by Jill Shalvis
“What do you need?” he asked, voice deep with concern.
“Not for me, for you!” She sat up again. “You could get an infection, we need a first-aid kit!”
He blew out a sigh, like maybe she was being a colossal pain in his ass. But he rose to his feet and walked toward a door behind his desk. The problem was now she could see his back, an acre of smooth, sleek skin, rippling muscles . . .
He vanished into a bathroom and came back with a first-aid kit, and then sat at her side on the couch. Before he could open it up, she took it from his hands and rummaged through. Finding what she needed, she poured some antiseptic onto a cotton pad and pressed it against the wound.
He sucked in a breath and she looked up at him. “Getting hit with a dart didn’t make you blink an eye,” she said. “Neither did ripping it out like a He-man. But this hurts?”
“It’s cold.”
This got a low laugh out of her. She was trying not to notice that her fingers were pressed up against his warm skin as she held the cotton in place, or that her other hand had come up to grip his bicep. Or that his nipples had hardened.
Or that she was staring at his body, her eyes feeling like a kid in a candy shop, not quite knowing where to land. Those pecs. That washboard set of abs. The narrow happy trail that vanished into the waistband of his jeans, presumably leading straight to his—
“I think I’m all disinfected now,” he said, sounding amused.
With a jerky nod, she set the cotton pad aside and reached for a Band-Aid. But her hands were shaking and she couldn’t open the damn thing.
His fingers gently took it from hers. Quickly and efficiently, he opened it and put it on himself. “All better,” he said and quirked a brow. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“You changed your mind about kissing it all better?”
That she wanted to do just that kept her from rolling her eyes again.
He laughed softly, which she assumed was because the bastard knew exactly what he did to her.
“So,” he said. “You were right. You really do bring the fun. What’s next?”
“Hitting you over your thick head with this first-aid kit,” she said, closing the thing up.
“You’re violent.” He grinned at her. “I like it.”
“You have a very odd sense of humor.” She stood on legs that were still a little wobbly. “I really am sorry, Finn.”
“No worries. I’ve had worse done to me.”
“Like?”
“Well . . .” He appeared to give this some thought. “A woman once chucked a beer bottle at my face.” He pointed to a scar above his right eyebrow. “Luckily I ducked.”
She gaped at him. “Seriously?”
He shrugged. “She thought I was Sean.”
“Well that explains it,” she said and had the pleasure of making him laugh.
His laugh did things to her. So did the fact that he was still shirtless. “Do you have another shirt?” she asked.
“One without a hole in it, you mean?”
She groaned. “Yes! And without blood all over it.” She bent and scooped up his fallen shirt. “I’m going to buy you a new one—” she started as she rose back up and . . . bumped into him.
And his bare chest.
“Stop,” he said kindly but firmly as his hands came up to her shoulders. “I’m not all that hurt and you’ve already apologized. It wasn’t even your fault. My idiot brother should never have allowed blindfolded darts. If our insurance company got a whiff of that, we’d be dumped.”
But Pru had a long habit of taking on the blame. It was what she did, and she did it well. Besides, in this case, her guilt came from something else, something much, much worse than stabbing him with a dart and she didn’t know how to handle it. Especially now that they were standing toe to toe with his hands on her.
Tell him, a voice deep inside her said.
But she was having trouble focusing. All she could think about was pressing her mouth to the Band-Aid. Above the Band-Aid. Below the Band-Aid. Wayyyyy below the Band-Aid . . .
She didn’t understand it. He wasn’t even her usual type. Okay, so she wasn’t sure what her type was exactly. She hadn’t been around the block all that many times but she’d always figured she’d know it when she saw it.
But she was having the terrible, no-good, frightening feeling that she’d seen it in the impenetrable, unshakeable, unflappable, decidedly sexy Finn O’Riley.
Which of course made everything, everything, far worse so she closed her eyes. “Oh God. I could have killed you.”
Just as her parents had killed his dad . . .
And at that thought, the one she’d been trying like hell to keep at bay, the horror of it all reached up and choked her, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to do anything but panic.
“Hey. Hey,” Finn said with devastating gentleness as he maneuvered her back to sitting on the couch. “It’s all okay, Pru.”
She could only shake her head and try to pull free. She didn’t deserve his sympathy, didn’t deserve—
“Pru. Babe, you’ve got to breathe for me.”
She sucked in some air.
“Good,” he said firmly. “Again.”
She drew in another breath and the spots once again dancing in front of her eyes began to fade away, leaving her view of Finn, on his knees before her, steady as a rock. “I’m okay now,” she said. And to prove it she stood on her own. To gain some desperately needed space, she walked away from him and walked around his office.
His big wood desk wasn’t messy but wasn’t exactly neat either, a wall lined with shelves on which sat everything from a crate of pub giveaways like beer cozies and mouse pads, to a big ball of Christmas lights.
Pictures covering one wall. His brother. His friends. A group shot of them on the roof of the building, where people went for star gazing, hot summer night picnicking, or just to be alone on top of the world.
There were a few pics of Finn too, although not many, she saw as she moved slowly along the wall, realizing the pics got progressively older.
There were several from many years ago. Finn in a high school baseball uniform. And then a college uniform. He’d played ball for a scholarship and had been destined for the pros—until he’d quit school abruptly at age twenty-one when he’d had to give everything up to care for his younger brother after the death of his father.
She sucked in a breath and kept looking at the pictures. There was one of Finn and a group of guys wearing no shirts and backpacks standing on a mountaintop, and if she wasn’t mistaken, one of them was Archer.
Another of Finn sitting in a souped-up classic-looking Chevelle next to a GTO, a pretty girl standing between the cars waving a flag. Clearly a pre-street-race photo.
Once upon a time, he’d indeed been wild and adventurous. And she knew exactly what had changed him. The question was, could she really help bring some of that back to him, something she wanted, needed, to do with all her heart.
Chapter 7
#WafflesAreAlwaysTheAnswer
Finn watched Pru’s shoulders tense as she looked at the pictures on the walls, and wished she’d turn his way so he could see her face. But she kept staring at the evidence of his life as if it was of the utmost importance to her. “You okay?” he asked.
She shook her head. Whether in answer to the question or because whatever was on her mind weighed too heavily to express, he had no idea. Turning her to him, he watched as her long lashes swept upward, her eyes pummeling him with a one-two gut punch.
And going off the pulse racing at the base of her throat, she was just as affected by him, which was flattering as hell but right now he was more concerned about the shadows clouding her eyes. “You’re worried about something,” he said.
She bit her lower lip.
“Let me guess. You forgot to put the plug in your boat and it might sink before your next shift.”
As he’d intended, her mouth curved. “I never
forget the plug.”
“Okay . . . so you’re worried you’ve maimed me for life and I’ll have to give up my lucrative bartending career.”
Her smile faded. “You joke,” she said, “but I could have maimed you if I’d thrown higher.”
“Or lower,” he said and shuddered at the thought.
She closed her eyes and turned away again. “I’m really so very sorry, Finn.”
“Pru, look at me.”
She slowly turned to face him. There were secrets in her eyes that had nothing to do with the dart thing, and a hollowness as well, one that moved him because he recognized it. He’d seen it in the reflection of his own mirror. Moving in close, he reached for her hand, loosely entangling their fingers. He told himself it was so that he could catch her again if she went down but he knew the truth. He just wanted to touch her.
“I’m sure you have to get back out there—” she started.
“In a minute.” He tugged her in a little so that they were toe to toe now. And thanks to her kickass boots, they were also nearly mouth to mouth. “What’s going on, Pru?” he asked, holding her gaze.
She opened her mouth but then hesitated. And when she spoke, he knew she’d changed whatever she’d been about to say. “Looks like your life has changed a lot,” she said, gesturing to the pictures that Sean had printed from various sources, stuffed into frames, and put out on the shelf in chronological order the day after they’d opened the pub.
When Finn had asked him what the hell, Sean had simply said “not everyone is as unsentimental as you. Just shut up and enjoy them—and you’re welcome.”
Over the past year new pictures just showed up. More of Sean’s doing. Finn got it. Sean felt guilty for all Finn had given up to raise him, but Finn didn’t want him to feel guilty. He wanted him to take life more seriously.
“It’s changed some,” he allowed cautiously to Pru. He didn’t know how they’d gotten here, on this subject. A few minutes ago she’d been all sweetly, adorably worried about him, wanting to play doctor.
And he’d been game.
“It looks like it’s changed more than some,” she said. “The fun pics stopped.”
“Once I bought the pub, yeah,” he said.
He’d had different plans for himself. Without a maternal influence, and their dad either at work or mean as a skunk, he and Sean had been left to their own devices. A lot. Finn had used those years to grow up as fast and feral and wild as he could. Yeah, he’d been an ace athlete, but he’d also been a punk-ass idiot. He’d skated through on grades, which luckily had come easy for him so his coaches had been willing to put up with his crazy ass to have him on the team. His big plan had been to get drafted into the big leagues, tell his dad to go fuck himself, and retire with a big fat bank account.
It hadn’t exactly gone down like that. Instead, his dad had gotten himself killed in a car accident that had nothing to do with his own road rage—he’d been hit by a drunk driver.
Barely twenty-one, Finn might’ve kept to his plan but Sean had been only fourteen. The kid would’ve been dumped into the system if Finn hadn’t put a lock down on his wild side, grown up, and put them both on the straight and narrow.
It’d been the hardest thing he’d ever done, and there’d been lots of days he wasn’t entirely sure he’d succeeded.
“Well I probably should . . .” Pru trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the door. But she didn’t go. Instead she glanced at his mouth.
As far as signs went, it was a good one. She was thinking of his mouth on hers. Which seemed only fair since he’d given a lot of thought to the same thing.
“’Night,” she whispered.
“Night,” he whispered back.
And yet neither of them moved.
She was still staring at his mouth, and chewing on her lower lip while she was at it. He wanted to lean in and take over, nibbling first one corner of her mouth and then the other, and then maybe he’d take a nibble of her plump lower lip too, before soothing it with his tongue. Then he’d work his way down her body the same to every last square inch of her—
“Right?” she asked.
He blinked. So busy thinking about what he wanted to do to her, about the sounds she might make as he worked her over with his tongue, he’d not heard a word she’d said. “Right.”
She nodded and . . . walked away.
Wait—what the hell? He grabbed her hand and just barely stopped her. “Where are you going?”
“I just said I really should go and you said right.”
Not about to admit he hadn’t listened to a word she’d said because he’d been too busy mentally fucking her, he just held onto her hand. “But you’re the Fun Whisperer. You have to stay and save me, otherwise I’ll go back to work.”
“A real wild man,” she said with a smile.
He gave another tug on her hand. She was already right there but she shifted in closer, right up against him.
She sighed, as if the feel of him was all she’d wanted, and then she froze. Her eyes were wide and just a little bit anxious now as she stared into his. “Uh oh.”
Granted, it’d been awhile but that wasn’t the usual reaction he got when he pulled a woman in close. “Problem?”
“No.” She bit her lower lip. “Maybe.”
“Tell me.”
She hesitated and then said, “My mom taught me to show not tell.” And then her hands went to his chest, one of them right over the Band-Aid, which she touched gently, running her fingers over it as if she wished she could take away the pain. “I just need to see something . . .”
“What?”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth and again she hesitated.
Tenderness mixed with his sudden pervasive hunger and need, a dizzying combination for a guy who prided himself on not feeling much. “Pru—”
“Shh a second,” she whispered. And then closing the gap, she brushed her lips over his.
At the connection, he groaned, loving the way her hands tightened on him. She murmured his name, a soft plea and yet somehow also a demand, and he wanted to both smile and tug her down to the couch. Trying to cool his jets, trying to let her stay in charge, he attempted to hold back, but she let out this breathy little whimper like he was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Threading his fingers through her hair, he took over the kiss, slow, deeper now, until she let out another of those delicious little whimpers and practically climbed his body.
Yeah, she liked that, a whole hell of a lot, and he closed his arms hard around her, lifting her up against him for more. He’d known they had something but this . . . this rocked his world. Hers too because they both melted into it, tongues sliding, lips melding, bodies arching into each other in a slow rhythm.
The door to the office suddenly opened and Sean stood there, face tilted down to his iPad. “We’ve gotta problem with inventory—” he said, still reading. “Where the hell’s the—Oh,” he said, finally looking up. “Shit. Now I owe Spence twenty bucks.”
Finn resisted smashing in his brother’s smug smile, barely, mostly because he didn’t want to take his eyes off Pru who’d brought her fingers up to her still wet lips, looking more than a little dazed.
Join my club, babe . . .
“Sorry if I interrupted the sexy times,” Sean said, not looking sorry at all. He smiled at Pru. “Hey, Trouble.”
“Hey,” she said, blushing. “I’ve got to go.” She turned in a slow circle, clearly looking for her purse, finding it where he’d dropped it on the couch. She slung it over her shoulder and without actually making eye contact with either of them, said a quick “’night” and headed to the door.
Finn caught her, brushing up against her back. “Let me walk you home—”
“I live only two flights up,” she said, not looking at him. “Not necessary.”
Right. But it was more than her safety he’d been worried about. She’d been with him during that kiss, very with him, but now there was a distance again and he wanted to breach it
.
“If there’s any complications from where I tried to kill you,” she said to the door. “You need to—”
“I won’t. I’m fine.” He let his mouth brush her ear as he spoke and he could feel the shiver wrack her body.
“Okay then,” she said shakily, and was gone.
Finn turned to Sean.
Who was grinning. “Look at you with all the moves. They grow up so fast.”
“You ever hear of a thing called knocking?” Finn asked.
Sean shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Is everything about fun?”
“Yes!” Sean said, tossing up his hands. “Now you’re getting it!”
Finn turned away and eyed the spot between the couch and the desk where he’d just about dragged Pru down to the floor and ended his long dry spell by sinking into her warm, sweet body. “What’s the problem with the inventory?”
“It’s down, the whole system’s down.”
Finn snatched the iPad and swiped the screen to access the data. “And you’re just now telling me? Are you kidding me?”
“Yes,” Sean said.
Finn lifted his head and stared at Sean. “What?”
His brother flashed a grin. “Yes I’m kidding. Funning around. Fucking with your head. I came back here because Archer and Spence sent me in here to spy on you and Trouble. We bet twenty bucks. They thought you might be making a rare move.”
Jesus.
“Not me though,” Sean said. “I figured you’re so rusty you’d need some pointers. And here’s your first one—lock the door, man. Always.”
Finn headed toward him but Sean danced away with a grin. “Oh and pointer number two—you got your shirt off and that’s a good start, but it’s the pants that are the important part.” He was chortling, having a great ol’ time.
Finn smiled at him, shoved him out the door, and slammed it on his smug-ass face.
Then he hit the lock.
“Now you lock it?” Sean asked through the wood, rattling the handle. “Hey. You do know I nap on that couch. Tell me you didn’t do it on the couch.”
