S: Is that a threat or a promise?
F: It’s me laying down the law. You’re going to let me take care of you. End of discussion.
It was authoritative and demanding and thoughtful and downright hot.
Evidently Sierra’s worry about the danger of getting close to Mollie and the girls? That danger wasn’t the biggest risk in her new life, after all.
Flynn was way more dangerous.
To her heart, anyway.
Chapter Five
Ignorance is bliss.
Whoever said that had been a frickin’ genius. Flynn could ask Kellan who said it. His brother knew tons of useless trivia. But then Kellan would give him a look that inferred he was stupider than dirt, and he’d need to beat him senseless for it. So Flynn would just offer up a salute to Mr. Nameless.
When he hadn’t known how good Sierra smelled up close, how soft her skin was? Flynn had been a happy man. Okay, not at all true. He’d been a miserable son of a bitch. But he’d been content like that.
Now he knew all those things. Now the inside of his car smelled of her tropical-scented shampoo. The softness of her hand bumped against his where they shared the center console. And their conversation in the ten-minute ride from the Gorse to her house had been light and flirty like he used to have with women back in Chicago. Before his life imploded. Before he stopped talking and basically communicated in grunts and scowls.
So now? Flynn was miserable in a whole different way. Mad at himself for letting their friendship slip over that line in the sand. For having lost the strength to resist her ease and fun for her own damn sake. Succumbed, selfishly, to the temptation of her that he’d tried so hard to keep in the friend zone for weeks.
Also? Frustrated that he had to be guarded, to think before every response so that nothing about his old life slipped out. Pissed that he didn’t have a shot in hell with this woman because she deserved two hundred percent more than he could possibly give. Sierra didn’t deserve to be lied to day and night.
But then, because he was so weak and selfish, Flynn pushed all those thoughts to the side. This was the best car ride he’d had in months.
“This isn’t Carlos’s truck,” Sierra said. She reached up to run her fingertips along the seam of the classic Camaro’s T-tops.
“I brought my car tonight. In case you needed a ride home again.” He’d had to negotiate for it. Now he’d have to make time tomorrow to detail the whole thing. Not to mention putting up with Rafe’s ribbing about how Flynn needed a “coach” for his “lady.” His brothers didn’t buy that he was just being a good coworker, taking care of Sierra.
Probably because they’d known him for twenty-seven years.
And God knew Flynn sure as hell wasn’t even fooling himself.
“Well, I didn’t need a ride. But I do appreciate it. Why don’t you drive to work every day?”
“I share the car with both my brothers. This is Rafe’s baby.”
“That’s unusual.”
“When we moved, it seemed stupid to bring all three cars to a town this small.” Shit. Did that come off as an insult? Flynn was under strict orders from Delaney not to insult this zit of a zip code in front of anyone but his brothers. “I mean, a town this, ah, walkable. So we thought we’d make do with one while we got the lay of the land.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Crappy.”
Sierra giggled. The sound tickled along his skin like the bubbles on top of a gin and tonic. Flynn could listen to that all day. “You’re not a fan of walking?”
“On the beach with a beautiful woman tucked under my arm? Sure. When I’m jonesing for Doritos and want to make a fast run to the store? Hell, no.”
“What flavor?”
Flynn gave her a cool glare for asking a question with such an obvious answer. “Cool Ranch. None of that new double-layered, jacked-up shit.”
Another giggle. Damn if just the sound of it didn’t make him want to smile, too. “You’re a purist, then,” she said.
“I know what I like. I know what’s right for me.” And wasn’t that the biggest load of bull that had ever come out of his mouth?
Yeah, Flynn knew what he liked in chips and clothes and movies. But he hadn’t managed to pick a new baseball team yet.
More importantly, Flynn had no clue what was right as far as the whole rest of his life went. He’d always assumed sticking with his brothers was the best path no matter what. Now, though, Rafe had Mollie. Kellan seemed way past done with the attitude Flynn hadn’t managed to shake.
Well, except for when he was around Sierra.
She gave a happy sigh. “Doritos are kind of a treat for me. Something not at all in my weekly grocery budget. So when I get a chance to gorge, it doesn’t even matter the flavor.”
That was rough. Flynn couldn’t imagine being on a budget so tight that frickin’ tortilla chips were special. He risked another look over at Sierra. What was her story, anyway? He knew there was one, since Carlos refused to tell him.
Flynn wanted to find out. Why she was scrimping so hard. He wanted to fix it, to make her life easier. Given her comment about the chips, her bike-riding made more sense now. Foot power was way cheaper than gasoline.
Why couldn’t Sierra afford to drive? Talk about a basic right that most of America took for granted. Shit. Was she in trouble?
Flynn parked in front of her stupidly tiny house. Once again, he didn’t give her a chance to open her door. Just scooped his arms under her knees and behind her back and pulled her across the seat into his arms.
Sierra’s arms curled around his neck. “Flynn, you don’t need to carry me.”
“You were on that ankle too much tonight. You should stay off it now.”
That was what he said, anyway.
What he thought? Was that he’d take any chance to have her warmth tight against his chest. To cradle her soft curves. To breathe in the dick-hardening scent of coconut coming off of her hair. To stop thinking and bitching and worrying about everything else in his life.
Because when he held Sierra, it all melted away. There was only her. It had only happened twice so far, but that wasn’t nearly enough.
“A girl could get used to this.”
“A guy wouldn’t object.”
What the hell?
Flynn was seriously flirting with her. Again. Still. The thing he’d sworn to himself not to do, again. Because he was no good for her. Because she deserved better than a lying ex-mobster.
God knew he didn’t deserve her sweetness.
Couldn’t fucking seem to stop himself, though.
After a quick fumble with the keys, they were in. Where Flynn promptly banged her foot against something. He was too busy ducking and angling to tell. “Sorry.”
“It wasn’t my sore foot. But you should probably put me down now. This place isn’t to scale for grand acts of chivalry.”
Flynn chuckled as he set her down on the couch. “What do you need? Ice? Are your pj’s still down here?”
Her cheeks turned the pink of a Cosmopolitan. “You can’t talk about my pajamas, Flynn. That’s as bad as talking about my underwear.”
“I never claimed to be good.” Especially not thinking about the tank top and leggings covered with tulips the same color as her cheeks. Her in those pj’s had been his first thought this morning, too. To wonder what Sierra looked like with the soft cotton hugging every inch, her hair all messy from sleep . . . or him . . .
Right about then was when Flynn vaulted out of bed and hit a very cold shower.
“Yes, I left everything down here. I really can take care of myself.”
“I believe you. But you shouldn’t have to. Nobody should, when they’re sick or hurt.” Flynn had no fucking idea where that came from, seeing as how McGinty didn’t believe in sick days—they indicated weakness.
His brothers would open the front door to the delivery service if Flynn ordered soup. Maybe chuck a full tissue box through his doorway. But that was
as far as their TLC extended.
Guess he remembered the old days, before his mom died. Not that there were many of those, since she’d died when he was only eleven. But he remembered that being sick was a free pass. No chores, no making the bed even after moving to the couch to play video games.
Looking down at Sierra, with her bottom lip caught in her teeth and a frown on her face as she rubbed her ankle, Flynn figured it out. He wanted to take care of her. He’d said it because he didn’t want her to have to handle things by herself. Not because of what anyone else said or did. This was about her.
He wanted to press those frown lines away with his thumb. Rub her foot and her calf until Sierra relaxed into a purring lump of contentment.
He wanted to make things right for her.
“Geez. I’ll just make some dinner and go to bed soon.”
Was she insane? Did Sierra really think he’d walk out of here without making sure she was fed? Flynn wouldn’t do that to a dog, let alone to this cotton candy-hearted swirl of a woman.
“No.”
“No, what?” she asked absently as she folded her hoodie to put beneath her ankle. Because her couch didn’t have any throw pillows on it. Flynn went to the freezer, filled a dish towel with ice, and carefully tucked it around her ankle.
“No, you’re not making dinner. I’ll do it.” He headed right back to the kitchen—right back being all of two steps—and opened the fridge.
The contents were pathetic. And he was a bachelor, so Flynn’s standards on what a fridge should contain were pretty damn low.
Milk, bread, butter, and a brown banana. Along with a jar of cranberry jam. Probably left there as a welcome present from whatever sadist rented Sierra this shoebox.
The locals were nutso for everything cranberry, which made sense, as the cranberry plant employed half the people in town. Rafe made a big fuss about hating the stuff. Flynn didn’t mind it. He didn’t think it was worth throwing a parade over, but he didn’t mind it.
“Sierra, what do you eat? Is there a cupboard full of protein bars somewhere? A second fridge hidden under the floorboards packed with deli meat?”
“Carlos gives me a meal at the start of every shift. I only need breakfast most days.”
Screw that. He grabbed everything and banged around in the search of a frying pan. And wondered again what her story was that had her scraping by on such a shoestring. “I’m not giving you breakfast for dinner. I can do better.”
“Because you’re secretly a great cook?”
“I’m a great take-out orderer. Bandon doesn’t give me much chance to show off those skills, though. My brother Kellan’s trying to learn to cook. He’s the only one of us making the effort.”
“Can he cook?”
God help them all, no. “Did you know it’s possible to ruin frozen pizza? ’Cause I’ve got firsthand knowledge.”
“And you say Kellan’s a better cook than you? Now I’m worried.” Sierra raised her voice over the commotion. “Is this payback for me doing your job tonight? Are you getting even for the drinks I screwed up that you had to come and redo?”
Christ on a stick, but the woman was bad behind the bar. She’d put a maraschino cherry in a dirty martini “because it made for a more pleasing visual aesthetic.” Most of her mistakes had been with garnishes. Something about making the drinks look prettier.
He’d lay money on her choosing her sports team by the color of the jerseys.
Flynn sizzled the butter, then sliced in the banana. “I’m just trying to be a nice guy. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”
Ha. The irony of him saying that when he was scheduled to testify in a federal case would be lost on Sierra. But it’d make his brothers piss themselves with laughter when he told them later.
“Sorry about the drinks.” Sierra sounded like she was apologizing for killing a cat. The woman had a heart three sizes bigger than fit her body. The regret in her voice absolutely slayed him. “I was trying to make them look fancy. Like the one you made for Norah’s birthday.”
Ah. He made specialty cocktails. Just for interested customers and the weekly specials board. If he tried to serve Mick anything but a Bud or a shot of Jameson, the old guy’d probably break his wrist.
Norah was Mollie’s grandmother. She ran Coffee & 3 Leaves—which also dispensed pot. Nice lady. Even nicer when she came in a little high and ordered every appetizer on the menu.
He’d made her a tequila martini. Drew the shape of a pot leaf in the foam on top, and stuck a sugared lime wheel on the rim. Called it the Weed Eater, and she’d cackled with laughter before sucking down six.
The woman was ex-Navy and lived life full-out as if she wasn’t missing a hand from a shipboard bombing.
Flynn flipped the bananas, now golden and crispy on one side. “How about I make you your very own cocktail? You tell me what color you want it to be. Which slices of fruit you want piled up to look pretty on the rim, and I’ll make it taste good.”
“Omigosh. What a sweet offer, Flynn!” Sierra’s voice rose to a near silent squeal of excitement. Like a dog whistle in reverse.
Flynn got a kick out of her excitement. But it was oversized. Had he been a surly dick too long, and one simple gesture floored her? Or was it that Sierra wasn’t used to nice gestures from anyone? Son of a bitch. He didn’t like either option. “It’s no big deal.”
“But it is. That’s . . . that’s like you’re making a personalized work of art for me.”
He squeezed honey over the banana slices. Let that bubble up for a minute before scooping it onto bread smeared with peanut butter. Then he put the whole thing back in the pan to sizzle for a minute. “If it tastes good enough, it won’t last as long as real art.”
“Art can be about the beauty it captures in a moment. There’s no use-by date.”
Flynn liked the way she saw the world. It made him want to see it that way, too. Sierra’s joy in life was contagious. And this from a woman with almost no food, and a house the size of his living room. Who regularly got soaked in the Oregon rain as she biked to work and still walked in with a smile on her face every day.
Yeah, he wanted to do everything in his power to keep that smile coming, and aimed right at him. Maybe that would burn through the thick scar tissue of ugly thoughts he’d kept bottled up since Chicago.
Nah. She didn’t deserve to have any of his shit flake off onto her. Exactly why he’d kept her at arm’s length.
Suddenly Flynn felt like he had T. rex arms. Short and useless.
Flynn sliced the golden brown sandwich, then dolloped cranberry jam in the middle of the plate for dipping. Paper towel draped over his arm like the snooty waiters at Morton’s back home, Flynn presented the plate with a half bow. “Told you I could do better for dinner. Because I made you dessert, instead. Which always trumps dinner.”
Grabbing it with both hands, Sierra inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and then let out a tiny, honest-to-God moan. A moan that he felt in his dick, as sure as if she’d stroked it with her tongue.
Eyes the same pale blue as the stripes on the City of Chicago’s flag finally fluttered back open. “This looks wonderful, Flynn. Any chance this means you share my sweet tooth?”
“Not enough to steal half that sandwich from you, but yeah. I’ll take an apple fritter over eggs and bacon any day of the week.”
Sierra looked up at him like he was chocolate cake dipped in fudge sauce topped with mocha ice cream. “A man as big and strong and tough-looking as you admits to craving donuts?”
She’d noticed his muscles? Flynn stood a little straighter. “I like bacon. Ideal situation is a donut with a side of bacon. As long as there’s still pie with dinner.”
“That’s adorable.” Sierra crunched down through the toast. Got another one of those practically orgasmic smiles on her face, then licked her lips. “And this is delicious. I don’t know what’s sweeter—you making me dinner, or how good this tastes.”
“You don’t get it, do you?�
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“What?”
Shit. He’d have to tell her thoughts that were still barely formed in his brain. They were more of a gut reaction, an instinct. A need Flynn couldn’t ignore. “I want to take care of you. It isn’t a favor to you. Hell, you letting me help out is a favor to me.”
“Why?” Those blue eyes squinted at him in confusion. Her nose scrunched up. Talk about adorable. “Why on earth do you want to go out of your way, after a long shift, to make more work for yourself?”
“Because it’s you, Sierra. Bringing you home, making you dinner. It’s the least I can do. Hell, it’s all I want to do. Whatever puts a smile on your face.”
It’d be better if anybody else in town took on that job, instead of him. Flynn was well aware—thanks to his brothers’ constant reminders—that his attitude sucked on the best of days. He got plenty of reminders from the marshal that he was a criminal. Sure, the U.S. government wasn’t pressing charges because of his testimony against McGinty. But every FBI agent, marshal, and lawyer who looked at his file then looked at him like he was shit tracked onto their shoe.
Or maybe Flynn just felt that way on the inside.
Bottom line, Sierra deserved someone better. Someone else.
Except . . . Sierra didn’t seem to have anyone else. And Flynn couldn’t make himself walk away. No matter how selfish.
She still looked confused. “You do make me smile, Flynn. All the time. You’re patient with me. You never snap when I confuse a drink order. You stop whatever you’re doing to open the kitchen door for me. Which kind of makes my heart explode because it feels like we’re on a date even though we’re just working. Even though you’re way out of my league.”
“Don’t say that.” He took the plate from her and set it on the floor. Then Flynn knelt next to the sofa. “You’ve got the sweetest, biggest heart I’ve ever seen. So kind. Caring. And you’re so beautiful that I have to bend over backward to ignore you so I can get work done.”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
Never Been Good Page 7
