Crazy in Love

by Lani Diane Rich

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Flynn leaned against the wall and motioned toward the pill bottle. “Open it. Go ahead.”

  A shimmer of surprise flashed over Tucker’s expression, then he grabbed the bottle, popping the top off. He stared at it for a long moment before handing it to Annabelle, who blushed hard as she saw the unbroken silver safety seal.

  “The booze was Esther’s. It was leaking, stinking up the place. I found it in the bed. Literally, in the bed. She actually cut a hole in the box spring to hide it.”

  Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God.” She turned and looked up at Tucker. “That’s my fault. I used to take her bottles sometimes.” She turned her pleading eyes on Flynn. “I didn’t mean to drive her to hiding it. Isn’t that a sign of alcoholism?”

  “No, that’s drinking until you pass out,” Flynn said, right as Tucker said, “Not if you can’t find the bottle.” Flynn raised her eyes to his and allowed a quick, involuntary smile until she remembered she was still kind of pissed off at him.

  “Anyway,” Flynn said, directing her focus to Annabelle. “Personally, I’m not a schnapps kind of girl, so I emptied what was left of it into the sink and tossed it on the porch with the rocker.” She took a deep sniff, and could still detect the sticky peppermint. “I think I’m going to have to burn this box spring, though.”

  Annabelle silently took the plastic cap from Tucker’s hand, then snapped it back onto the Tylenol and returned it to its spot on the nightstand. She glanced up at Flynn, eyes guilty as she nibbled at her lower lip. “Am I fired? I mean, between the pills and the booze and the music and the not answering—”

  “No, you’re not fired. I can’t fire anyone for four more days.”

  A look of confusion flashed over Annabelle’s smile. “Okay. Well. I guess we’ll just be—”

  “You go on ahead,” Tucker said, his voice quiet. Annabelle glanced at him, then back at Flynn, and Flynn could see the hurt on her face. Tucker, however, seemed oblivious. How was it possible he didn’t know Annabelle had a huge thing for him?

  He’s a man.

  “Um, okay.” Annabelle squeezed Flynn’s hand one final time. “I’m so glad you’re all right. Sorry about the door.”

  “It’s no problem, Annabelle,” Flynn said. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

  Annabelle nodded and pushed up off the bed. Tucker didn’t speak until the front door closed with a soft click, but when he did, his voice was heavy with accusation. “So, what the hell was that?”

  Flynn pushed herself up off the bed. Now that they were alone, she felt awkward being with him in her bedroom.

  “It was me, trying to get some damn sleep.” She headed into the living room, Tucker tight on her heels.

  “With the doors locked? Shades drawn? Blaring music like that? What the hell, Flynn?”

  “Fine!” Flynn turned on him, her index finger bearing down on his chest as she nudged him back against the wall. “I was trying to get rid of her, okay? Every time I go to sleep, there she is, on that stupid rocker, knitting her stupid little purple afghan, talking to me about Pop-Tarts. My life is complicated enough without my dead aunt seeing me as her own personal Jennifer Love Hewitt. All I want to do is sleep like a normal person, and I can’t do that when she’s there all the time!”

  To her horror, tears of exhaustion filled her eyes. She glanced upward to spread them out, keep them from falling.

  Not in front of him. Anywhere but in front of him.

  “I’m not crazy,” she said finally, her eyes focusing on the wall over his right shoulder.

  “I never said you were. Not to your face, anyway.” His voice was kind, and soft, and full of humor. She raised her eyes to his in search of his typical sarcasm, derision, and cockiness. But none of that was there. He just looked down at her, his gaze trailing down from her hair, over her forehead, down her nose, to her mouth. She wondered if he thought her lips were too full, her smile too big, her eyes too wide apart, and then she wondered why she was wondering. Finally, he smiled, setting a flock of butterflies loose in her stomach.

  Stop that.

  “So,” he said, his voice thick with amusement, “you thought blaring music was the way to get rid of her?”

  Flynn blinked away the last of the moisture in her eyes and shrugged. “It was a theory. It did shut her up. I couldn’t hear her. But she was still there.” She glanced toward the front porch. “Maybe if I burn the rocker . . .”

  “Maybe if you listened to her . . .”

  She turned her attention back to him. “What?”

  “Pardon me for pointing out the obvious, but if she’s trying to tell you something, maybe you should just listen to her. What have you got to lose?”

  “Sleep, for one.”

  “Which you’re losing anyway, so that argument doesn’t hold water.”

  “Then there’s my sanity.”

  He grinned. “Can’t lose something you don’t have.”

  “Hey!” She thwacked him on the shoulder. “Just because you come busting into my room to save my life—which was never in danger, by the way—does not mean you get to be all chummy with me. I still haven’t forgiven you for that stunt you pulled the other day.”

  He sighed, and the grin abated. “Ah, yes. That.”

  “Yes. That. It was a lousy thing to do.”

  “It was.”

  “I don’t know what your game is here, but I don’t like being played.”

  “No one with half a brain would.” He paused, dipping his head so he could smile directly into her eye line. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  She had expected him to fight back, and the lack of anticipated resistance made her feel a little off balance.

  “Okay.” She crossed her arms over her stomach. “As long as all parties understand who the big jerk is here . . .”

  He held her eyes for way longer than absolutely necessary. “All parties, I think, are in complete agreement.”

  His smile faded and Flynn felt the mood downshift a bit. He was looking at her in that way again, and they were standing closer than was absolutely necessary. Her skin began to tingle, and she thought . . . maybe . . .

  But that would be bad, fooling around with the bartender. On a lot of levels, not the least of which was that Freya would never let her live it down.

  “I don’t believe in this, you know,” she said quietly.

  Tucker’s eyebrows quirked in question, but he didn’t say anything.

  “In ghosts,” she continued. “I don’t believe in them.”

  “You don’t believe in life after death?”

  “I don’t believe in chatting after death, no,” she said quickly. “Do you?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s a lot I don’t know. I still can’t figure out how they get that automatic foaming soap to automatically foam. It’s completely beyond me. So on matters of ghosts and spiritual whatsis, I try to keep an open mind.”

  “My dead aunt Esther is not talking to me, okay?” Flynn rubbed her arms to ward off the goose bumps forming on her skin. “It’s my subconscious. I’m torturing myself because of some deep-seated psychological issues. Or something like that. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”

  He smiled, and the butterflies inside took flight once again.

  Enough, already.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s say it is your subconscious. If it’s appearing to you, in whatever form, it obviously has something to say. It stands to reason that the only way to make it stop is to listen to it.”

  He was right, of course. And Flynn knew it. The only admission she allowed, however, was the slight shrug of one shoulder.

  Tucker smiled, recognizing her minor acquiescence. “I’m just saying it’s worth a shot. So, tell me, what has your subconscious in the form of Esther been telling you?”

  Flynn thought back on her interactions with Esther. “Well, mostly, she doesn’t like me much and she misses Pop-Tarts.”

  Tucker gave a scand
alized gasp. “There are no Pop-Tarts in heaven? I have to say, that comes as a surprise.”

  “She’s not in heaven yet. She’s kind of . . . caught. I think. I don’t know. She thinks that since I’m the only one who can see her, that it’s my responsibility to help her move on.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” He smiled down at her, and once again Flynn became acutely aware of how close they were standing. There was a whole living room, and yet she was just a few inches from him. How had that happened without her noticing?

  “What else did she say?” Tucker asked.

  She took a step back. “What does it matter? It’s my subconscious. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s like when you dream about a train going into a tunnel.”

  “Well, that’s obvious sex imagery.”

  “No, water is sex. A train in a tunnel is just . . . Hitchcockian.”

  Tucker chuckled. “You said cock.”

  She tried not to laugh, but failed. “Oh, my God! What are you, twelve?”

  “On occasion.” Their eyes connected again, and Flynn felt a little dizzy.

  “Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t think it means anything,” she said, her voice thick with lack of conviction.

  “Fair enough.” Tucker took a step back and nodded toward the bedroom. “Now, go pack an overnight bag.”

  Flynn stayed where she was. “And where, exactly, do you think I might be going overnight?”

  “Well, you shouldn’t stay here, not with a front door that won’t lock.” He motioned toward the door, and Flynn noticed that the wooden doorjamb was completely splintered where the dead bolt had been. “Herman can probably fix it tomorrow. In the meantime . . .” Tucker reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, then handed it to her. It was old, like the one that opened the cottage, the key chain an oval of silver with Thank you for choosing The Goodhouse Arms engraved on one side and Rm. 213 engraved on the other. She looked up at him.

  “You keep room keys in your pocket?” She gave him her most skeptical look. “How convenient.”

  “I got it yesterday. You know. In case someone might need it.”

  His eyes met hers, and she realized that he’d gotten this room specifically for her. She looked down at her hand and tightened her fingers around the key.

  “Thank you, Tucker.”

  “It’s no big deal.” He reached out and touched her arm gently with his fingertips. “Go pack. I’ll walk you up there and get you settled. Maybe Esther will leave you alone there, maybe not. But it’s worth a shot, right?”

  Flynn nodded. “Right.”

  She kept her eyes on Tucker as she started toward her bedroom, then turned away and focused on the task at hand, trying to ignore the residual tingle she felt where his hand had grazed her arm.

  Here we go. The one-two punch of butterflies and tingles was more than even she could ignore—she officially had a thing for the bartender. Which was okay. He was cute, she was human. It wasn’t like she was going to act on it; she’d learned her lesson about workplace romances. So, it was okay. A little crush. No big deal.

  She opened the armoire and surveyed her nightwear options, her eyes instantly locking on to a lovely pair of cream-colored silk pajamas that Freya had ordered for her . . .

  Flynn closed her eyes.

  Having a crush is okay. Acting on it is not. Do. Not. Act.

  She released the breath, opened her eyes, and pulled a thick, decidedly unsexy BU sweatshirt on over her cotton camisole and ratty flannel lounge pants. She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. If he hit on her while she looked like this, there was no hope for either of them.

  Jake opened the door for Flynn, poking his head in the room and turning on the light before stepping back to allow her passage.

  “All clear,” he said. “No dead Esthers.”

  Flynn made a show of rolling her eyes before stepping in, but he caught the small smile she let slip when she thought he couldn’t see her. For a moment he considered just shoving her in and hurrying back to Gordon Chase’s business park, but he realized now that it would be rude. Inhospitable. And how long would it take to show her around?

  “So, you can see, the king-size bed,” he said, walking around behind her and turning on the light by the bedside. “Dial 109 on the phone to put on a Do Not Disturb; it’ll go right to voice mail. Although I’m the only one who knows you’re here, so . . .” Their eyes met and held. Jake cleared his throat and motioned toward the bathroom. “The bathroom is fully stocked with your basic toiletries, and the armoire has extra blankets if you need any.”

  Flynn nodded, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Nice,” she said, bouncing a bit.

  Jake’s mouth went dry. “Yeah. Well. You get some sleep. I’m just gonna . . .”

  He motioned behind him toward the door, but he couldn’t turn away. Flynn sat on the bed, looking up at him with that wild hair falling around her shoulders, and all he wanted was to strip that sweatshirt off of her, to know what it would feel like to bury his fingers in that hair . . .

  He felt a familiar stirring down below. Time to go, or Flynn would soon know exactly what kind of pull she was having on him. For the gazillionth time in his life, he envied women the fact that their bodies allowed for a little mystery.

  “So, good night,” he said, his voice tight. His hand was on the doorknob when she called out, “Tucker?” behind him.

  He closed his eyes for a second. Dead kittens. Physics textbooks. Queen Elizabeth II. He opened them again and turned to face her. “Yeah?”

  “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to know what the deal is with you and Gordon Chase.”

  Well, that certainly did the trick. Jake leaned his back against the door. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because you two both seem intent on marking me as your personal territory. I think as the object in the middle of your competing urine streams, I’m owed an explanation. I know I’ll never get a straight answer from Chase, so I’m going direct to the source: you.”

  She stared at him, her eyes sharp and intent on their target. Jake swallowed, trying not to smile as the words I know I’ll never get a straight answer from Chase vibrated in his head. She’d seen right through Chase, charm, smarm, and barrel. It only confirmed what Jake already knew, that Flynn Daly was smarter than your average bear, but still. Knowing she’d seen past Chase’s money and good looks only warmed him in places that didn’t need warming at the moment.

  “It’s a long story,” he said finally. “And I know you want to get some sleep, so I’ll just—”

  “I’ve been sleeping all day,” she said. “Kind of. And as soon as I go to sleep, Esther’s gonna be there, nagging at me. I’m happy to put that off for a while.” She played with a frayed edge of her sweatshirt, then sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just humor me, okay? Distract me with your sordid tale of testosterone gone stupid.” She nibbled one corner of her lip, scuffed the toe of one Ked on the floor, then raised her eyes to his, her hair hanging loosely over one shoulder as she cocked her head to the side. “Please?”

  That hair. There was so much of it. He could reach out and touch . . .

  Oh, man. Dead kittens.

  “Look,” he said. “I need to . . . I’ve got a . . . Um.” He motioned toward the door. Harvey Fierstein. Carol Channing. Gramma Tucker. “I’m gonna get us something from the bar. If you really want me to give you the whole story, it’s gonna be a long night.”

  Flynn’s face lit up. “Jameson’s?”

  Wow. Had she been that pretty when she first got off the train? He knew she’d been pretty, but he didn’t remember her being that pretty.

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  He ducked out and shut the door behind him, leaning against the door and staring up at the ceiling. On a scale of one to ten, he wondered how bad an idea it would be to tell her everything; he placed it at about a three. It wasn’t like he was going to continue dangling her in front of Chase, anyway. He�
��d made that decision when he ran that last stoplight on the way to the Arms, when he thought that all his games might have gotten her hurt, or worse. He could find another way to distract Chase, and if Flynn knew how dangerous he was, then maybe she’d agree to stay away from him. Of course, there was the risk that if he told her about Chase, she’d run off and tell Chase what he was up to, but at least then Jake wouldn’t have her getting hurt on his conscience.

  Then, it would be her own damn fault.

  Oddly, that didn’t make him feel any better about that possibility. Since seeing Flynn passed out on the bed in Esther’s cottage, his entire being had been buzzing with a strange, stupid, and inappropriate need to touch her, to protect her, to not let anyone near her who wasn’t him.

  Although, unable to shake the vision of her bouncing on the edge of the bed in the hotel room, his desire to touch her had hit number one with a bullet.

  He pushed away from the door and headed down the hall, untucking his shirt and working hard to drum up images of dead kittens.

  “So . . .” Flynn sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, her mind whirling with all the new information Tucker had been telling her over the last hour. “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” Tucker twirled his glass in his hands. “That pretty much brings you up-to-date.”

  “I’m really sorry about your dad.”

  Tucker shrugged it off. “Yeah, me, too. But it was a long time ago.”

  Flynn watched him, remembering what Mercy had said about their father’s death being so hard on Tucker. Considering the fact that his dad wouldn’t have even been at that factory if it wasn’t for Gordon Chase’s greed, it all made sense. Suddenly the piano falling on the safety inspector didn’t seem even remotely funny anymore.

  “So,” she said, shifting conversational gears. “You really think Gordon Chase killed Esther?”

  Tucker shifted in the antique tub chair he’d pulled up next to the bed. His feet rested on the far edge of the nightstand, which was being used as a temporary cocktail table. “No. I don’t know. Something’s off. Esther was old, and she had a heart condition . . .” He shrugged and took a sip from his glass. “But something’s still not sitting right with me.”