It was a Gorse napkin, printed at the bottom corner with that big yellow bush that grew along every road in town. But therest of it was filled with a pencil sketch. It was . . . him.
His face. Every bit as detailed as a photograph. But with an expression on it Flynn hadn’t seen in the mirror in a long time.What Kellan had always called his shit-eating grin. The one his brothers claimed that he wore when he’d scored more Snickersthan Smarties trick-or-treating. When he walked across the stage at graduation and swung his tassel to the other side. Whenhe and Rafe emerged from that tomb last Halloween.
It shook him to his core to see it so perfectly recreated. On a napkin, for fuck’s sake!
Flynn waved it at Sierra. “How did you draw this?”
Her brows came together into a confused line. “Pencil. A pen would’ve ripped the napkin.”
The absolutely adorable way Sierra’s nose crinkled, the way he wanted to kiss away the vertical line on her forehead, distractedFlynn for a second. But kissing her at the bar would be a bad idea. One, because he wouldn’t be able to stop until thingsgot way past PG. Two, because it probably violated every frickin’ health code in the book.
As bartender, he had standards. Yes, his responsibilities were two hundred percent less than when he’d managed an entire constructioncompany. They still mattered. Flynn wouldn’t half-ass his job ever.
Flynn waved the napkin again. “How the hell did you imagine me looking like this?”
“I didn’t have to imagine it. Your face gets like that, all full of smug triumph every time we kiss.”
After all these weeks of working together and talking, she’d gotten through his defenses and made him happy.
Son of a bitch.
How far gone did it say he was that it took a drawing to remind him of how it felt?
Flynn looked at it again. Looked beyond the obvious mirror image and took in the shading and talent. “This is great.”
“Thanks. You should see what I can do on a paper tablecloth,” she quipped.
“I’m serious.”
The smile fell from her face faster than Mrs. Oblinsky had erased the dirty picture he drew on the board in sixth grade. Clutchinghis wrist, she begged, “Please don’t be serious.”
What the hell? Flynn patted her hand. “I’m complimenting you.”
“I don’t do it for compliments.” Her tone sharpened. “Or for money, before you ask.”
Seemed he’d touched one hell of a raw nerve. “If you don’t want me to ask, I won’t. Simple as that.” Flynn could only hopethat rule worked both ways, seeing as how he had an entire lifetime of things he couldn’t tell her.
Sierra blew out a long breath. “Thank you.”
Huh. There was a story there, no doubt about it. And Flynn figured it’d take more than a few kisses to sweet-talk it out ofher, after a reaction that strong. There was a lot more to her than he’d originally thought. Definitely not just a waitress.
The not-knowing only made him want to know more. What could a sweet thing like her be hiding?
“This drawing is really good, though.” He threw up his hands, palms out, before her hackles went up again. “No follow-up questions—justa statement of fact.”
“There’s so much great contrast to your face. Sharp cheekbones, a strong Roman nose. A five o’clock shadow that kicks in bythree. That dimple in your chin, dead center. All that gloriously thick and tousled hair. You’re a dream to draw, Flynn.”
The familiar, happy burble came back into her voice the longer she talked. Normally Flynn wasn’t thrilled with being the subjectof conversation. But hell, he’d listen to Sierra count his eyelashes if it made her sound like that.
He gave a half bow. “Anything else I can do to make your dreams come true, just let me know.”
A hunger kindled in her blue eyes that turned them darker than normal. An instant later, it was replaced by . . . sadness?Nah. That couldn’t be right.
Sierra radiated more joy on her worst day than anyone he’d ever known. She got a genuine kick out of an extra fifty-cent tip.When he skewered three cherries and dropped them into her ginger ale. And if there was a baby on someone’s lap in the restaurant,she damn near burst with bliss.
The thought of babies led him to think of children and a light bulb came on in his brain. “If I don’t offer to pay you orcompliment you anymore, would you do me a drawing-related favor?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t draw.”
“As well as me? Few can.” It didn’t come off as bragging. More an indisputable fact. Like saying the sky was blue. Or thathe wanted to have her.
Then Sierra threw him her own version of a shit-eating grin, and his heart flipped over. Moments like that, when she droppedthe shyness and showed him her true self? It fucking humbled Flynn that she trusted him enough to drop her guard.
Evidently she could joke about her crazy huge talent and acknowledge it was real. She just didn’t want a focus shined on it.
Well, Sierra was shit outta luck on that one, because all Flynn wanted to do was focus on her.
Later.
Right now, he had a more immediate need.
He pointed at the swinging door to the hallway. “There’s a group of kids out on the back patio who are supposed to help memake a float.”
Sierra’s nose crinkled. Adorably. Again. Noses had never been a turn-on for him with any other woman. But nothing about Sierrawas like any of the other women he’d dated. “A root beer float?”
If only.
“No. An honest-to-God truck bed, chicken-wire-and-paint float for the Cranberry Festival.”
“Are you in trouble? Did you get community service for something?”
Flynn wanted to bang his head against the bar. As a matter of fact, yes.
Except that his 1) wasn’t official through the sheriff, 2) being ordered to
