Her cheeks turned the pink of a Cosmopolitan. “You can’t talk about my pajamas, Flynn. That’s as bad as talking about my underwear.”
“I never claimed to be good.” Especially not thinking about the tank top and leggings covered with tulips the same color asher cheeks. Her in those pj’s had been his first thought this morning, too. To wonder what Sierra looked like with the softcotton hugging every inch, her hair all messy from sleep . . . or him . . .
Right about then was when Flynn vaulted out of bed and hit a very cold shower.
“Yes, I left everything down here. I really can take care of myself.”
“I believe you. But you shouldn’t have to. Nobody should, when they’re sick or hurt.” Flynn had no fucking idea where thatcame from, seeing as how McGinty didn’t believe in sick days—they indicated weakness.
His brothers would open the front door to the delivery service if Flynn ordered soup. Maybe chuck a full tissue box throughhis doorway. But that was as far as their TLC extended.
Guess he remembered the old days, before his mom died. Not that there were many of those, since she’d died when he was onlyeleven. But he remembered that being sick was a free pass. No chores, no making the bed even after moving to the couch toplay video games.
Looking down at Sierra, with her bottom lip caught in her teeth and a frown on her face as she rubbed her ankle, Flynn figuredit out. He wanted to take care of her. He’d said it because he didn’t want her to have to handle things by herself. Not because of what anyone else said or did. This was about her.
He wanted to press those frown lines away with his thumb. Rub her foot and her calf until Sierra relaxed into a purring lumpof contentment.
He wanted to make things right for her.
“Geez. I’ll just make some dinner and go to bed soon.”
Was she insane? Did Sierra really think he’d walk out of here without making sure she was fed? Flynn wouldn’t do that to adog, let alone to this cotton candy-hearted swirl of a woman.
“No.”
“No, what?” she asked absently as she folded her hoodie to put beneath her ankle. Because her couch didn’t have any throwpillows on it. Flynn went to the freezer, filled a dish towel with ice, and carefully tucked it around her ankle.
“No, you’re not making dinner. I’ll do it.” He headed right back to the kitchen—right back being all of two steps—and opened the fridge.
The contents were pathetic. And he was a bachelor, so Flynn’s standards on what a fridge should contain were pretty damn low.
Milk, bread, butter, and a brown banana. Along with a jar of cranberry jam. Probably left there as a welcome present fromwhatever sadist rented Sierra this shoebox.
The locals were nutso for everything cranberry, which made sense, as the cranberry plant employed half the people in town.Rafe made a big fuss about hating the stuff. Flynn didn’t mind it. He didn’t think it was worth throwing a parade over, buthe didn’t mind it.
“Sierra, what do you eat? Is there a cupboard full of protein bars somewhere? A second fridge hidden under the floorboardspacked with deli meat?”
“Carlos gives me a meal at the start of every shift. I only need breakfast most days.”
Screw that. He grabbed everything and banged around in the search of a frying pan. And wondered again what her story was thathad her scraping by on such a shoestring. “I’m not giving you breakfast for dinner. I can do better.”
“Because you’re secretly a great cook?”
“I’m a great take-out orderer. Bandon doesn’t give me much chance to show off those skills, though. My brother Kellan’s tryingto learn to cook. He’s the only one of us making the effort.”
“Can he cook?”
God help them all, no. “Did you know it’s possible to ruin frozen pizza? ’Cause I’ve got firsthand knowledge.”
“And you say Kellan’s a better cook than you? Now I’m worried.” Sierra raised her voice over the commotion. “Is this payback for me doing your job tonight?Are you getting even for the drinks I screwed up that you had to come and redo?”
Christ on a stick, but the woman was bad behind the bar. She’d put a maraschino cherry in a dirty martini “because it madefor a more pleasing visual aesthetic.” Most of her mistakes had been with garnishes. Something about making the drinks lookprettier.
He’d lay money on her choosing her sports team by the color of the jerseys.
Flynn sizzled the butter, then sliced in the banana. “I’m just trying to be a nice guy. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”
Ha. The irony of him saying that when he was scheduled to testify in a federal case would be lost on Sierra. But it’d make his brothers piss themselves with laughter when he told them later.
“Sorry about the drinks.” Sierra sounded like she was apologizing for killing a cat. The woman had a heart three sizes biggerthan fit her body. The regret in her voice absolutely slayed him. “I was trying to make them look fancy. Like the one youmade for Norah’s birthday.”
Ah. He made specialty cocktails. Just for interested customers and the weekly specials board. If he tried to serve Mick anythingbut a Bud or a shot of Jameson, the old guy’d probably break his wrist.
Norah was Mollie’s grandmother. She ran Coffee & 3 Leaves—which also dispensed pot. Nice lady. Even nicer when she came ina little high and ordered every appetizer on the menu.
He’d made her a tequila martini. Drew the shape of a pot leaf in the foam on top, and stuck a sugared lime wheel on the rim.Called it the Weed Eater, and she’d cackled with laughter before sucking down six.
The woman was ex-Navy and lived life full-out as if she wasn’t missing a hand from a shipboard bombing.
Flynn flipped the bananas, now golden and crispy on one side. “How about I make you your very own cocktail? You tell me whatcolor you want it to be. Which slices of fruit
