Harlequin Heartwarming May 2016 Box Set (49 page)

Why, oh, why, did he have to seem so sincere? Tears stung her eyes, and Finn held her breath.
You will not cry. Do.
Not.
Cry!

Sam took a step closer, stooping slightly to study her face. Why didn't he just leave? She'd ask him to go...if she could speak around the sob in her throat.

“Aw, hey, it's okay. You're safe now,” he said, and extended his arms.

If anyone had told her she'd so willingly step into them, she would have called them insane.

But that was exactly what she did, and safe was exactly how she felt.

CHAPTER NINE

S
AM
HAD
COMFORTED
women before. Not so unusual for a guy in his line of work, especially one with a mom, grandmothers, sisters, an assortment of aunts and nieces and a weepy ex-girlfriend or two. Some wailed, others sniffled, a few hiccupped...over lost loved ones and pets, poignant movie plots, thoughtful gifts. But not one had held on so tight he could feel her heart beating against his chest. If not for the tears dampening his shirt and the quaking of Finn's petite body, he wouldn't have realized she was crying.

His leg was killing him, thanks to hefting and steadying the plywood while Torry, Mark and the guys had nailed it in place. He could go home, elevate it and apply heat, swallow an aspirin or two and feel relief in no time. But he'd rather endure the pain than let her go.

Common sense told him that useless platitudes were the last thing she needed to hear right now. So he stood quiet and still, and let his presence do the talking.

Thanks to Mark and Torry, he'd learned a bit about Finn's history. The terrible accident. Absentee parents. Full responsibility for her sister. Employees who relied on her for a steady paycheck. Sam thought of his own mom and dad, whose unconditional love showed in everything they said and did.

The contrasts made him hug Finn a little tighter. She'd grown up without any of that, yet she'd taken on the role of mother, father and
older sibling to her special needs sister. If she'd been raised by parents like his, how much
more
terrific would she be?

Finn pressed both palms to his chest and gazed up at him through long, tear-spiky eyelashes. His pulse pounded when a faint, sheepish grin lifted one corner of her mouth.

“I'm not usually such a big whiny baby. Sorry.”

When she looked away, it felt as if someone had flipped a switch and turned out the light in his heart. Sam lifted her chin on a bent forefinger, gently guiding her gaze back to his eyes.

“You're not a big whiny baby, and you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

Finn bit her lower lip to still its trembling, and he admired her all the more for the effort at self-control.

“I meant what I said.”

Dark eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You really
are
safe with me. Safe to cry or stamp your feet or put a fist through a wall.” He grinned. “Although I don't recommend that last one.”

“Right...the place has sustained enough damage for one night.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Besides, tears and tantrums are a waste of time and energy.”

Sam read between the lines: she hadn't come by that mind-set the easy way. How many other hard-earned lessons had life taught her? He fought the urge to pull her close again.

“Don't know about you,” he said, “but I could go for some strong coffee and a slice of pie.”

She smiled, and the light in his heart went on again.

“Cherry or apple?”

“Doesn't matter.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she grabbed two plates from the shelf above the long stainless counter.

“Sorry it isn't homemade, but it's not half bad warmed up in the microwave and topped off with ice cream.”

Sam considered reminding her there was nothing to apologize for. Instead, he said, “I'd offer to help, but,
man
,
you made quick work of slicing that pie!” Chuckling, he balanced on a wheeled stool. “Remind me not to startle you when there's a cleaver in your hand.”

She used the tip of the wide blade to point at a row of knives and scissors stuck to a magnetized strip above the counter. “
That's
a cleaver. This is a chef's knife. It'll slice, chop, dice, mince or mash—as in garlic cloves. Most useful kitchen tool ever invented.”

It was good to see her more relaxed. “Aha. So that's why you have half a dozen of them.”

One shoulder rose in a dainty shrug. “Rowdy uses them, too. Sometimes we're in here together, plating up customers' orders. Nothing less appetizing than for customers to hear the crew bickering over cutlery.”

He wanted to keep her talking—about anything
but
the damage out front—so he said, “Ever heard of Aggie Jackson?”

Finn laughed and slid their plates out of the microwave. “Who
hasn't
heard of her?”

She dropped a scoop of ice cream on top of each wedge. “How do you know the woman whose main claim to fame is that she's a descendant of Andrew Jackson?”

Sam thanked her for the pie and reached into one of the bins at the end of the counter, helping himself to a fork. “She's my landlady. One of these days, I'll meet someone who
doesn't
know she's the great-great...” He handed her a fork, then cut into his pie. “How many generations back do we need to go to get the right number of ‘greats'?”

Finn sat on the empty stool beside him. “Gosh. I'd need a calculator—or a time machine—to go back that far in history.”

Laughing, Sam made his way to the cooler, doing his best not to limp. When he returned with a carton of milk, she nodded toward his leg. “Overdid it tonight, I see.”

He grabbed two glasses from the drying rack near the dishwasher. “No biggie. It'll be fine by the time I'm married.”

She'd just taken a bite of pie, and her mouth froze, midchew. Her expression reminded Sam of his cousin Zach's boot camp graduation photo, stern and no-nonsense. He'd meant it as a joke.
Looks like the joke's on you, Marshall.
He handed her a glass of milk, then hid his embarrassment by taking a long, slow gulp from his own glass.

Her laughter started soft and low, then escalated until it bounced off every hard surface in the kitchen. Sam loved the sound if it—rich and throaty and wholly feminine—and his pulse pounded harder.

“Guess it'll be a while before you let me live that one down, huh.”

Her question implied they had a future together, and Sam liked that. Liked it a lot.

She toasted him with the tumbler. “This was a good choice, by the way. It'll be hard enough to sleep tonight, even without caffeine floating around in my system.”

Sam doubted he'd sleep well, either...because Finn would be floating around in
his
system. But she looked tired and understandably stressed.

“I should probably hit the road so you can—”

“How long have you been in Nashville?”

“Going on six years now. Seems half that...”
At times like this.
“And twice as long.”

Finn nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. My family landed here when I was thirteen.”

“Musicians?”

“My parents are singer-songwriters, and play about half a dozen instruments apiece. But that's true of a big chunk of the city's population. Connor and Misty tried all sorts of gimmicks but couldn't find the one that set them apart from the competition.”

Based on her faraway expression, she was thinking of a far less pleasant time. She'd already gone through a lot tonight, and he felt bad, having opened an old wound. Sam covered her hand with his. For a moment she sat nodding, lost in her thoughts, and he was glad she hadn't pulled her warm little hand away.

“It's a rough road,” he admitted.

“Road?”

“The one that leads to a recording contract.”

One eyebrow rose, and she wasn't smiling when she said, “And you know this because...”

“Because I've walked it a time or two myself.”

Coincidence that she chose that moment to take back her hand? Sam didn't think so.

“It's nowhere near the top of my priority list anymore, though,” he quickly added. “Family, the department, the academy, then music, in that order. Performing is more a hobby now than anything else.”

She turned on the stool to face him head-on. “Hypothetical question—if somebody with clout heard you perform and offered a contract, would you sign it?”

“Well, sure.”

He'd answered truthfully, but it wasn't what she wanted to hear, as evidenced by the almost angry spark in her dark eyes. Finn got up, stacked his plate atop hers and grabbed the flexible hose dangling above the dishwasher. She rinsed both plates and stood them in the wash rack, then returned for their glasses. After rinsing those, too, she crossed both arms over her chest.

“Well, it's late, and I have a lot of phone calls to make in the morning. I appreciate everything you did tonight.”

Sam put all his weight on the good leg as he stood. “No thanks necessary. I was happy to do it. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.” The word reminded him that he could have counted her heartbeats just moments ago.

Her expression softened slightly. Because she remembered, too?

She uncrossed her arms and walked to the back door. “Are you parked out front?”

“Yeah...”

“Sorry about that. Now you'll have to walk all the way around the building.”

“Don't be sorry. It isn't your fault that Mother Nature decided to park a tree in your diner.”

She held open the door. “Hope the leg doesn't keep you awake all night.”

It wouldn't be the leg keeping him awake.

“Easier said than done, I know,” she continued. “But try to get some sleep, okay?”

She glanced into the back lot and thanked him again.
Subtle, Finn.
Sam grinned.
Real subtle.
He'd given her his card. Should he repeat his offer to help anytime?

The harsh glare of the street lamps exaggerated the worry lines and weariness on her lovely face. Had he thanked her for the pie? “Thanks for the pie,” he said, just in case. “You were right. It was great, especially warmed up and topped off with ice cream.”

She hid a yawn behind her free hand. “I still owe you a meal, though.”

“Aw, Finn, you don't owe me a thing. I mean it.”

Several seconds ticked by as those big dark eyes studied his face. Looking for proof that he was just another musician who said things he didn't mean? If that was the case, Sam had no idea how he'd prove otherwise. But he wanted to try...

“Lock up tight,” he said, “and I'll see you soon.”

Her lips said, “Okay,” but her eyes said,
Not if I see you first.

The door clicked shut, and he listened as the bolts slid into place. Head down and hands pocketed, Sam splashed through puddles as he headed for the front lot. He'd heard about women with more baggage than an airport luggage carousel. Considering Finn's background, her suspicious nature was understandable. That didn't make it easier to deal with, though.

His mind went back to the moment when he'd quoted her “better before I'm married” comment, and the roundabout reply that hinted she saw him as something more, something better than a self-centered, music-first jerk. Sam slid behind the steering wheel and started the pickup. While adjusting the rearview mirror, he noticed the almost dry evidence of Finn's tears on his shoulder. Man, she'd felt good in his arms.

Good enough that he might just start lifting weights again, so he could help her carry that baggage.

CHAPTER TEN

F
INN
'
S
INSURANCE
AGENT
walked through The Right Note, jotting notes and muttering as he shook his head.

“It's a mess, all right, but don't you worry. Soon as you get me quotes from three licensed contractors, I'll cut you a check.”

She hated the idea of browsing the internet for reputable companies, then making appointments so they could come out to estimate the cost of repairs. More distasteful still was having no idea how long it would take them to get back to her with quotes. Last night, she'd dropped Sam's business card into the waste can beside her dresser. Hopefully, Ciara hadn't yet gathered the trash, because if he could save her time by recommending his friends...

“Thanks, Dave,” she said, walking the agent out. “I'll email you as soon as I have some prices.”

“Good, good. And don't forget to get me an estimate of your own...projected losses for every day you're closed while construction is going on.”

She thanked him again, then headed straight upstairs to look for Sam's card.

“Ciara,” she muttered into the empty can, “sometimes you're too efficient for my own good.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“I threw something in here, then realized I need it.”

“What was it?”

“A business card.”

“Sam Marshall's business card?”

“Yes...”

“I read it. And—and I remember what it said.”

“You're amazing, you know that?” Finn smiled and prepared to type his information into her cell phone. “Go ahead. Tell me what it said.”

Eyes closed, Ciara began with, “It had a little shield in the top corner. Under that, it said Nashville Fire Department. Then, then it said Sam Marshall, Captain. And under
that
it said Academy Instructor. And
then
in the bottom corner was—was his phone number and email address.”

She recited the digits as Finn typed them into her contacts list, and although it wasn't likely she'd need it, she added his email, too.

“Thanks, Kee. You just saved me calling around to find out how to get in touch with him.”

“You—you could have called Mark...”

“When you're right, you're right, but now, thanks to your excellent memory, I won't have to!” She glanced at her watch. “How would you like to join me for lunch? We'll go to Puckett's, and after we eat, you can get something from their little store.”

“But I thought you hated the crowds over there.”

“Today, I'll make an exception, just for you.”

“You're the best, Finn!” Ciara hugged her, then headed to her room. “I'm going to wear my new sundress. I hardly ever get to wear pretty clothes!”

Finn had to admit she was right. For work, they wore jeans and red T-shirts under white aprons that bore The Right Note's logo. It might be fun to put on something dressy and feminine for a change.

But first things first.

Finn dialed Sam's number and counted the rings. If not for needing his recommendations, she wouldn't have called him at all. So why did she feel disappointed when his voice mail picked up?

“Sam Marshall here. You know what to do. Thanks, and I'll talk with you soon.”

She waited for the beep, then left a message asking if he could put her in touch with his contractor friends.

Moments later, the phone rang.

“Good thing I have caller ID...”

She would have recognized that smooth, DJ-deep voice anywhere.

“...because you forgot to leave your number.”

“Oh. Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry about that.”

Finn cringed and waited for him to say she didn't have anything to apologize for. She'd been reciting the phrase so often and for so long, it was the first thing that came to mind any time things weren't perfect.
Maybe you should see a shrink to find out why
. Then again, it made no sense to waste money and time on therapy when she already knew the answers: Misty and Connor.

“If I had a dollar for every time I didn't leave my number,” Sam said, “I could buy you dinner at the Watermark.”

One of Nashville's top-ten restaurants? Good thing he was kidding; she didn't have a thing to wear to a swanky place like that. The cliché complaint threatened to turn her grin into a giggle.

“Those contractors you mentioned last night... My insurance guy says the sooner I get him three bids, the sooner he can cut me a check. Which means I can reopen, well, sooner.”

“I, ah, I'm in the middle of a class right now.”

Of course he was. What was she thinking, calling during business hours! Last night's craziness must have rattled her more than she realized.

“Oh, wow. I'm so sorry, Sam.”

There you go again, “I'm sorrying” all over the place.
And then she remembered that he'd returned her call.

“Don't give it another thought. I'll dole out a writing assignment, look up those names and numbers and call you right back.”

Before Sam hung up, Finn heard a cacophony of laughter, mixed with good-natured cries of “Attaboy” and “Way to go, Captain.” His students wouldn't have reacted that way if they didn't like him. She pictured Sam, alternately lecturing and writing salient points on the chalkboard, probably while wearing the department uniform—creased navy trousers and a light blue shirt, open at the collar.

Finn hit her phone's end button and opened her closet door. Among shirts, skirts, jeans, sweaters and dresses that hung in order of hem and sleeve length, she chose a pale yellow sundress. Strappy white sandals and a cross-body purse completed the outfit, and she placed them all at the foot of her bed.

She'd just kicked off her shoes when the phone buzzed on her nightstand.

“Wow,” she said, tidying the doily, “when you say you're going to get right back to someone, you aren't kidding, are you?”

The sound of his rumbling laughter made her smile. Her amusement disappeared, though, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, finger combing her bangs and grinning like a love-struck schoolgirl.

“Got a pen and paper?”

Her hurried search through the nightstand drawer produced a small tablet and a pen, but a few squiggly lines proved it was dry. “Figures,” she muttered. “If the pen writes, there's nothing to write
on
.”

“Or the other way around.”

“Exactly! Okay. I'm ready. Finally. Sorry to waste your time. I know you're busy.”

“No busier than you. And believe me, Finn...time with you is never a waste.”

It was what anyone would say to a chronic apologizer, right? So why had his simple statement made her misty-eyed?

As promised, Sam provided three names. “Will you let me know who ends up doing the work?”

“Ah, so you can collect your finder's fee, huh?”

A moment of silence preceded a hoarse sigh. “I, ah, I'd better get back inside before they start throwing spitballs or something. Catch you later.”

He hung up before she got a chance to thank him. A pang of guilt shot through her. She hadn't intended to insult him, but apparently, that was exactly what her sorry excuse for a joke had done.

And there it was again:
sorry.

You're
sorry
,
she thought, dropping on to the foot of her bed.
A sorry mess
.

“Instead of sitting here wasting time,” she told her reflection, “get busy.”

She dialed the first number from Sam's list, and while waiting for an answer, Finn remembered something he'd said. “Time with you is never a waste.”

Bet he doesn't feel that way now!

Logic told her his opinion shouldn't matter so much.

But when it came to Sam Marshall, she felt anything but logical.