Finn

by JoAnn Ross

  “Hello.” He waved his hand in front of her still gritty, blurry eyes. “I was in the Navy, remember? We can drink all the other services under the table.”

  She might be out, but she wasn’t dead yet. She lifted her chin and shot him her most skeptical look. “I’ll bet not SEALs.”

  “Especially SEALs,” he said. “Max, he’s another one of my brothers, just happens to have been a SEAL. Those guys don’t have any body fat to absorb the alcohol. They may be lean, mean assassins of terrorists. But believe me, they’re the first to go down like a Sitka Spruce in a typhoon after a few tequila shots.”

  Tori wasn’t sure she believed him about that. She had, after all, seen Zero Dark Thirty and read a bunch of romance novels featuring SEAL heroes. Which, admittedly, were fiction, but still she could tell the authors had done their research. Still, she wasn’t so hungover that she couldn’t hear the affection in Finn’s tone as he spoke of his brothers. Including the so-called bossy, perfect one.

  Once again, she envied him having experienced what sounded like a rich, wonderful family life.

  “I think I’ll take that shower,” she said. “Thanks for bringing by the care package. But I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re already fine,” he said, a gleam of what appeared to be honest masculine appreciation in his eyes. “I’ll make the coffee while you get ready to go out.”

  “You’re a liar,” she said without heat. “Because I have to look like death warmed over. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Then we’re at a stalemate,” he said with a slow, too-sexy smile. “Because neither am I.”

  “I’m not having sex with you.” Where did that come from? Oh, yeah, despite it perhaps being the last thing she did before dying, she wanted to do exactly that.

  “Well, damn.” He put his hand over his heart, which drew her attention to his hard, ripped chest. Not that she hadn’t already noticed. Or forgotten. “There goes my plan for the morning. I guess I’ll just have to settle for breakfast.”

  “You’re not the boss of me. And we’re not having breakfast,” she repeated. To his back, because he’d already gone back into the kitchen.

  Deciding to deal with Finn Brannigan later, Tori tossed her head, wishing she hadn’t, and left the room.

  * * *

  A thought occurred to Tori while she was standing beneath the dual sprays, reveling in the hot water pounding against her body like a Swedish masseuse she’d once gone to after pulling a shoulder muscle taking her Taylor down from an overhead bus rack.

  How could she not remember eating all that cake? Or drinking a bottle of champagne? Especially how could she not remember dancing with Finn? Which brought up another thought.

  Jumping out of the shower, she grabbed a towel, took a few quick swipes over her body, and since her skin seemed super oversensitized, changed into her most comfortable underwear, a pair of leggings, and a blue Music in the Mountains T-shirt from a folk music festival she’d played in southern Oregon.

  Cringing at the roar that reverberated like a jet engine in her head, she blew her hair dry just enough to pull it into a ponytail. Then, taking a deep breath to steady herself, she went back into the front room, where Finn was standing at the window, a white mug with the Mt. Denali National Park logo in his hand, looking out at the mountain that defined the town.

  “I need to know something,” she said.

  He turned and swept an appreciative look over her. It was strange how some guys checking her out could make her feel creepy. But not when he did it. Maybe, she admitted, because from that first moment their eyes had met, literally across a crowded ballroom, she’d wanted him to look at her. But definitely not the way she must have looked last night.

  “About last night.”

  “Okay.” He arched one brow—how did people do that?—and kept his gaze on hers as he took a drink of coffee.

  “You said we danced.”

  “We did.”

  “Slow or fast?”

  “Definitely slow.”

  Not good.

  “In a fashion,” he tacked on. “You were a little unsteady on your feet by the time I showed up.”

  Oh, no. An unwilling memory flashed through her mind of her arms twined around his neck, of pressing herself against his body, begging him, no, demanding that he have sex with her.

  It could be a false memory. A fantasy. Or a leftover fragment from an alcohol-sodden dream.

  “We didn’t do…” Wouldn’t she have remembered that? “I mean, it was just dancing, right?”

  “Well”—he shrugged with a quirk of his lips—“there might have been a kiss.” He wickedly paused a beat. “With a bit of tongue involved.” Then, as if taking pity on her misery, he shook his head. “That’s all. Nothing more happened.”

  Which was a relief. Unless, of course, you counted her hurling up all that cake and champagne. She could have thrown up all over him while dancing. Or kissing.

  The conversation triggered a foggy memory of him being the one who’d stopped things from getting out of hand.

  “Thank you.”

  Even though she wanted to go back to bed, pull the covers over her head, and hide out here forever, or at least until the cabin reservation ran out, Tori reminded herself that she’d managed to overcome much more than mere embarrassment. She’d been born with a knack for songwriting. And singing. But her strongest talent, which she’d honed to the strength of tempered steel over the years, was the ability to keep moving on. This certainly wasn’t the worst thing to happen to her in the last year. Month. Even this week.

  “No problem.” He gave her a long look. “Ready to go?”

  She was about to tell him that she’d go where she wanted, when she wanted, and right now, she didn’t want any damn breakfast. But, on the other hand—and wasn’t there always another hand?—Tori had known her share of losers over the years. It was like she had power that attracted them. Which was why she’d thought having a rational agreement with Carter had been the solution.

  And how wrong had she been about that? The thing was, Finn had acted like a true officer and a gentleman. Which meant that she sort of owed him this win.

  “I’m not eating steak,” she said as she picked up her purse from the table by the inner front door.

  His only response was a shrug of those wide, military male shoulders. But the grin he flashed her didn’t bother to hide the fact that he’d never expected the argument to go any other way.

  12

  They’d no sooner walked through the inner door of the Caribou Café than an older, rounded blond woman, who could have been Paula Deen’s separated-at-birth twin, came rushing out from behind the counter.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, wrapping Tori in a big hug. “I was only trying to give you a special night. As soon as Mary Muldoon—she owns Osprey Air—told me about the reservation change, I was going to rush right over there, but unfortunately, she told me that Finn had already landed at the lake…

  “I tried to call him, but he had his phone off. Again.” She shot him a laser-sharp look that appeared to bounce right off him.

  “Even if some calls could go through when I’m in the air, I wouldn’t take them,” he said. “It’s too much of a distraction.”

  She placed a hand on her hip. “Did I mention Mary told me you had landed? So you weren’t in the air at the time.”

  She might be wearing a hot pink tunic over a pair of cropped flowered pants, and her voice might be drenched in the round, soft vowels of the Carolina Lowcountry, but Tori had spent enough time in the South to recognize a genuine steel magnolia when she saw one.

  “I must have forgotten to turn it back on,” he responded in a bland tone that didn’t fool anyone.

  “You never turn it on because you don’t want to talk to anyone,” Barbara Ann Carter said.

  “There is that,” Finn agreed.

  “Well.” She huffed out a frustrated breath. Then turned her attention back to Tori. “I’m Barbara Ann Carte
r, who left you that misguided welcome note.”’

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to meet you,” Tori said, knowing that Finn was right about the woman’s heart being in the right place. “As I guess you already figured out, I’m Tori Cassidy.”

  “Bless your heart, I certainly do know that.” She shot Finn another look. “Isn’t she sweet as pie?”

  “Or cake.” A wicked spark in his eyes as he looked toward Tori suggested he was thinking of that sugary kiss they’d shared.

  “Oh, let’s not bring that up.” Barbara Ann waved off his reference. “Poor Kendra worked so hard on that cake.”

  “It was beautiful,” Tori assured her. “And tasty.”

  “She’s a dynamite baker.” Her brow furrowed. “Unfortunately, she told me she can’t cook worth beans.”

  Before Tori could figure out why that was relevant to the conversation, the café owner switched gears. “I was so excited when Mary told me you were coming to Caribou,” she gushed. “I have most of your songs on the jukebox in the Gold Gulch next door.”

  Tori’s gaze followed the tilt of the teased blond head toward the far wall, which opened to a log room like this one. But along with the colorful totems, like the ones standing up against the log walls of the café, there were also a number of wild animal heads. Which had Tori wondering exactly how the restaurant owner sourced her menu.

  “I wouldn’t think mine would be the type your customers would go for,” she said.

  Which was an understatement. Having been inspired by singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell and Carole King, and more recently, Jaspar Lepak, with whom she’d sung a duet at the Music in the Mountains festival, Tori’s songs were about love, life, and relationships. Both the good and the bad, and what even the most intelligent women would occasionally be willing to sacrifice for love. Not, she considered, the type of message a guy would want to ponder while drinking a draft beneath the unblinking marble eye of a dead moose.

  “You’d be right as rain about that,” Barbara Ann allowed as she led them to a table by the window that offered yet another stunning view of the mountains. “Most of our good ole boys go for old time crying-in-your-beer country. Some of the younger ones go for metal, but they usually end up at the Loaded Loon.

  “But women like songs about love and life, especially the getting-even ones, which you can probably relate to firsthand. So, by putting them on the juke, I get the gals, who are outnumbered by guys in this state, coming in. The gals, in turn, bring in more guys. Which is good for business and everyone’s happy.”

  “That’s smart.”

  “Thank you.” The woman patted her hair. “Although things are better than when I showed up here as a naïve eighteen-year-old bride, we females haven’t reached full equality yet. Which is why, I suppose, the good Lord gave us more brains.”

  She pulled two laminated menus from behind the sugar jar. “You look a little peaked after your long trip yesterday,” she said sympathetically. “I’ll get you some coffee while you peruse the menu and decide. When you’re ready, holler. Of course, if there’s anything special you’d like, just ask, and I’ll fix it special for you.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Tori said, glancing down at the bright photos of the various meals. The breakfast offerings seemed fairly standard, with one surprise for this part of the world. “You have grits.”

  “With cheese or without,” the café owner said. “For lunch and dinner, I add in some shrimp. Of course, truth be told, they’re basically a butter and salt delivery system, but a dish of cheesy grits can perk you up faster than greased lightning.”

  Only five minutes ago, Tori would’ve sworn she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing. But the familiar food had her taste buds perking up. She’d first discovered the dish at a low-cost waffle chain that was a favorite of musicians across the Southern states looking for a late-night breakfast after a gig.

  “I’ll have the grits without cheese, please.” No point in pushing things. “And two scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast, no butter.”

  “You might as well have the butter since you’re getting a tub in the grits,” Barbara Ann advised. She swept a look over Tori. “And it’s not like you have to worry about a few pounds, given that you’re a banana.”

  “A banana?”

  “The way I see it, women fall into three types. Bananas, apples, and pears. I was a banana myself until menopause settled in. Now I’m an apple.” She ran her hands down over her curves. “JLo is a pear. While you’re definitely a banana.”

  Tori cast a quick glance at Finn, who seemed to be biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “I’ve never thought of it that way before,” she said.

  “Most bananas never do,” Barbara Ann said. “I didn’t when I was your age, although you’ve got the looks of a girl who’ll end up a banana for life. Would you like some cream in your coffee?” She switched topics without a blink of her mascaraed lashes.

  Although Tori tended to drink her coffee black because it was easier to add to a group order on the road, she decided that after eating a mountain of cake, even if she had lost most of it, she deserved to indulge herself. “Thanks, I would.”

  Without looking at the menu, Finn ordered the steak and eggs, hash browns, a short stack of pancakes, and link sausage.

  “Sounds as if you eat here often,” Tori said as Barbara Ann bustled off to get their orders.

  “If you don’t count takeout deli from the Trading Post, or desserts, this is the only place in town,” he said. “I don’t really cook so, since I’d rather not live on cold cereal, the Caribou’s easier.”

  “Makes sense.” Glancing over at an order being delivered to a nearby booth, she decided she’d hate to see his arteries.

  He followed her gaze. “It’s basic. But Barbara Ann has built herself a small empire knowing what folks want and giving it to them. Like the music. And what beer and liquor she serves. She does order in more craft beer during the summer, since tourists are willing to pay more on vacation, but after Labor Day, you’re going to see a lot more Buds than the artisan stuff.”

  “I doubt I’ll be here after Labor Day.” Not wanting to think about being homeless in less than two weeks, she smiled up at Barbara Ann, who’d delivered their coffee in two thick white mugs with a moose on the front. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re very welcome. I got the beans special for the summer crowd,” she said, confirming what Finn had said about her buying habits. “They’re fair trade from Costa Rica, and although they cost a bit more, they’re proving so popular with the locals I’ll probably continue them through the year.

  “I’m seriously considering buying the empty storefront across the street next to my B and B, getting one of those fancy Italian espresso machines, hiring a barista, and going into business with Kendra, who could supply some muffins and doughnuts. We could become Seattle North.”

  Her lips, wearing a bright pink that matched as her tunic, curved in a big smile. “Y’all enjoy now, and I’ll be getting your meal out in two shakes.”

  “I like her,” Tori said, watching as the woman stopped by each table on her way back to the kitchen.

  “Everyone does. Like I said, not only does she own most of the town, I get the feeling that no one who’s been here a while could imagine Caribou without her.”

  “That’s nice.” After pouring in some cream from the white pitcher that matched the mugs, she took a sip of the coffee and found it every bit as good as promised. “To have a place where you fit in.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  Tori thought that was an odd response coming from a man with such a large family, but not wanting to comment, which would only bring her own past into the conversation, she merely took a longer drink of the lightened coffee.

  Between the drink Finn had forced down her, the coffee, and the pills, Tori was starting to feel more like a human being. But not so much that she felt inclined to carry on a casual conversation. Especially
with a man she’d been naked with. Which was why, after Barbara Ann delivered two large platters, along with Finn’s side dishes, she was grateful that he seemed willing to eat in silence. Outside, just as they finished, gray clouds moved across the blue sky, bringing rain that streamed down the windows.

  “I should probably go shopping for a slicker,” she said. The butter and sugar had conspired to give her a boost she knew would probably wear off in a way that had her crashing, but for now, she was going to enjoy the rush of renewed energy. “I know Alaska’s far north, but I expected more summer weather.”

  “It’s a lot more changeable than L.A.,” he said. “We can stop by the Trading Post on the way back to your cabin.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “You’ll need rain gear.” He reached into his wallet, pulled out some bills he put on the table. Then stood up and amazed her by pulling out her chair. Tori couldn’t remember the last time anyone other than a maître d’ had done that for her, and that had only been the few times Carter had risked taking her out to a restaurant where they might run into his family or someone he knew. “And the Trading Post is on the way.”

  He was doing it again. Doing his alpha-male-in-charge thing, but she wasn’t going to risk calling attention to them by arguing. After waving good-bye to Barbara Ann, who was ringing up a family of five, Finn and Tori left the restaurant.

  She’d just buckled her seat belt when she belatedly saw the sign in the window.

  “Wait a minute.” Unfastening the belt, she jumped back down to the sidewalk and, having hopefully found the answer to her problems, ran back into the café.

  13

  Wondering what the hell had lit her fire, Finn followed Tori into the café.

  “They’re in the kitchen,” the morning shift waitress, who, Finn had heard through the Osprey grapevine, was coming off a divorce to a mountain guide, said. She tilted her head toward the swinging door.

  John Black, a Grizzly Adams lookalike who’d once been the cook for a fishing boat out of Dutch Harbor, was frying up some sausage with one hand while flipping eggs with the other. Over in the corner by the prep table, he saw the two women. Whatever point Tori was so enthusiastically making, Barbara Ann appeared openly skeptical.