determined—maybe even desperate—to become full-time entertainers.
“Don’t include me in your motley ‘most of us’ group. I was brought here—against my will, I might add—by parents who didn’t give a fig about anyone or anything but a recording contract.” Finn glanced across the way, where her younger sister was laughing and chatting with Rowdy. “Not even Ciara.”
“But you made the best of a bad situation...”
True enough. Especially considering the aftereffects of Ciara’s head injury—the one she’d sustained in the accident that had nearly killed the entire Leary family. If not for the firefighters, on their way back to the station after a call...
Finn pictured Mark’s friend in head-to-toe gear and wanted to know how he’d hurt his leg. Instead, she asked, “Is he any good?”
He smirked. “You’re talking musically, right?”
“Of course, musically.” What had she said or done to leave him with the impression that she was interested in anything else?
“Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
“What’s his last name again? Maybe I’ve heard of him.”
“Marshall. But it isn’t likely you’ve heard of him. Sam’s talented, but remember...he keeps a low profile. Besides, he spends too much time in front of a classroom to make a name for himself onstage.”
A wannabe musician who didn’t flaunt his talent at every turn? Finn didn’t believe it for a minute.
“Where’s he from?”
“Big ranch just outside of Denver.”
“So no family here in Tennessee?”
“Not that I know of. I think he was the first Marshall who didn’t devote himself to The Double M.” He grinned. “You want his cell number, so you can interview him yourself?”
She came this close to saying yes, then heard Ciara giggle.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” My life is already complicated enough without adding another self-centered musician to the mix.
Mark shrugged, as if to say it wasn’t any of his business anyway.
“Did he say yes?”
“Did who say yes to—” Mark nodded. Shook his head. Sighed. “Oh. You mean Sam. And the partnership deal. Like I said, he’s a very private guy, so that’s something you’ll have to ask him directly.”
In other words, Sam had said yes. Her fleeting interest in him died. Entertainers were trouble enough, leaving shattered hearts and disappointment in their wake. It was one of the only life lessons her parents had taught her, and she’d learned it well. But a musician with access to all the power brokers who frequented The Meetinghouse?
Finn got to her feet, grabbing the coffeepot. “Coffee’s on me this morning. Have a good one, Mark.”
Head down and determined to blot the memory of Sam’s arresting smile from her mind, Finn made a beeline to help the middle-aged couple at the cash register...
...and plowed right into Sam Marshall.
Big hands took hold of her shoulders and held on until she was steady on her feet.
“Good thing that’s half empty,” he said with a nod at the coffeepot, “or you’d have a burn to compound what happened the other night.”
He was right, but Finn had no intention of admitting it.
Bean passed by with an empty tray. “Want me to take that off your hands, Finn?”
She put the pot on to the tray and winked at the girl. “Thanks, sweetie. Add five minutes to your a.m. break.”
Bean had to stoop to dole out a thank-you hug. “You’re the best, boss. The best!” she said, and hurried away.
Finn exchanged a few pleasantries with the couple at the cash register, and as they exited, two more diners entered. Bean raced up to lead them to a table.
“Meeting your partner for breakfast?” Finn asked him. Maybe changing the subject would change her attitude, too. She saw no reason to treat him any differently than any other paying customer.
Sam looked over her left shoulder and fixed his gaze on Mark, who seemed ob
livious to his presence.
“I’m surprised he told you.” He met her eyes again. “He’s usually tight-lipped, especially where the business is concerned.”
“Funny, he said pretty much the same thing about you.”
“Did he, now? And yet he spilled the beans about our meeting.”
“Actually, he didn’t. I put two and two together.”
“Don’t defend him,” he said, grinning.
“I wasn’t—”
“Hey, Marshall,” Mark called. “Is this block-the-aisle thing becoming a habit?”
Sam snapped off a light salute. “I’d better get over there before he takes a second whack at breaking the sound barrier.”
She started a fresh pot of coffee, then leaned her backside against the stainless-steel counter. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, so why did it feel like midnight?
Ciara copied her stance. “Who-who-who’s that man?” she asked, pointing at Sam.
“A friend of Mark’s.” Thankfully, the men were deep in conversation, and she could stare to her heart’s content...for now.
“Is he—is he new to Nashville?”
“Mark says he’s been here for a couple of years.”
Her sister—a younger, shorter version of their once-beautiful mother—hid a giggle behind pink-and-black polka-dot fingernails. “I’d remember if he was in here before, because he’s handsome,” she said, drawing out the word. Shouldering Finn, Ciara added, “Is he one of those movie stars who lives in town?”
“I don’t know anything about him, except that his name is Sam Marshall. His family has a ranch out west somewhere. He’s a firefighter, and hurt his leg, probably on the job. He sings a little, and unless I’m mistaken, he’s part owner of The Meetinghouse.”
“Sounds to me like you know almost as much about him as his mama does,” Rowdy teased, leaning his beefy forearms on the serving counter.
Ciara grinned as Finn pointed at the revolving order rack. “By my count, you have half a dozen orders to cook up.” She grabbed her pad and headed for the dining room. “Better get busy, because I’ll be back in a minute with a couple more.”
