If only.
“No. An honest-to-God truck bed, chicken-wire-and-paint float for the Cranberry Festival.”
“Are you in trouble? Did you get community service for something?”
Flynn wanted to bang his head against the bar. As a matter of fact, yes.
Except that his 1) wasn’t official through the sheriff, 2) being ordered to do community service by their marshal felt way more like punishment than the “road to community integration” Delaney labeled it, and 3) he couldn’t tell Sierra about any of reasons one and two.
“Now that we’ve moved to Bandon, me and my brothers figured we should be involved. Be a real part of the town. The Cranberry Festival’s the biggest thing going, so we all volunteered.” That sounded believable, right?
Sierra cocked her head to the side and studied him as though she were making a sketch in her head. “You don’t strike me as a joiner.”
She had him there. Flynn had joined one thing in his life—the Chicago mob—and look how that turned out.
“I never said that we were buying-a-tee-shirt excited about it. Just seemed like the right thing to do. Get to know our neighbors. Work to put the Festival together, instead of just showing up that weekend and eating a lot.”
“And you like to build floats?”
Hell if he knew. But how hard could it be? “I’m good with my hands.”
“I’ve noticed.” Then her cheeks suddenly blazed as red as a maraschino cherry.
Wasn’t that fascinating as hell? Flynn carefully put the napkin sketch down on top of another one, for protection. Then he leaned an elbow on the bar. Threw her the look about two dozen Chicago blondes had labeled his “bedroom eyes.” “Are you dirty-talking me?”
Sierra grabbed the sketch and put it in her bag. “You said my drawing talent was a statement of fact. This is no different. You, Flynn, happen to have talented hands.”
“You can bet your life that we’ll come back around to that later.” He lifted her hand and kissed each long, slender finger from the knuckle down to the unpainted tips. By the time he finished with her pinkie, Sierra was looking at him with that hot stare that made Flynn want to rip off his shirt. “I want details.”
The stare disappeared after her cheeks flushed again. Now she just looked flustered. One hand smoothed the buttons of her white shirt as if he’d copped a feel instead of just a glimpse. Her other hand brushed back hair that wasn’t out of place—since he hadn’t touched that, either.
Good to know that a couple of kisses made Sierra feel undressed. Flynn couldn’t wait to pick up from where they had to leave off.
He looked back over his shoulder, relieved that they didn’t have an audience aside from the table in the back corner full of tourists who’d set up a base camp two hours ago. The way they were slow-playing their beers—not to mention the deck of cards they were working—made Flynn think they wouldn’t leave until last call. Not that there were many better options in town to hang and drink.
Flynn had to admit, the Gorse had grown on him. The bright red wall gave the place character. The surprise of the jukebox could be fun, as long as someone with crap taste didn’t hog it too long.
He recognized regulars now. They nodded across the room when they came in. Called out his name when they wanted to threaten a friend acting like a dipwad. His insta-fame as a bouncer had come about after catching a burglar at Norah’s shop last month.
When he clocked in for work, Flynn clocked out of worrying about the future. Stopped mentally thrashing himself for being the reason they were in this mess. This bartending job the marshals had foisted on him might actually be a good fit, the more he thought about it. Why hadn’t he realized that until now?
Why hadn’t he let himself feel good?
Flynn liked making up new drinks. Liked the routine of locals changed up by the summer tourist wave. He liked Carlos and Jeb and Mariana. He really liked Sierra. The Gorse was, maybe, starting to feel like it could be home. That felt . . . good.
Shit.
Not that he could get used to it.
Nothing was guaranteed until after they testified.
That thought ghosting in—like it did a couple of dozen times a week—straightened Flynn’s spine. He needed to move before it snuffed out his good mood. “Look, will you help me or not?”
Sierra stood, stuffing her phone in her back pocket. A stern mask settled over her face, with her chin up and a purse to her kissable, bitable, lickable lips. “How do you plan to deal with the children out on the patio? Do you know how to talk to them? Children require active listening. Attention. Patience. Even a fun craft activity like this can be educational as well as a challenge for the adult.”
Sierra on her high horse was—possibly—even sexier than when she was flustered. “I like kids. A lot. I mentored a bunch of them back . . . where I used to live.”
He barely caught himself from saying “back home.” Because he’d promised Rafe that he wouldn’t pine for Chicago like it was the girl that got away.
Or at least try not to.
“You did?” Her tone was a fifty/fifty swirl cone of surprise and skepticism.
“Yeah.” Flynn ushered her ahead of him down the hallway. “Kids are the future, you know? If we don’t step up and put effort into teaching them to be good people, we’re just throwing away our future.”
Sierra stopped dead in her tracks right in between the bathroom doors and twisted around to goggle at him. “That’s—wow, Flynn. That’s not at all what I expected to hear.”
“I can go back to the expected suggestive banter later.” He gave her perfectly round ass a squeeze as punctuation.
“I’m serious. I’m impressed by your take on children.”
“Well, both my parents died by the time I was thirteen. We had Rafe to keep us together, but it was still hard. I don’t want any kid to feel lost and alone. Like they don’t have somebody they can turn to.”
Shit.
That . . . was not supposed to have come out.
Flynn didn’t talk about his parents being gone. He never, ever talked about how hard it had been after that.
He sure as hell never expected it to slip out in front of a bathroom with a piece of driftwood as a door handle and Beyoncé blaring from the speakers overhead.
Sierra put her hand on his arm. Her big blue eyes puddled at the corners. “You were thirteen? But Rafe’s not that much older than you, is he?”
“Three years.” The words choked off. Flynn did not want to get into this. He couldn’t. How did you explain that three kids—one not even a teenager—evaded Social Services thanks to shady strings being pulled by a mob boss?
If Sierra pushed him? Flynn didn’t know what he’d say. He hadn’t bothered to think up a lie to explain it, because he’d never planned on sharing that part of his history with anyone. Shutting her down would be confusing, hurtful to her.
Shit.
“Oh, Flynn. I’m so sorry.” Sierra put her arms around him. Pressed herself against him, ankles to thighs to chests. It was a hug to end all hugs. Tight. Gentle. Comforting. “I lost my parents when I was three. I know exactly what you mean about being alone. Not having anyone to talk to. It’s the worst.”
He rested his chin on the top of her head and just enjoyed the moment. Enjoyed being soothed in a way he hadn’t been since . . . he was fifteen. The memory slapped at his brain, out of the blue.
A hospital wasn’t as easily stonewalled/bribed/whatever as Social Services. They’d required parental consent to do his emergency appendectomy. So McGinty’s girlfriend-du-jour pretended to be his mom for three days. She’d held his hand, fluffed his pillows, and generally comforted him.
For a solid year after that, Flynn had wished for another hospital stay—a bad leg break, tonsillectomy, anything—just to feel that level of security and contentment again. Not just for the morphine, either.
But he’d stayed healthy. And toughened up.
Stopped wishing for what would never hap
pen again.
Until now.
Until this very moment, when Sierra’s touch and words and sensitivity slayed him and filled him up at the same time. Jesus, to think that she’d lost her parents at only three? It didn’t sound like she’d had anyone to lean on like he had Kellan and Rafe. Yet here, she was much worse off and offering him sympathy. No questions. Just the hug he’d been needing for fucking years without even realizing it.
Special . . . caring . . . giving . . . these words didn’t begin to describe Sierra Williams.
How on earth did he luck out like this?
After pressing a soft kiss right over his heart, Sierra stepped out of his embrace. Her eyes still glittered with wetness. Flynn swiped his thumb in a crescent under each one. Then they just looked at each other. No longer touching, but connected deeper than they were before coming down this hallway.
A tow-headed tough guy of about five barreled through the back door, then skidded to a stop in front of them. “Are you Mr. Maguire?”
“Depends.” Flynn crouched on his haunches. “Does Mr. Maguire owe you any money?”
“No . . . I mean, maybe?” he said slyly. Then a series of big nods. “Yes. I’m pretty sure he owes me at least a dollar.”
It took everything in Flynn not to laugh out loud at the brass balls on this one. He’d literally seen the kid start with the truth, and then the moment when the idea of scamming Flynn had marched across the freckles on his face.
“What’s your name?”
“Brendan.”
“Well, you tracked me down, Brendan. I’m Mr. Maguire. And this is Miss Williams. How about you shake her hand like a gentleman?”
Brendan stuck out his hand, and then flashed Sierra a smile sweeter than a jelly donut.
Shaking it, she said, “Wow. So grown-up. You must be at least, what, twenty?”
Giggles poured out of him. “No! Even my sister’s not that old. And she can drive.”
“Anyone can drive,” Sierra said with a dismissive toss of her hair. “You know what I need in a man? Someone who can help.”
“I’m a great helper. Momma says so all the time.”
“Then I might just draft you to be my special helper, Brendan.”
Flynn snapped and shot out both index fingers. “How about you help us out right now by telling us why you came looking for me?”
“’Cause we’re all here. To make the float. I’m s’posed to get you to start.”
“See? You’re already a great helper.” Sierra ruffled his hair. “Thanks, Brendan. Why don’t you run back outside and tell everyone that we’ll be right out?”
“‘Kay.” He got about four steps down the hallway before turning back around. “What about my dollar?”
Oh, he was a smart one. He’d be a challenge. Flynn frickin’ loved those kids. He dug into his bar apron for a buck. Held it right in front of Brendan. “You can have the dollar. Or . . . you can have the oatmeal cookies I brought for a snack. See, if you take that dollar, you could buy your own cookies. You wouldn’t need mine.”
Brendan reached for the dollar. Then he pressed it against Flynn’s chest and patted his hand. “You keep it.” And he raced out the door.
Sierra put a hand on Flynn’s arm as he stood. “I’m going to thank you ahead of time.”
“For what? Dragging you into what could be a train wreck? Or, at best, will be loud and crazy and messy?”
“Exactly. It sounds like a perfect afternoon. I haven’t had one like it in a long time. So thanks for asking me to help.”
“Here I was, ready to bribe you.”
Laughter burbled out of her throat. “You can’t bribe me, I already said yes.”
“That’s too bad. I wanted to take you on a date. As a reward for helping out the greater good of the glorification of the Cranberry Festival.”
“Funny, I heard Floyd use that very phrase when he was in here last night for a drink.”
Flynn remembered. His usual was a Seabreeze. Cranberry and vodka. He wouldn’t be surprised if the self-important chairman of the Festival had a comforter printed with a picture of the fruit. “Pretty sure he says it at least once a day, like a mantra.”
She opened the door to the patio. Screams and laughter ricocheted off the high fence encircling the concrete patio. A few kids had already gotten into the buckets of sidewalk chalk. Smiling, she waved her arm at the scene. “I’m just doing my part as a good citizen.”
“Aren’t we a civic-minded bar staff? Carlos should make us shirts. The Pride of Bandon.”
“I would, however, very much like to go on a date with you. Not as payment or reward. Just because it would make me happy.”
Best. Reason. Ever.
Especially since Flynn was suddenly happy, too.
But no chance that’d last.
Not with his luck.
Chapter Eight
Sierra tipped her head back to catch more of the breeze from the open T-tops of Flynn’s car. The rays of the early evening sun had lost their punch and felt relaxing on her forehead and shoulders. What a great way to start their date. Then she stretched her legs out all the way. “This car has amazing leg room.”
“If Rafe were here, he’d counter by saying that this car has amazing everything. Then he’d proceed to explain that this 1970 Chevy Camaro, with its ‘new Strato bucket seats,’ along with a whole bunch of boring details about what’s under the hood, is the best car ever made.” Flynn shook his head.
“I take it you’re not equally enamored of this classic car?”
He blew a big raspberry. “Some people say classic. I say old. I say, where are the automatic windows and Bluetooth and a way to change the radio station without taking my hands off the wheel?”
“You’re a technology lover, huh?”
“You bet. Why not take advantage of every advancement there is? Don’t tell me George Washington wouldn’t have given every set of his wooden teeth to have air-conditioning during those sticky summers at Mount Vernon. Or that Babe Ruth wouldn’t get a kick out of watching his Yankees in HD.”
He was a walking cliché of masculinity. It tickled Sierra to death. Flynn was the guy who’d upgrade to a new electric knife every Thanksgiving—and believe that there was a difference. He was the opposite of everyone back in her painting program, which made him twice as interesting to Sierra.
“So what kind of a car did you have before deciding to share one with your brothers? One with all the bells and whistles?”
Flynn opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it again. Then he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head before clearing his throat. “A Jeep Wrangler Sport. Leather seats, nine speaker system with an all-weather subwoofer and an overhead sound bar, SiriusXM radio. And yeah, seat warmers.”
He sounded . . . wistful? It was a little hard to tell. Now that Flynn was finally opening up to her rather than just chatting, Sierra was hearing a lot of nuances for the first time from him. And she wanted to keep mining for more. Especially since he’d dropped that bombshell about both of his parents being dead. It gave them something deep and meaningful in common.
Not that she’d wish that particular experience on her worst enemy. But it wasn’t easy to find people her own age who could begin to grasp just how alone she felt in the world. Flynn still had his brothers, but he had that “I am an island” shuttered look in his eyes that she felt deep in her soul so often.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “You must miss it.”
“I do. Rafe deserves this old relic. He’s wanted one his whole life. Loves to tinker with it. I’m glad he’s living the dream. I just miss my car.”
“How’s the whole sharing thing working out?”
His jaw tightened until the side of his face looked as hard as a marble statue. “Not well.”
“Because you’re all grown, independent men not used to accommodating each other’s schedules?”
“No. Because my brothers are asshats.”
He said it so matter-of-f
actly, no different from stating that they all had black hair. Sierra laughed as she looked out the window. The wall of pine trees edging the Oregon Coast Highway blurred into a wavery, ombré wall of green, thanks to Flynn’s heavy foot on the pedal. “Is that so?”
“It is. Well, some of the time. I guarantee they say the same about me. A car means freedom. Going your own way, doing your own thing. Without first being dragged through a ten-round negotiation and prioritization discussion.”
Hmm. Flynn’s schedule at the Gorse matched up with hers, most of the time. He never mentioned hiking or kayaking or windsurfing. On her days off, Sierra had started to go down to the boardwalk to draw. She didn’t recall seeing him there, either. So she took a chance and pressed him. “To be fair, do you go anywhere besides the bar? Do anything that requires a car?”
One dark, thick eyebrow shot up as his neck slowly cranked around. In a low, threatening growl, he asked, “Are you taking Rafe’s and Kellan’s side?”
When they first met . . . well, who was she kidding? She’d been equal parts completely weak-kneed at his hotness and intimidated by his bad boy vibe. The wall of indifference and attitude that roiled off of him like steam off a mug of coffee had to make every woman within twenty miles want to be the one who broke through to him.
Sierra hadn’t thought for a second that she had anything necessary to meet that challenge. But it hadn’t stopped her from wondering what lay beneath that . . . reserve. Now that she knew about the big heart and caring tenderness, Flynn didn’t intimidate her one bit. Not even when he tried his best to.
“I’m taking their side if you’re going to be stupid about it. If you’re, oh, I don’t know, campaigning for your third of time even if you don’t need to drive anywhere.”
“Stop reading my mind,” he ordered.
Giggling, she shifted in her seat to cross her legs. “I’m quite sure I’ve barely cracked the surface.”
“You still hit the nail on the head,” he grumbled. “But that’s how it is with brothers. You have to keep on your guard, or they’ll run roughshod over you. Next thing you know, your little brother ‘forgets’ to add your laundry when he runs a load. Then there’s a whole complicated thing with reminding Kellan he’s the youngest and he’s got to show us a little respect.”
Never Been Good Page 10
