Flynn set her down on the gray futon couch. It was the only seating besides the one-person bench that slid under the narrowtable. “No way are you walking up those stairs tonight. Tell me what you need and I’ll bring it down.”
Not bothering to bite back her giggle, Sierra shook her head. “You won’t fit up there.”
“I can bend. You, on the other hand, are semi-broken.”
Thank goodness years of living with dozens of foster families had ingrained into her the need to make her bed and not leaveunderwear lying around. Because the man was halfway up the stairs before she could open her mouth.
“My pajamas are on the hook.”
A dull thud rang down the stairs. “Holy Mary Mother of God.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I always wanted a dent in the middle of my skull. Then I won’t need a sweatband when I work out. It’ll all just poolin one spot.”
Flynn’s dry sense of humor always cracked her up.
He crab-walked down the steps, clutching her tulip-dotted cotton pajamas. “I almost killed myself getting around those stacksof books. Why do you have them all over the floor?”
Sierra deeply regretted leaving behind all her books when she ran. As an artist, she loved the tactile sensation of real books.The scent. The shiny embossing on the covers. The whish of each page turn. Once a week she cycled to the Goodwill store and brought back as many as five dollars would buy. It wasall the splurge she’d allow herself, but with so many priced at a quarter, she’d accumulated, well, the stacks that had takendown Flynn.
“I don’t have a bookcase.”
“I’ll build you one,” he snarled. “This is dangerous. A nuisance. Hell, both.” Taking her chin between his thumb and indexfinger, Flynn’s gaze bored into hers with scant inches between them. “Your safety matters. I insist.”
Oh, my.
Ever since he’d stroked those soft brush bristles down her scalp tonight, Sierra had been hoping for a kiss from Flynn.
This was better.
Almost.
Chapter Three
There was a big list of places Flynn didn’t want to be. That third town that Marshal Evans dragged them to in East BumFuck,New Mexico. That observation deck on the ninety-fourth floor of the Hancock Building. He could do heights. He’d just ratherhave his feet on the damn ground.
Oh, and the back room at Billy Smoothboar’s in the middle of the Bandon Chamber of Commerce meeting Rafe had dragged him to.Yeah, that topped the list at noon on this particular Tuesday.
The official, spiffy millennial word for it was voluntold. Or so he’d heard from Delaney as she bit back her laughter at the thought of the Maguire brothers helping with the town’sannual Cranberry Festival. Community service was an important part of protectees integrating into their new location. Rafewas all up her ass being the most perfect protectee ever, because he fell in love with Mollie.
A mistake he’d never make.
So Flynn’s ass was in the chair. He’d ordered a club sandwich to be ornery. To prove that Rafe couldn’t tell him what to do,even though this place was supposed to have the best steak sandwich in the whole state. And he also couldn’t force Flynn topay attention to the idiot in the fishing cap droning on at the front of the room.
He pulled out his phone and thought about skimming baseball scores. But that reminded him he hadn’t found a team to replacehis beloved Cubs yet. The Mariners were closest. The Giants had a better record. Flynn just didn’t give a shit about eitherof them.
He didn’t give a shit about most things anymore. What was the point? After working hard and caring and trying and fuckingbending over backward to be perfect for so many years, McGinty had turned on him. His whole life got yanked away. So, yeah,even picking a new baseball team seemed pointless.
Then his thumb slid over the message icon. One tap pulled up his most recent contact. And Flynn remembered that there’d beenone thing he’d been unable to resist caring about since his first day in town. One person, anyway.
He’d put in Sierra’s number last night. In case she did something stupid like climbing those stairs with no railings. Whatif her ankle gave out? Sure, her house was so small she’d probably be able to catch herself if she put her arms out and touchedthe walls.
Empty walls. That needed a bookcase.
He’d promised her.
Flynn got his thumbs working. Light or dark?
Sierra responded right away. What? Chicken? Are you hungry? Or . . . OMG. I’m an idiot. You mean beer, don’t you?
F: My life doesn’t revolve around pulling pints.
Especially since his “career” had only started six weeks ago. It was true this job sucked the least of all the ones the MarshalsService tried to make stick. Flynn had always been “that guy” at parties. The one who made up cocktails and hung by the barall night. It happened to be an awesome way to pick up women. Now he still had fun making up the cocktails and listening topeople. That was the trick of being a good bartender—not talking, just listening. Which made it right up Flynn’s alley.
S: Oh. What does your life revolve around?
Being an insufferable bastard to his brothers? Yet another example of the truth not always being the best way to go. Did you get that question from an online quiz? I hate those things.
S: That makes two of us. Why should my chances of finding Mr. Right be determined by the first initial of my third grade teacher, whether I prefer chicken or fish, and if I can curl my tongue?
Flynn almost smiled. Almost. Can you?
S: What?
F: Curl your tongue. The rest is all crap. But tongue curling could definitely up your chances with a guy.
“Pay attention,” Rafe muttered under his breath.
Uh, hell, no. Flynn shot him a dirty look for interrupting. “Isn’t that why you’re here? I’m just the warm body with the lastname of Maguire, filling another chair.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Rafe shoved back his chair. The
