Flynn talked about his brothers a lot and Sierra knew she’d never, ever get tired of hearing about them. Families—close families—absolutely fascinated her. “What does that entail?”
“Last week? It was a wrestling match in the sand that ended with Rafe dragging both of us into the ocean.”
“At the same time? That’s . . . impressive. I wish I’d seen it.”
“Nah. I let him. Rafe hasn’t been able to get the upper hand on me in at least five years.”
That didn’t sound boastful. Flynn said it as fact, which seemed unusual. From the times the Maguires had eaten together at the Gorse, Rafe seemed a bit taller than Flynn’s six feet. “Really?”
“I can beat anyone in a fight.” Another flat statement of fact. “I used to do that all the time.”
Fighting was so far outside of Sierra’s frame of reference. No artist would do anything that might risk injuring their fingers. “You were in actual fights with people?”
“In a ring. In competitions. Not over grabbing the last bag of peanuts at a ball game.”
Wow. Big-time wow. Suddenly Sierra wanted to see him in action. Wanted to watch the ripple of muscles and tendons and the utter grace she was positive flowed off of him like water. It would be beautiful. To her artistic eye. And incredibly arousing, as well. To all the parts of her that were on alert right now just from sharing a car ride with Flynn.
“And you always won?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. No point doing something unless you do it all the way.” He huffed out a breath. Draped one wrist over the top of the steering wheel and pushed the other up his forehead and through his hair. “That used to be my motto.”
“Used to be?” Flynn was dropping all sorts of crumbs of information. But Sierra had to push the conversational broom pretty hard to sweep them into a recognizable pile.
“New state, new motto.”
That was it. He sighed, but said nothing more. Was Flynn really that oblivious to how hard she was trying here? With a tad less patience, she asked, “What is it now?”
Repeating the hand swipe over his head, he said, “I haven’t figured that out yet.” His voice sounded grim. Sierra didn’t know anyone else who had a personal motto, so she wasn’t sure why it mattered so much. But it obviously did to Flynn.
Now she regretted pushing. She still wanted to know—everything—about him. Every crumb he let fall showed Flynn to be that much more of an interesting and thoughtful person. But the last thing Sierra wanted to do was be the cause of that frown line between his eyebrows.
She scrambled to take his mind out of whatever emotional dark alley she’d accidentally sent him down. “I wish I could see you fight.”
It did the trick. Flynn flashed her a smile, all full of cockiness and promise. “You want to see my muscles? I’ll whip them out anytime you want.”
“Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I do want to see your muscles.”
Sliding his sunglasses down his nose to peer at her over the frames, he asked, “Which ones?”
Thanks to the required anatomy class at her undergrad, Sierra could literally name each one. Not all seven hundred in the body, but the correct name for each one that she wanted to see. It’d take too long, though. Not to mention seriously putting a damper on their flirting. “Would it be greedy to say all of them?”
“Not if you knew how badly I want you to see them. How badly I want you to touch them.” Flynn grabbed her hand and put it just below the hem of his shorts. She felt the crispness of dark hairs covering the rock-hard rectus femoris and the diagonal sweep of the sartorius muscle. Then she gave herself a mental high five for remembering the Latin names.
Then Sierra stopped thinking at all because Flynn squeezed her hand, curling his fingers around and mixing a sweet dollop of romance into the lust already pulsing right below her skin. “You’d be doing me a huge favor if you turned those gorgeous blue eyes of yours onto any of my muscles.”
“I don’t have a motto, like you, but now I’ve got a goal.”
With a chuckle, Flynn let go and turned his attention back to the road as they bumped off the flat stretch and up onto the enormous bridge.
The green of the metal trusses almost matched the dull green of the Coquille River below. Sierra’s fingers twitched with want for a paintbrush and canvas. “Someone at the Gorse said this is a lift bridge. I’d love to watch it go up and down, see a big ship go under it.”
“Drawbridges are cool. Slow, though. I’d always start off excited to watch. Then after five minutes of idling, waiting for some dumb-ass weekend sailor to figure out how to get his boat in line, I’d be cussing and miserable.”
This time, Sierra bit back the follow-up question literally itching on the tip of her tongue. Like where he got to see drawbridges all the time. One near miss of Flynn shutting down on her was enough. Especially since their date had barely begun.
No. Especially since she’d probably freak out if he pushed her to answer any personal questions. She’d take what he offered up. Not push for more. And hope against hope that Flynn extended the same courtesy.
“Are you planning to buy your own car soon?”
“Thinking about it. We agreed to try sharing one for, ah, about six months. You know, do our part for the environment. Bandon’s so frickin’ small. We can walk most places, no problem. Aside from getting rained on.”
“I’m surprised your brothers let you take the car tonight, with so little notice.”
“Are you kidding?” He drummed on the steering wheel. “A hot date takes priority over anything. Except a cold body in the trunk.”
Just as Sierra began to laugh, Flynn sucked in air that almost sounded choked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—we don’t actually cart around dead bodies.”
“Of course not. That’s why I’m laughing.”
“You are, aren’t you?” He turned his head to check on her once, and then again, like he couldn’t believe it. “I’ve been told my humor’s too dry—or morbid—for some people.”
“That may be true. But you’re not on a date with ‘some people.’ You’re with me. And you make me laugh all the time.”
He pulled into the Bullards Beach parking lot and gave her yet another long, appraising look. The kind that, if it came from anyone else, would make Sierra wonder if she had a spot on her shirt. But Flynn seemed to be having a whole internal conversation with himself as he looked at her.
Flynn pulled into a parking spot. “Then I’m a damn lucky man.” As he got out of the car, he tossed out an order. “Don’t move.”
Weird. They’d clearly arrived at their destination and the parking lot was empty on this Thursday night. It was in the middle of a state park, so there weren’t any restaurants or services around. Just tawny sand, random bumps of bushes, and a still-bright blue sky overhead.
Then her door opened and Flynn extended a hand to help her out. His other gripped a backpack.
“I’m fine now. My ankle barely even twinges. You don’t need to cart me around.”
“I’m not carrying you. Unless you want me to,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I’m opening the door for you because you’re a lady and my mom would turn over in her grave if I didn’t.”
Now Sierra felt stupid. Younger than Flynn and like a country bumpkin. She should’ve known. He’d always treated her like a lady. He held open the kitchen pass-through for her all the time.
But she’d led a pretty sheltered life. Not a lot of highbrow manners, aside from what she read about in books. “How old are you?” she blurted as she got out of the car.
Flynn let out something in between a laugh and a snort. “You’re carding me because I’m polite?”
“I’ve just been wondering. A lot of the time you seem deep and serious and older than your years.”
He draped an arm around her shoulders and led her down the path leading to the beach. “I’m twenty-seven. Although if you factor in moodiness, ’cause I was on a bender with that for a while,
my brothers would probably tell you I’m more like forty-seven.”
“You were on a bender? Does that mean it’s over now?” Because he had noticeably . . . lightened over the past few weeks. His smile flashed more often, he chatted more with the regulars at the Gorse. Flynn still had that strong and silent vibe on and off, but not nearly as often.
“Not over, no. But I’m clawing my way out of it. Or rather, you’re pulling me up.”
“Me?” Apprehension knotted Sierra’s stomach. This was very, very bad. Every magazine she’d ever read said that men hated it when women changed them. “I haven’t done anything. I didn’t even know you wanted to be pulled somewhere.” She spoke so quickly at the end that her words ran together.
“Simmer down.” He pulled her in tighter against his side to drop a kiss on top of her head. “It’s not an accusation. It’s a compliment. I was in a dark head space for a while before moving here. You shined in all your bright, beautiful light. It reminded me that being happy is a hell of a lot better than the alternative.”
That was . . . ironic. Because yes, Sierra excelled at finding joy in the little things. Living in the moment. Life in foster care taught you quickly to appreciate what you had, since it could be gone the next day.
But underneath that surface joy was constant worry. Anxiety. Dread. Exactly what Flynn had described—a dark head space. She went to sleep every night worried about Rick finding her, hurting her, and woke up every morning determined not to let that happen. The time she spent alone with Flynn was the safest she’d felt since leaving Milwaukee.
Sierra sure couldn’t tell any of that to the big, strong, sexy, and apparently happy man at her side. So yes, a little bit of hysterical laughter burst out of her. “Thanks.”
“How old are you?” Flynn pulled a blanket from the backpack, spread it out on the sand, and put his shoes on the corners to hold it down. Sierra toed hers off and did the same.
“Almost twenty-four.” Then that knot of panic came back because she’d answered Flynn without thinking. Without remembering that the age on the fake ID she’d purchased said she was twenty-six.
“Under twenty-five, huh? Then you might not be so thrilled with what I have planned for tonight.” Flynn took her hand and started walking. A few seagulls and much smaller birds ran at breakneck speeds away from the crashing surf. “See that building up ahead?”
Squinting against the slowly dipping sun, she saw a squat white building with a brick-red stripe along the bottom. It was roundish, maybe octagonal, and almost at the tip of a wall of rocks that ended in a point right where the river frothed into the Pacific. A cupola was all glass, and tipped with a red roof that matched the bottom.
“It looks like a lighthouse—except its only about three stories tall?” As if a giant had stepped on a normal lighthouse, squishing it down to this miniature version.
“It’s a lighthouse, alright. For guiding ships into the river. I guess that’s why it doesn’t have to be very tall. Abandoned now, but I thought it’d be a nice walk over to it, then out onto the rocks.”
Sierra wanted to pull Flynn into a run. The need to be closer, to look at it from all sides through her artist’s eyes, jittered its way down into her feet. How could he just saunter? The water had to be six or seven shades of blue and green with the mixture between ocean and river. The stark contrast against the black rocks surrounding it, and the blue sky could be sketched from at least a half dozen angles. It should be painted at sunset. During a lightning storm. Under cloud cover.
Giving in to the urge, she tugged at his arm, trying to hurry him along. “It’s beyond charming. It’s postcard-perfect. I need to draw it. I have to draw it. Can we come back with my paints next time?”
Flynn chuckled. Then he patted her hand. “How about we see first if I bore you to tears tonight?”
She didn’t understand. Not at all. “How on earth would you do that?”
“This—” he swept his arm to encompass the scenery, “—is the whole deal. We take a long walk on the beach, then go back and watch the sunset with the dinner I’ve got stashed in that backpack.”
“Flynn, it sounds perfect.” Or it would be, if he’d walk faster.
Or . . . maybe . . . she should focus on the handsome man next to her and save the painting mania for another trip. Sierra sucked in the salt-tinged air and reminded herself how lucky she was to be on the edge of the Pacific with such a wonderful guy. One who, miraculously, liked her. At least, the parts of herself that she let him know about.
She wouldn’t ruin tonight by wondering what he’d think about her if he knew the truth.
The furrow in his brow said that Flynn wasn’t convinced. “Does it sound okay? Or are you humoring me?”
“Why would I bother to humor you? If I didn’t like this, if I didn’t want to be with you, it’d just be a waste of a night.”
They veered closer to the shoreline, where it was easier to walk on the packed sand. “Wouldn’t you rather be in a club tossing back shots and dancing?”
“No.” Sierra stopped. Using her big toe, she drew an outline of a bottle and two shot glasses. Put it in a circle and slashed a diagonal line across it. Flynn barked out a laugh. Then she bent down to unearth a half-buried strand of seaweed. The thick rubberiness of the leaves surprised her. “Is that what you did?”
Flynn took the seaweed and pressed on a bulb, squirting seawater at her. “I worked a lot. Did the fights. But I hit some clubs, too. Look, I know this date is pretty basic. But I don’t know what sort of a good time to offer you here. This is all different to me. I’m off my game. Where I used to live there were more . . . options.”
Where was that, exactly?
Oh, yeah. Her new dating rule: don’t ask any question you aren’t willing to answer yourself.
“Flynn. This is perfect. Truly, I don’t need much to make me happy.”
“What do you need?”
It was the kind of question that came up at two in the morning—or on a deserted stretch of beach with only the crashing waves as background music. It deserved a thoughtful answer. A real one, as best she could share without revealing her secrets.
“A place to paint. Some . . . peace. Lots of honesty. No secrets or lies.” It was one hundred percent hypocritical of her to wish for that. But Rick had lied to her for so long. The hurt and betrayal she’d felt when the truth unraveled was a feeling Sierra never wanted to experience again. So yes, it went on her wish list.
A girl could dream, couldn’t she?
Flynn’s fingers dug into the back of her hand all of a sudden, then just as quickly relaxed. He moved behind her so that they both faced the lighthouse, keeping the setting sun at their backs. Then he circled his arms around her in a loose embrace. “That’s both simple and very specific.”
“All I want is a simple life. I never dreamed of being rich or traveling the world.” This moment, right here, with Flynn, was so much better than anything she’d ever dared to hope for. Because when you lived with nothing for so long, almost everything seemed out of reach and impossible to imagine. “I just want lots of happiness.”
His head cozied up against hers, lips brushing the top rim of her ear. “How about lots of kisses, too?”
“Oh, geez. You’re right. I don’t know how those slipped my mind . . .” Sierra wound her hand around the back of his neck to make sure he didn’t go anywhere. He clamped tighter the arm at her waist, pulling her back against a hard-on so impressive it made her gasp.
Flynn moved in on that gasp, capturing her mouth while it was still open. His tongue swooped in, tasting and licking and stroking the inside of her mouth.
But Sierra was ready. Ready for him. Primed by the happiness of being with him and the romance-drenched moment. So she shifted sideways and became the aggressor. Wrapped a leg around his like a vine up a marble column—because that’s how solid Flynn’s muscles felt—and twined to him with every possible appendage.
Her fingers wove through his hair. Her other h
and boldly shot up his untucked black shirt to clutch at the warm skin of his back. Her tongue took over his mouth. It didn’t matter what was in his backpack picnic. What Sierra hungered for right now could only be assuaged by more Flynn. More heat. More pressure. More moans that melded with the music of the waves.
Suddenly her other foot left the ground as Flynn lifted her and spun them in slow circles. She tipped her head back for a second. Then she blinked at the handsome man grinning down at her. “What are you doing?”
“Feels like the earth is moving?”
Sierra nodded, already dizzy and more than a little kiss-drunk. But she didn’t want him to stop, either.
“I’m giving you a preview of what it’ll feel like when we have sex.”
She swallowed hard. “Oh.”
Flynn carried her closer to the water. He stood with his feet submerged, turned so that spray hit her cheeks from the suddenly gusty wind. “It’ll feel like this, too. Fierce. Inexorable.”
Sexy and smart. Was there any better combination? Oh, well, yes. The icing on top of Flynn’s mysterious bad boy vibe. “What kind of a person uses the word inexorable?” she murmured, not really expecting him to hear it over the surf.
“What kind of person knows what it means?” he whispered back even softer.
Was she supposed to have heard that? Did it mean that Flynn realized she wasn’t telling him the whole truth about herself?
“Touché.”
Chapter Nine
Flynn didn’t mind unloading the booze delivery. Hoisting kegs and cases full of bottles was a good workout. Well, a good start to a workout, anyway. The only gyms in Bandon were those women-friendly places that had circuits for weights and eight different kinds of dance classes. No free weights. No heavy bag. Flynn knew better than to go into a gym for weekend warriors if he wanted to avoid attention.
There was a rumor that Mollie was going to hook them up with memberships for the fully loaded gym at Lucien’s resort. But he wasn’t holding his breath. Flynn didn’t doubt that Mollie would ask her BFF if it was possible to swing it without them paying the bazillion dollar membership fee for the entire resort.
Never Been Good Page 11
