by JoAnn Ross
17
She’d looked frazzled. And surprisingly insecure, Finn decided as he flew two insurance agents who’d won some sort of sales trip with their spouses along the rivers and through the mountain passes, pointing out landmarks. Although it wasn’t the same as seeing things firsthand, he’d learned a lot while doing research while deployed. Some locations he remembered from that long-ago summer; others he’d learned from Yazz and the other pilots, who all had a list of the most popular and asked-for sights.
Fortunately, although the guys talked nonstop, like other salesmen he’d met over the years, they were mostly happy talking to one another. Their wives did ask questions, and seemed genuinely interested in their answers.
His next flight was a couple celebrating their fifty-fifth anniversary. One of their daughters had gifted the wife with a charm bracelet with photos of their life over the years, and when she showed it off, Finn noticed how much the two had come to resemble each other over that more-than-half-a-century timeline. Barbara Ann would’ve described them as cute as a button as they encouraged one another as he’d helped them into the plane and held hands during the flight. Not, he realized, because they were nervous fliers but because they were genuinely still in love.
As he watched them walk back to the van they’d hired to drive them to and from the lake resort lodge, still hand in hand, Finn experienced a twinge in his chest and decided he shouldn’t have eaten those pork rinds from the vending machine before taking off.
Although it had been a very long time since Finn had been on an actual, planned-ahead date, he did remember some of the basics. Including, if a woman cooked you dinner, you shouldn’t show up empty-handed. It didn’t matter that he’d bought and delivered the groceries. Or that she’d only invited him as a taste tester.
“First date?” Sheryl Lawson, the owner of Stems, one of the few businesses in town Barbara Ann didn’t own, asked. Given Caribou’s grapevine, Finn suspected she knew that not only was it his first “date” with Tori but his first one period since arriving in town.
“Sort of,” he mumbled, feeling like when he’d been sixteen and had bought a wristlet for his prom date.
“Some men like to go big with red roses.”
“I’m willing to spend the bucks, but I’m not feeling those,” Finn said.
Not that he knew much about sending women flowers, since most of his hit-and-run relationships in the past weren’t the kind that required the additional effort, but since all the guys aboard ship with wives and girlfriends would line up to order roses on Valentine’s Day, Finn was afraid she’d think he was sending some big “I love you” message that could end up being uncomfortable for both of them.
“Then you’ll want something more casual?”
“Yeah. That sounds good.”
“And nothing that looks like a bridal bouquet, given her circumstances,” Sheryl mused out loud as she walked over to a cooler filled with blooms.
“You’re a regular Nancy Drew.” It appeared the honeymoon mountain cake fiasco had already made the rounds.
“I doubt you’d be having breakfast with one woman and dinner with another,” she said. “Oh, some guys might. But ones who do usually don’t care enough to come in here for flowers. Maybe because they’re afraid I’d tell. But don’t worry, you can consider me like a priest. And my shop as a confessional. Your purchase is strictly confidential.”
“Good to know,” Finn said. Since he’d had to park a block away, he doubted he could get back to the Jeep without some local spotting him.
“What do you think of these stargazer lilies? Many brides like them in a bouquet, but they don’t necessarily shout wedding like the hydrangeas do.”
“They’re kind of formal.” Not so different from the roses.
“They are that. Dahlias?” She held her hand up next to a bucket of bright flowers that reminded him of Tori’s sunny laughter. But for some reason, they still didn’t seem right.
“How about those?” He pointed to another group at the far end of a cooler shelf.
“Sweet peas.” She nodded. “They’re simple but lovely. And unexpected. Also, unlike so many flowers that have had their scent bred out of them, these are grown for the sweet and spicy scents.”
Spicy and sweet fit Tori Cassidy to a T. “I’ll take those.”
“You have excellent taste,” she said as she gathered up a mix of white, deep and light shades of purple, and a pink the color of the king salmon that were running in the rivers.
As so often happened, more since his father’s death, making him a twenty-seven-year-old orphan, a distant memory stirred. He’d been sitting on the ground, carefully dropping seeds into a shallow trench his mother had scratched into the soil. She’d loved to garden, and since his brothers were often off doing things they’d insisted he couldn’t keep up with, it had been a special time when he’d had their mom all to himself.
“She’s going to love them,” the florist broke into the memory that he realized had him smiling.
In under five minutes, she’d created the arrangement, wrapped it in green paper, and tied it with a bit of green-and-white twine. Then carefully placed it in a solid-bottom bag that had Stems written on the side in bold white script. Oh, yeah. Like that was going to keep him from being noticed.
Sure enough, Finn had gotten less than half a dozen steps after leaving the shop when Doug Green, who was taking a smoke break outside his hardware store, somehow managed to grin like a loon without the cigarette dropping out of his mouth. “Hot date?”
“Maybe they’re for Mary’s birthday,” Finn shot back, feeling as if he’d been caught buying condoms for the first time. Which, along with the wristlet, he’d also stocked up on the night of that long-ago prom. Not that he’d gotten lucky enough to use one, but he’d been hopeful, and James had given him the stern “No Glove, No Love” lecture back when he’d turned thirteen.
“Mary’s birthday is on Halloween,” the older man shot back. “So you can buy her some posies if you manage to stick around that long.”
“I’ll be here.”
Finn knew many locals were waiting to see how long he’d last. He’d already figured out that bush pilots came and went with regularity. Maybe because of the longer hours for less pay, the battles with Mother Nature, or simply that they found themselves unsuited to living in the vast, northern wilderness. So far, it was suiting him just fine. And now, thanks to the hardware store owner, he had a short-term goal. No way was he selling out and leaving Alaska before Halloween.
Not only did he not want to miss Mary Muldoon’s birthday, he had the feeling his love life wasn’t the only thing residents of Caribou were betting on.
* * *
Despite her earlier attack of nerves, Tori had everything under control. At least on the dinner front. The ribs had been seared and braised, filling the cabin with a delicious aroma that could probably sell the meal on its own. A mix of Idaho and golden russet potatoes were boiling, and the kale had been washed and the stems chopped off. The wine had been opened to breathe. Not that she was all that sure it needed to, but given the cost, she felt it deserved it.
The wine had given her a twinge of guilt. Tori didn’t know how much bush pilots made, but even during this busy summer season, it couldn’t be anywhere near what pilots for major airlines made. Also, from what she’d gathered, once the secondary hunting tourist business slowed down, Finn wouldn’t get nearly as many hours until winter released its hold on Caribou, which she knew would be later than the rest of the country.
“No one forced him to buy the good stuff,” she reminded herself out loud.
Maybe whatever store he’d bought it at hadn’t suggested more reasonable wine. Or maybe he’d known all along what he was doing and found her worth the extravagance.
Carter had thrown around money as if it was like that gilt and pink confetti housekeeping had blessedly cleaned up while she’d been away having breakfast with Finn. Not that he’d ever done anything to earn it h
imself. If anyone ever made a reality show about a guy version of Paris Hilton, Carter Covington IV would be just the guy.
Which, she was forced to admit again, had been his appeal. He was too vain, too shallow, too narcissistic to endanger her heart.
“Bygones,” she said, her mind returning to the man who’d set off warning sirens from the moment he’d walked into the ballroom. It would have been impossible to miss him, even amidst all those military males in dress whites. Tall, with wide shoulders, he’d commanded attention without saying a word, and as those long legs had eaten up the floor as he approached the bandstand, he’d exuded a raw sexual energy that had caused her hormones to start ricocheting around as if they were inside a pinball machine.
He might be the best-looking man she had ever seen. And that was saying something since she’d been living in Southern California, where nearly every guy parking cars, waiting tables, or playing volleyball on the beach looked as if he’d just been cast to star in a Baywatch reboot.
For as hot as he’d been, and still was, the former Navy lieutenant was a good man. Years of experience had honed her ability to read people, and if she hadn’t known she could trust him, she never would’ve broken her rule about having sex with a man she’d just met.
It was sometime during that long night that, despite a well-honed caution, she’d landed in a situation way over her head. Which was why she’d gone running for the hills as the first gold and lavender fingers of sunrise had begun slipping into the bedroom.
And speaking of bedrooms…
Finn was due in less than five minutes, and with his having been in the Navy, she figured he’d be super-punctual. Which meant unless she wanted to greet him wearing flour-streaked jeans and a T-shirt with tasting stains, she’d better go change.
Caribou was about as far from formal as you could get. Still, deciding that this dinner had the feeling of a potential date, she pulled out a pair of dark-washed, frayed-hem skinny jeans (that, thanks to some serious engineering, did amazing things to her butt), and a short black T-shirt less likely to show any last-minute spatter stains. She’d had no reason to pack an apron when leaving Los Angeles and hadn’t thought to look for one while in the Trading Post. Fortunately, at the last minute, she’d tossed in a pair of burnished gold ballet flats, not really planning to wear them. But just in case.
After slipping into the shoes, because there was no time to do anything with her hair, she bent over, brushing it over the top of her head, then fluffing it out with her hands to reclaim a bit of fullness the heat and humidity of the oven had flattened. She swished on a dash of mascara and was touching up her lipstick when she heard the wheels of the Jeep crunching down the gravel road.
Taking three deep breaths, she went and opened the door. He was standing on her porch, clad in another of those tight black T-shirts that stretched at the seams from his wide shoulders and clung to his drool-worthy ripped abs. His faded jeans cupped him in a way that had her wondering how she’d make it through dinner without ripping them off him.
Once she’d stopped drinking in the sight of that magnificent male body, she finally noticed those delicate pastel sweet peas he was holding. Which was when she let him into not only the cabin but her tumbling, spinning, crazy-out-of-control heart.
18
“It smells amazing in here,” Finn said. Then, on impulse, bent to kiss her neck, right beneath her jaw, where he’d discovered an erogenous zone. “But you smell even better.”
He felt her body soften, relax. Then, as if realizing that she was sinking into trouble, she straightened. “Thank you for the flowers. That’s very sweet.”
Terrific. If there was one way he didn’t want her thinking of him, it was sweet. “The florist at Stems said they like to be put in cold water.” He frowned. “I didn’t think that you might not have a vase in here.”
“I’ve got that covered.” Her sweater lifted, revealing a strip of bare skin that caused a spike in his pulse when she reached up to take a tall, heavy beer glass from one of the open shelves. “This will be perfect.”
She ran water into the glass, put the flowers into it a stem at a time, and in that way women seemed genetically able to do, had them as well arranged as the displays he’d seen in the cooler in Stems. “I’ve always loved sweet peas, though you don’t see them very much anymore. They remind me of an English country garden. I tell myself I’m going to plant a garden one day, but I’ve never gotten around to trying. It’s probably just as well, because it would blow the fantasy if I turned out to have a black thumb…
“Would you like some of your wine?”
“I’ll take a glass.” Even as he pictured Tori wearing a floaty flowered dress and wide-brimmed hat, strolling through a country garden, Finn was picking up on some vague discomfort vibes. Not knowing what to do about it, he figured he’d just be agreeable and hope she relaxed. Otherwise it was going to be a very long evening.
She’d turned on some music, and another memory hit. “I think my mother sang that all the time,” Finn said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Your name is Brannigan, after all, and A Woman’s Heart is still the best-selling Irish album of all times. Eleanor McEvoy and Mary Black were precursors to Celtic Woman, and the songs continue to be well covered. I’ve sung ‘Only a Woman’s Heart’ and ‘Wall of Tears’ myself.”
“My mom would’ve liked you,” he heard himself saying.
She’d paused in pouring the wine. “Because we both sing?”
“That’s one reason.” He shrugged, wishing he’d run the words through his brain first. The problem was, whenever he was anywhere around Tori, all the blood would flow south to his other head.
But it was more than that. She made him feel good. When he was with her, he didn’t feel the pressure to live up to his older brothers or make his father proud. Not that proving himself to Colin Brannigan was an issue anymore, unless she was right about the afterlife and maybe the old man occasionally took time wheeling and dealing with angels to check out what he was up to.
Even though he hadn’t been the daughter his mother had been hoping for, Finn had never doubted that she’d loved him just the way he was. He hadn’t made the connection that night in San Diego, but Tori had him feeling the same way. She didn’t go all fan girl groupie when she’d learned he’d been a carrier pilot. Although she’d claimed to be impressed, he figured he could have been a carpenter or even just a bartender, like everyone had thought Knox was, and it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference to her.
As hot as she was, whatever they had going was more than sex. Unfortunately, the Brannigan males had never been comfortable with emotions, and Finn knew, and had always accepted, that he was the least open of all of them. Which had always suited him just fine. Until now.
While he couldn’t quite figure out what he was feeling and then what the hell to do about it, Finn only knew that he wanted to do something. Like push her up against the wall, lift up that T-shirt, and taste those pert breasts that had fit so perfectly in his hands.
Then move on from there.
But then what?
Giving up on the problem for now, he returned his mind to their conversation.
“But Mom wasn’t a professional or anything. She just sang because it made her happy.”
“Music can do that,” she said as she put on a thick-padded glove and pulled a heavy pan out of the oven. “There were times…” Her voice drifted off.
“There were times?” he coaxed as she shook her head and took the lid off the pan, filling the room with a cloud of flavor that had his mouth watering.
She’d made his tongue hang out from the start, even without the cooking, but whatever was in that pan was definitely a bonus for a guy who’d been living on the lumberjack special at the Caribou for breakfast, cellophane-wrapped deli sandwiches from the Trading Post for lunch, and frozen pizzas for dinner after he’d finished flying at midnight.
“Later,” she said, shaking her head as if rid
ding it of some memory. “Right now I have to concentrate on reducing the sauce.”
“What can I do to help?”
She glanced over, clearly surprised, giving him the impression that Covington IV had never offered. “You could set the table,” she suggested.
“Sure.” He might not be all that familiar with kitchen work, but he’d eaten enough meals to know where things went.
She pointed out where the dishes, bowls, glasses, placemats, napkins, and utensils were, and as he got to work while she did chef stuff, he experienced another unfamiliar feeling. It took him a while to recognize it, since he couldn’t remember ever seeing it in action, but it felt, well, sort of domestic. Like a couple at the end of the workday preparing a meal together.
“I had a thought,” he said as he lined up the silverware like sailors waiting on the deck for inspection.
“Oh?”
“I happen to know a guy at a record company.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Pegasus.” Finn braced himself for the question he knew was coming.
“That’s a big place. How do you know someone from there?”
“He was up here visiting when I first arrived. I flew him around for a couple days.”
And isn’t that a bald face lie, Finn Brannigan?
It’s for a good cause, Sister, Finn assured them both. “I was thinking maybe I could tell him about you. And what happened with your contract.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
He shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt. And hey, I’d probably be doing him a favor because you’re really, really good. I just didn’t want to do anything without running it by you first.”
“I don’t know….”
“Why don’t you think about it?” he said as he adjusted the bottom of a knife to line up with spoon next to it.
“I’ll do that.” She hadn’t agreed. But Finn could tell she was interested, so he let it drop. For now.
