Never Been Good

by Christi Barth

  Sierra didn’t believe him for a second. Flynn’s muscles and tan didn’t give him the look of a man who came into the spa for a buff and polish. “Have you ever even tasted cucumber water?”

  “God, no,” he said with a shudder. “Cucumbers already taste like water. Why would anyone bother to combine the two?”

  “Don’t knock it until you try it.” She started forward to the glass cooler filled with lemon-cucumber water. Flynn noticed her approach and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back flush against his chest.

  “Don’t punish me with that stuff when I’ve brought you a present.”

  Sierra didn’t get presents. Her foster families never had cash to spare to celebrate birthdays or Christmas. Her friends in art school definitely couldn’t afford to splurge on gifts. She rose onto her toes in excitement. “Really?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Flynn brought his other hand out from behind his back. He handed her a plastic grocery bag. “For you.”

  Surprised—and flustered, and caught off guard—that he’d stop by to bring her anything, Sierra dug into the bag. When her hands hit terry cloth, she started giggling. Her laughter grew as she pulled out a navy blue bath towel. It was funny and sexy and absolutely perfect.

  “Why, thank you ever so much. I wonder what I should do with this?” She rubbed it against her cheek, trying to look innocent. No, trying to look sexy. In a shapeless spa robe and slippers. Probably not even a supermodel could pull that off.

  “Anything you want. You could use it after your shower tomorrow. Or . . .” Flynn stroked his chin as if deep in thought. “. . . You could model it for me. Later.”

  Sierra was well acquainted with nude models—or life models, as they were called in artists’ circles. She had zero problem staring at the naked human form.

  But stripping down in front of Flynn? This paragon of masculinity and handsomeness? Who was 1) out of her league, 2) older, and thus undoubtedly 3) more experienced. It gave her . . . pause. Skittered nerves across her belly like ants marching across a gingham tablecloth. Sierra wasn’t a virgin. Or a shrinking violet. She just didn’t want to disappoint him. Turn him off. Do anything to stop all the fun they were suddenly having.

  Life and Karma would undoubtedly pull the plug on it soon enough. She didn’t want to hasten the process by screwing something up.

  “Hey.” Flynn took her empty hand and squeezed it. “You disappeared there for a second. I’m not trying to pressure you.”

  And just like that, her on-edge nerves smoothed out. Her breath whooshed in and out easily. His touch was all it took. Flynn grounded her. Calmed her. Made Sierra feel comfortably herself, instead of a panicked person she barely recognized.

  “I know. Really.” Sierra waved the towel in the air, letting it unfold. “I love it. Thank you. You made me laugh and feel sexy at the same time, which is a first.”

  His eyes opened wider. Surprise was an expression she hadn’t seen on his face before. Like everything else on Flynn Maguire, it looked good. “That’s a damn shame.”

  “Why?”

  “Laughter and sex go together. If it isn’t fun and funny at least some of the time, you aren’t doing it right.” Slowly, he trailed a finger from her chin, down her throat, all the way to the V where her bathrobe’s fleece lapels met. He left a trail of goose bumps in his wake. “Or—and I’d put money on this being the case—you weren’t doing it with the right person.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” But Sierra couldn’t imagine laughing during sex.

  She thought back to the fast and altogether unexciting couplings with Rick. Sierra had stayed with him for the sense of belonging, the tenderness that had been there—at least, in the beginning. She’d always assumed that sex was like a summer blockbuster movie. Loud. Euphemistic penis measuring. Didn’t come close to living up to all the hype.

  Until Flynn.

  Flynn made her believe in the flash and bang and romance and thrill of a big, old-school Hollywood ending that made you sigh and tingle down to your toes.

  And that was just from kissing him.

  Gently, he tightened her sash. “The towel can be just a towel.”

  “No. I want it to be more. I want it to be fun. Just . . . not quite yet.”

  “There’s no rush, Sierra. Plenty of fun to be had along the way to towel-level adventures. I like to take my time.” Flynn brushed another kiss across her lips. “I don’t want to keep you from your party any longer. See you tomorrow.” He disappeared down the thickly carpeted hallway.

  She’d come out here to catch her breath. Only now, Sierra was breathless for a whole different reason.

  Flynn’s gesture had changed everything. Or maybe, it just helped all the feelings within her burst out of the cocoon of fear in which she’d been living for so many months.

  Turning in a circle, she looked for somewhere to sit. Barring that, something to steady her balance. Her ankle wasn’t giving out, but the earth did feel like it was shifting beneath her.

  On the counter, next to the water jug, was a stack of wet rolled hand towels. She grabbed one. Its coldness shocked her, along with the zingy peppermint scent. Sierra touched it to her forehead, inhaled deeply a few times, then laid it on the back of her neck. It turned out that major life revelations heated her up as much as a session on the couch with Flynn.

  A burst of laughter teased out from behind the closed door. Her new friends were great. They cared. How could she have let a little thing like being cared for drive her out of the room in a near-panic attack?

  Well, because she was exhausted. Tired of hiding who she really was. Worn-out from clamping down on thoughts and emotions and the basic truths of her life and who she was.

  No more.

  Not everyone was lucky enough to have the sound of crashing waves and seagulls as appropriate background music to a life-altering decision. Sierra cocked her head, listening. Taking a mental video of the moment when she put her foot down. Took a stand. Took her life back.

  Finally.

  Because as of this moment, she was done running. Rick—and his dangerous stupidity—forced her to give up so much. Her chance at finishing her graduate degree. Her home, no matter that it was just an RA suite in a dorm. Her sense of peace. Safety. Courage. She’d had exactly enough courage to run from her old life.

  Now, though, Sierra vowed to find the courage to plant herself in a new life. For good. She liked these women, this town. She liked Flynn, too. More than was probably smart. So she’d stay put, right here in Bandon.

  With her friends.

  With her sort of boyfriend.

  But how?

  Chapter Seven

  Flynn rolled out butcher paper over a picnic table on the patio behind the Gorse. Each table had paper, a can full of markers, and a plate of cookies. He knew the importance of mid-afternoon snacks.

  Not just for the kids, either.

  “This looks good.” Carlos clapped him on the back. “Lily and my sister should be by any minute with their students.”

  “I hope they have fun.” Arts and crafts was a far cry from the self-defense and basic martial arts he’d taught children back in Chicago. But his mentor in the Big Brother program swore you only needed two rules to deal with children: keep ’em busy, and always listen.

  Flynn could do both. He had a knack for talking to and listening to kids. Probably because the mobsters he’d overseen at the construction company didn’t have much more maturity than a sixth-grader.

  What he couldn’t do was draw.

  Not at all. He didn’t even doodle in the sides of his textbooks during the most boring class ever—tenth-grade geometry. Why waste time doing something he sucked at? Nobody ever said pay attention in art class because you’ll need it to design a float for a Cranberry Festival when you’re twenty-seven.

  How was he supposed to guide these kids in designing a fully decorated float?

  “Carlos, can you draw?” he asked.

  “Why? You want a tattoo?”r />
  Flynn cocked an eyebrow. What was in Carlos’s background that made a new tattoo a go-to, Thursday afternoon activity?

  “I’ve got a tattoo,” he said shortly. One he’d get rid of as soon as possible. When you joined McGinty’s crew—officially—you got a tattoo. Proof you belonged. Proof you were permanently committed to the mob.

  Good thing he’d learned nothing in this life was truly permanent. Including happiness.

  “I know a guy. Up in North Bend. He can put something on your belly that moves when you breathe. Like eagle wings flapping.”

  More info than Flynn needed. “No more tattoos. Look, if you can draw, it’d be good if you could help with the kids.”

  Carlos let out a huge laugh. “Hell, no. To the drawing and especially to the kids. That’s my sister’s thing. I don’t want ’em, don’t need ’em, and sure as hell don’t know how to deal with them. Why do you think I run a bar? Guaranteed kid-free zone.”

  He was missing out. Kids had a way of looking at the world that either made you think or pee yourself laughing. They reminded Flynn that not everyone was born cynical and greedy. They’d been his antidote to McGinty.

  “But you’re cool with them hanging out back here?”

  “Sure. It’s for the Festival. Everyone’s gotta pitch in. Biggest weekend of the year.”

  Yeah, yeah. He’d heard it all before. This Cranberry Festival was like a religion to the Bandon locals. They threw a festival pretty much every other weekend in the summer. One for all the big holidays, a celebrate the dunes festival, a whale festival, and about a dozen more. But the Cranberry Festival mattered so much because more than half the town worked at harvesting and processing the fruit—and the other half knew someone who did. Pride in their jobs made it special.

  Flynn hadn’t felt that, well, ever.

  He walked back inside and saw that Sierra was early for her shift. She always showed up early to noodle around on the computer.

  Why did a twentysomething woman in the twenty-first century not have her own computer? She’d mentioned college a couple of times and you couldn’t get through a degree without owning one. Flynn chalked it up to another mystery he wanted to figure out. And since she didn’t reveal much about herself, he’d have to be sneaky about it.

  Or maybe kiss it out of her.

  Her whole face lit up when she noticed him. “Hi there.”

  “I thought you weren’t on for another couple of hours? I’d have given you a ride.”

  “My ankle’s fine. I came into town to look up something at the library, and thought I’d hang out here instead of going back home.”

  In other words, she’d wanted to use the computer some more. Flynn saw right through her. Why wouldn’t she just tell him? He bent an elbow to lean on the bar. Got face to face, a breath away from her lips. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Why?”

  “I like looking at you.” He swiped a kiss over her lips, and then another. “I like doing that, too.”

  “Nobody said you had to stop.”

  The woman really had no idea of how much she turned him on. Of how two kisses already had his dick as hard as steel. He lowered his voice to a quiet murmur. “If I keep going there won’t be any stopping, and this bar will get used in a whole new X-rated way.”

  She giggled. The sound ran through his blood like soda bubbles. “It doesn’t look comfortable to lie on.”

  “You wouldn’t be lying on it. I sure as hell wouldn’t drive my knees into this thing. No, I picture you braced, bent over the end, on your tiptoes. Me behind you. Holding on to your hip with one hand and your breast with the other.”

  Sierra’s sharp, indrawn breath was as loud as a bullet.

  Flynn could hardly stand how much fun it’d be opening her eyes to all the possibilities of what they’d do together.

  Because yeah, he’d lost the battle with himself to be good where she was concerned. It was no longer a question of if—just when. He had to have her. Had to get inside and fucking bask in the sunshine that was Sierra.

  Was it selfish of him? Hell, yeah. Did she deserve a man who could do the basics, like tell her his real name? Yeah.

  But he’d treat her well, that was for sure. Even when treating her right meant walking away before she lost her heart to a liar who’d always carry the filth of the Chicago mob with him.

  He dropped his hand from where it’d somehow ended up on her cheek. It fell onto a napkin on the bar. But this one wasn’t white. It was covered with pencil marks. Flynn pulled it closer. Sierra tried to grab for it. Weird. So he snatched it even faster and held it up.

  It was a Gorse napkin, printed at the bottom corner with that big yellow bush that grew along every road in town. But the rest of it was filled with a pencil sketch. It was . . . him.

  His face. Every bit as detailed as a photograph. But with an expression on it Flynn hadn’t seen in the mirror in a long time. What Kellan had always called his shit-eating grin. The one his brothers claimed that he wore when he’d scored more Snickers than Smarties trick-or-treating. When he walked across the stage at graduation and swung his tassel to the other side. When he and Rafe emerged from that tomb last Halloween.

  It shook him to his core to see it so perfectly recreated. On a napkin, for fuck’s sake!

  Flynn waved it at Sierra. “How did you draw this?”

  Her brows came together into a confused line. “Pencil. A pen would’ve ripped the napkin.”

  The absolutely adorable way Sierra’s nose crinkled, the way he wanted to kiss away the vertical line on her forehead, distracted Flynn for a second. But kissing her at the bar would be a bad idea. One, because he wouldn’t be able to stop until things got way past PG. Two, because it probably violated every frickin’ health code in the book.

  As bartender, he had standards. Yes, his responsibilities were two hundred percent less than when he’d managed an entire construction company. They still mattered. Flynn wouldn’t half-ass his job ever.

  Flynn waved the napkin again. “How the hell did you imagine me looking like this?”

  “I didn’t have to imagine it. Your face gets like that, all full of smug triumph every time we kiss.”

  After all these weeks of working together and talking, she’d gotten through his defenses and made him happy.

  Son of a bitch.

  How far gone did it say he was that it took a drawing to remind him of how it felt?

  Flynn looked at it again. Looked beyond the obvious mirror image and took in the shading and talent. “This is great.”

  “Thanks. You should see what I can do on a paper tablecloth,” she quipped.

  “I’m serious.”

  The smile fell from her face faster than Mrs. Oblinsky had erased the dirty picture he drew on the board in sixth grade. Clutching his wrist, she begged, “Please don’t be serious.”

  What the hell? Flynn patted her hand. “I’m complimenting you.”

  “I don’t do it for compliments.” Her tone sharpened. “Or for money, before you ask.”

  Seemed he’d touched one hell of a raw nerve. “If you don’t want me to ask, I won’t. Simple as that.” Flynn could only hope that rule worked both ways, seeing as how he had an entire lifetime of things he couldn’t tell her.

  Sierra blew out a long breath. “Thank you.”

  Huh. There was a story there, no doubt about it. And Flynn figured it’d take more than a few kisses to sweet-talk it out of her, after a reaction that strong. There was a lot more to her than he’d originally thought. Definitely not just a waitress.

  The not-knowing only made him want to know more. What could a sweet thing like her be hiding?

  “This drawing is really good, though.” He threw up his hands, palms out, before her hackles went up again. “No follow-up questions—just a statement of fact.”

  “There’s so much great contrast to your face. Sharp cheekbones, a strong Roman nose. A five o’clock shadow that kicks in by three. That dimple in your chin, dead c
enter. All that gloriously thick and tousled hair. You’re a dream to draw, Flynn.”

  The familiar, happy burble came back into her voice the longer she talked. Normally Flynn wasn’t thrilled with being the subject of conversation. But hell, he’d listen to Sierra count his eyelashes if it made her sound like that.

  He gave a half bow. “Anything else I can do to make your dreams come true, just let me know.”

  A hunger kindled in her blue eyes that turned them darker than normal. An instant later, it was replaced by . . . sadness? Nah. That couldn’t be right.

  Sierra radiated more joy on her worst day than anyone he’d ever known. She got a genuine kick out of an extra fifty-cent tip. When he skewered three cherries and dropped them into her ginger ale. And if there was a baby on someone’s lap in the restaurant, she damn near burst with bliss.

  The thought of babies led him to think of children and a light bulb came on in his brain. “If I don’t offer to pay you or compliment you anymore, would you do me a drawing-related favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t draw.”

  “As well as me? Few can.” It didn’t come off as bragging. More an indisputable fact. Like saying the sky was blue. Or that he wanted to have her.

  Then Sierra threw him her own version of a shit-eating grin, and his heart flipped over. Moments like that, when she dropped the shyness and showed him her true self? It fucking humbled Flynn that she trusted him enough to drop her guard.

  Evidently she could joke about her crazy huge talent and acknowledge it was real. She just didn’t want a focus shined on it.

  Well, Sierra was shit outta luck on that one, because all Flynn wanted to do was focus on her.

  Later.

  Right now, he had a more immediate need.

  He pointed at the swinging door to the hallway. “There’s a group of kids out on the back patio who are supposed to help me make a float.”

  Sierra’s nose crinkled. Adorably. Again. Noses had never been a turn-on for him with any other woman. But nothing about Sierra was like any of the other women he’d dated. “A root beer float?”