“Now that we’ve moved to Bandon, me and my brothers figured we should be involved. Be a real part of the town. The CranberryFestival’s the biggest thing going, so we all volunteered.” That sounded believable, right?
Sierra cocked her head to the side and studied him as though she were making a sketch in her head. “You don’t strike me asa joiner.”
She had him there. Flynn had joined one thing in his life—the Chicago mob—and look how that turned out.
“I never said that we were buying-a-tee-shirt excited about it. Just seemed like the right thing to do. Get to know our neighbors.Work to put the Festival together, instead of just showing up that weekend and eating a lot.”
“And you like to build floats?”
Hell if he knew. But how hard could it be? “I’m good with my hands.”
“I’ve noticed.” Then her cheeks suddenly blazed as red as a maraschino cherry.
Wasn’t that fascinating as hell? Flynn carefully put the napkin sketch down on top of another one, for protection. Then heleaned an elbow on the bar. Threw her the look about two dozen Chicago blondes had labeled his “bedroom eyes.” “Are you dirty-talkingme?”
Sierra grabbed the sketch and put it in her bag. “You said my drawing talent was a statement of fact. This is no different.You, Flynn, happen to have talented hands.”
“You can bet your life that we’ll come back around to that later.” He lifted her hand and kissed each long, slender fingerfrom the knuckle down to the unpainted tips. By the time he finished with her pinkie, Sierra was looking at him with thathot stare that made Flynn want to rip off his shirt. “I want details.”
The stare disappeared after her cheeks flushed again. Now she just looked flustered. One hand smoothed the buttons of herwhite shirt as if he’d copped a feel instead of just a glimpse. Her other hand brushed back hair that wasn’t out of place—sincehe hadn’t touched that, either.
Good to know that a couple of kisses made Sierra feel undressed. Flynn couldn’t wait to pick up from where they had to leave off.
He looked back over his shoulder, relieved that they didn’t have an audience aside from the table in the back corner fullof tourists who’d set up a base camp two hours ago. The way they were slow-playing their beers—not to mention the deck ofcards they were working—made Flynn think they wouldn’t leave until last call. Not that there were many better options in townto hang and drink.
Flynn had to admit, the Gorse had grown on him. The bright red wall gave the place character. The surprise of the jukeboxcould be fun, as long as someone with crap taste didn’t hog it too long.
He recognized regulars now. They nodded across the room when they came in. Called out his name when they wanted to threatena friend acting like a dipwad. His insta-fame as a bouncer had come about after catching a burglar at Norah’s shop last month.
When he clocked in for work, Flynn clocked out of worrying about the future. Stopped mentally thrashing himself for beingthe reason they were in this mess. This bartending job the marshals had foisted on him might actually be a good fit, the morehe thought about it. Why hadn’t he realized that until now?
Why hadn’t he let himself feel good?
Flynn liked making up new drinks. Liked the routine of locals changed up by the summer tourist wave. He liked Carlos and Jeband Mariana. He really liked Sierra. The Gorse was, maybe, starting to feel like it could be home. That felt . . . good.
Shit.
Not that he could get used to it.
Nothing was guaranteed until after they testified.
That thought ghosting in—like it did a couple of dozen times a week—straightened Flynn’s spine. He needed to move before itsnuffed out his good mood. “Look, will you help me or not?”
Sierra stood, stuffing her phone in her back pocket. A stern mask settled over her face, with her chin up and a purse to herkissable, bitable, lickable lips. “How do you plan to deal with the children out on the patio? Do you know how to talk tothem? Children require active listening. Attention. Patience. Even a fun craft activity like this can be educational as wellas a challenge for the adult.”
Sierra on her high horse was—possibly—even sexier than when she was flustered. “I like kids. A lot. I mentored a bunch ofthem back . . . where I used to live.”
He barely caught himself from saying “back home.” Because he’d promised Rafe that he wouldn’t pine for Chicago like it wasthe girl that got away.
Or at least try not to.
“You did?” Her tone was a fifty/fifty swirl cone of surprise and skepticism.
“Yeah.” Flynn ushered her ahead of him down the hallway. “Kids are the future, you know? If we don’t step up and put effortinto teaching them to be good people, we’re just throwing away our future.”
Sierra stopped dead in her tracks right in between the bathroom doors and twisted around to goggle at him. “That’s—wow, Flynn.That’s not at all what I expected to hear.”
“I can go back to the expected suggestive banter later.” He gave her perfectly round ass a squeeze as punctuation.
“I’m serious. I’m impressed by your take on children.”
“Well, both my parents died by the time I was thirteen. We had Rafe to keep us together, but it was still hard. I don’t wantany kid to feel lost and alone. Like they don’t have somebody they can turn to.”
Shit.
That . . . was not supposed to have come out.
Flynn didn’t talk about his parents being gone. He never, ever talked about how hard it had been after that.
He sure as hell never expected it to slip out in front of a bathroom with a piece of driftwood as a door handle and Beyoncéblaring from the speakers overhead.
Sierra put her hand on his arm. Her big blue eyes puddled at
