Flynn pulled into a parking spot. “Then I’m a damn lucky man.” As he got out of the car, he tossed out an order. “Don’t move.”
Weird. They’d clearly arrived at their destination and the parking lot was empty on this Thursday night. It was in the middleof a state park, so there weren’t any restaurants or services around. Just tawny sand, random bumps of bushes, and a still-brightblue sky overhead.
Then her door opened and Flynn extended a hand to help her out. His other gripped a backpack.
“I’m fine now. My ankle barely even twinges. You don’t need to cart me around.”
“I’m not carrying you. Unless you want me to,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I’m opening the door for you becauseyou’re a lady and my mom would turn over in her grave if I didn’t.”
Now Sierra felt stupid. Younger than Flynn and like a country bumpkin. She should’ve known. He’d always treated her like alady. He held open the kitchen pass-through for her all the time.
But she’d led a pretty sheltered life. Not a lot of highbrow manners, aside from what she read about in books. “How old areyou?” she blurted as she got out of the car.
Flynn let out something in between a laugh and a snort. “You’re carding me because I’m polite?”
“I’ve just been wondering. A lot of the time you seem deep and serious and older than your years.”
He draped an arm around her shoulders and led her down the path leading to the beach. “I’m twenty-seven. Although if you factorin moodiness, ’cause I was on a bender with that for a while, my brothers would probably tell you I’m more like forty-seven.”
“You were on a bender? Does that mean it’s over now?” Because he had noticeably . . . lightened over the past few weeks. His smile flashed more often, he chatted more with the regulars at the Gorse. Flynn still had thatstrong and silent vibe on and off, but not nearly as often.
“Not over, no. But I’m clawing my way out of it. Or rather, you’re pulling me up.”
“Me?” Apprehension knotted Sierra’s stomach. This was very, very bad. Every magazine she’d ever read said that men hated itwhen women changed them. “I haven’t done anything. I didn’t even know you wanted to be pulled somewhere.” She spoke so quicklyat the end that her words ran together.
“Simmer down.” He pulled her in tighter against his side to drop a kiss on top of her head. “It’s not an accusation. It’sa compliment. I was in a dark head space for a while before moving here. You shined in all your bright, beautiful light. Itreminded me that being happy is a hell of a lot better than the alternative.”
That was . . . ironic. Because yes, Sierra excelled at finding joy in the little things. Living in the moment. Life in fostercare taught you quickly to appreciate what you had, since it could be gone the next day.
But underneath that surface joy was constant worry. Anxiety. Dread. Exactly what Flynn had described—a dark head space. Shewent to sleep every night worried about Rick finding her, hurting her, and woke up every morning determined not to let that happen. The time she spent alone with Flynn was the safest she’dfelt since leaving Milwaukee.
Sierra sure couldn’t tell any of that to the big, strong, sexy, and apparently happy man at her side. So yes, a little bit of hysterical laughter burst out of her. “Thanks.”
“How old are you?” Flynn pulled a blanket from the backpack, spread it out on the sand, and put his shoes on the corners tohold it down. Sierra toed hers off and did the same.
“Almost twenty-four.” Then that knot of panic came back because she’d answered Flynn without thinking. Without rememberingthat the age on the fake ID she’d purchased said she was twenty-six.
“Under twenty-five, huh? Then you might not be so thrilled with what I have planned for tonight.” Flynn took her hand andstarted walking. A few seagulls and much smaller birds ran at breakneck speeds away from the crashing surf. “See that buildingup ahead?”
Squinting against the slowly dipping sun, she saw a squat white building with a brick-red stripe along the bottom. It wasroundish, maybe octagonal, and almost at the tip of a wall of rocks that ended in a point right where the river frothed intothe Pacific. A cupola was all glass, and tipped with a red roof that matched the bottom.
“It looks like a lighthouse—except its only about three stories tall?” As if a giant had stepped on a normal lighthouse, squishingit down to this miniature version.
“It’s a lighthouse, alright. For guiding ships into the river. I guess that’s why it doesn’t have to be very tall. Abandonednow, but I thought it’d be a nice walk over to it, then out onto the rocks.”
Sierra wanted to pull Flynn into a run. The need to be closer, to look at it from all sides through her artist’s eyes, jitteredits way down into her feet. How could he just saunter? The water had to be six or seven shades of blue and green with themixture between ocean and river. The stark contrast against the black rocks surrounding it, and the blue sky could be sketched from at least a half dozen angles. It should be painted at sunset. During a lightning storm.Under cloud cover.
Giving in to the urge, she tugged at his arm, trying to hurry him along. “It’s beyond charming. It’s postcard-perfect. I needto draw it. I have to draw it. Can we come back with my paints next time?”
Flynn chuckled. Then he patted her hand. “How about we see first if I bore you to tears tonight?”
She didn’t understand. Not at all. “How on earth would you do that?”
“This—” he swept his arm to encompass the scenery, “—is the whole deal. We take a long
