Sweet Little Lies, Page 5

  same time.

  He stood firm, not budging an inch as he captured her hands in his and bent a little to look into her eyes. “Breathe, Pru.”

  “But I—You—I’m so sorry,” she heard herself say from what seemed like a long way off. “I wished for true love, not death, I swear!”

  “Pru—”

  She couldn’t answer. There was a buzzing in her ears now, getting louder and louder, and then her vision faded to black.

  Pru came to with voices floating around her head.

  “Nice going, Finn. You finally got a good one on the line and you kill her.” Archer, she thought.

  “She’s got a tat,” someone else said—Spence?—making Pru realize her shirt had ridden up a little, exposing the compass on her hipbone, the tattoo she’d gotten after her parents’ death, when she’d been missing them so much she hadn’t known how to go on without them. The world had become a terrifying place, and all alone in the world she’d needed the symbol of knowing which direction to go.

  “Finn’s more of a piercing kind of guy,” Spence said.

  “I bet today he’s more of a tat guy,” Archer said.

  “Hell, I’m sold,” Spence said.

  Pru shoved down her shirt and opened her eyes. She was prone on a couch with a bunch of disembodied faces hovering over her.

  “She’s pretty green,” Spence’s face said. “Think she’s going to hurl?”

  Willa’s face was creased into a worried frown. “No, but I don’t think she’s moisturizing enough.”

  “Does she need mouth-to-mouth?” Sean.

  “Out. All of you.” The low but steely demand came from Finn and had all the faces vanishing.

  Pru realized she was in an office. Finn’s, by the look of things. There was a desk, a very comfortable couch beneath her, and on the other side of it, a large picture window that revealed a great view of the courtyard and the fountain.

  She narrowed her eyes at the fountain, sending it you’re dead to me vibes. Because really? She’d wished for love for Finn and instead she’d stabbed him with a damn dart.

  Gah.

  Finn was shoving people out the door. When they were gone, he leaned back against his desk to look at her, feet casually crossed, hands gripping the wood on either side of his hips. He was hot, even in a pose of subdued restraint as he watched her carefully while she sat up. “Easy, Tiger.”

  “What happened?” she asked. When she struggled to stand, he pushed off from the desk, coming to her.

  Crouching at her side, he stopped her, setting his hands on her thighs to hold her still. “Not yet.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “You fainted,” he said.

  “I most definitely did not!”

  His lips twitched. “Okay, then you decided to take a nap. You weren’t feeling the whole walking thing so I carried you.”

  She stared at him, horrified. “You carried me?”

  “That bothers you more than the fainting in front of a crowded bar?” he asked. He shrugged. “Okay, sure, we can go with that. Yes, I picked you up off the floor and carried you. Not that I don’t make sure the floors are clean mind you, but there’s clean and then there’s clean, so I brought you to my couch.”

  “Ohmigod,” she gasped, “I hit you with a dart!”

  He was still crouched at her feet. Close enough for her to push his hands from her and start tugging up his shirt, needing to see the damage. “Let me see. I’m a halfway decent medic—which I realize is hard to believe given I ended up on your floor—but I promise, I know what I’m doing.” She couldn’t shove his shirt up high enough. “Off,” she demanded.

  “Well usually I like to have a meal first,” he said, “and get to know each other a little bit—”

  “Off!”

  “Okay, okay.” He reached up and pulled the shirt over his head.

  Pru nearly got light-headed again but this time it wasn’t the blood. He had a body that . . . well, rocked hers. Sleek and hard-looking, he had broad shoulders, ripped abs, sinewy pecs—one of which had a hole in it an inch from his right nipple. A fact she knew because she’d leaned in so close her nose nearly brushed his skin.

  “Feel free to kiss it better,” he said.

  “I’m checking to see if you’re going to need a tetanus shot!” But good Lord, she’d done this to him. She’d put a hole in his perfect, delectable bod—

  “Are you going to pass out again?” he asked.

  “No!” Hopefully. But to be sure, she sat back. Just for a second she promised herself, and only because replaying the night’s events in her mind was making her sweat. “First-aid kit,” she said a little weakly.

  “What do you need?” he asked, voice deep with concern.

  “Not for me, for you!” She sat up again. “You could get an infection, we need a first-aid kit!”

  He blew out a sigh, like maybe she was being a colossal pain in his ass. But he rose to his feet and walked toward a door behind his desk. The problem was now she could see his back, an acre of smooth, sleek skin, rippling muscles . . .

  He vanished into a bathroom and came back with a first-aid kit, and then sat at her side on the couch. Before he could open it up, she took it from his hands and rummaged through. Finding what she needed, she poured some antiseptic onto a cotton pad and pressed it against the wound.

  He sucked in a breath and she looked up at him. “Getting hit with a dart didn’t make you blink an eye,” she said. “Neither did ripping it out like a He-man. But this hurts?”

  “It’s cold.”

  This got a low laugh out of her. She was trying not to notice that her fingers were pressed up against his warm skin as she held the cotton in place, or that her other hand had come up to grip his bicep. Or that his nipples had hardened.

  Or that she was staring at his body, her eyes feeling like a kid in a candy shop, not quite knowing where to land. Those pecs. That washboard set of abs. The narrow happy trail that vanished into the waistband of his jeans, presumably leading straight to his—

  “I think I’m all disinfected now,” he said, sounding amused.

  With a jerky nod, she set the cotton pad aside and reached for a Band-Aid. But her hands were shaking and she couldn’t open the damn thing.

  His fingers gently took it from hers. Quickly and efficiently, he opened it and put it on himself. “All better,” he said and quirked a brow. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “You changed your mind about kissing it all better?”

  That she wanted to do just that kept her from rolling her eyes again.

  He laughed softly, which she assumed was because the bastard knew exactly what he did to her.

  “So,” he said. “You were right. You really do bring the fun. What’s next?”

  “Hitting you over your thick head with this first-aid kit,” she said, closing the thing up.

  “You’re violent.” He grinned at her. “I like it.”

  “You have a very odd sense of humor.” She stood on legs that were still a little wobbly. “I really am sorry, Finn.”

  “No worries. I’ve had worse done to me.”

  “Like?”

  “Well . . .” He appeared to give this some thought. “A woman once chucked a beer bottle at my face.” He pointed to a scar above his right eyebrow. “Luckily I ducked.”

  She gaped at him. “Seriously?”

  He shrugged. “She thought I was Sean.”

  “Well that explains it,” she said and had the pleasure of making him laugh.

  His laugh did things to her. So did the fact that he was still shirtless. “Do you have another shirt?” she asked.

  “One without a hole in it, you mean?”

  She groaned. “Yes! And without blood all over it.” She bent and scooped up his fallen shirt. “I’m going to buy you a new one—” she started as she rose back up and . . . bumped into him.

  And his bare chest.

  “Stop,” he said kindly but firm
ly as his hands came up to her shoulders. “I’m not all that hurt and you’ve already apologized. It wasn’t even your fault. My idiot brother should never have allowed blindfolded darts. If our insurance company got a whiff of that, we’d be dumped.”

  But Pru had a long habit of taking on the blame. It was what she did, and she did it well. Besides, in this case, her guilt came from something else, something much, much worse than stabbing him with a dart and she didn’t know how to handle it. Especially now that they were standing toe to toe with his hands on her.

  Tell him, a voice deep inside her said.

  But she was having trouble focusing. All she could think about was pressing her mouth to the Band-Aid. Above the Band-Aid. Below the Band-Aid. Wayyyyy below the Band-Aid . . .

  She didn’t understand it. He wasn’t even her usual type. Okay, so she wasn’t sure what her type was exactly. She hadn’t been around the block all that many times but she’d always figured she’d know it when she saw it.

  But she was having the terrible, no-good, frightening feeling that she’d seen it in the impenetrable, unshakeable, unflappable, decidedly sexy Finn O’Riley.

  Which of course made everything, everything, far worse so she closed her eyes. “Oh God. I could have killed you.”

  Just as her parents had killed his dad . . .

  And at that thought, the one she’d been trying like hell to keep at bay, the horror of it all reached up and choked her, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to do anything but panic.

  “Hey. Hey,” Finn said with devastating gentleness as he maneuvered her back to sitting on the couch. “It’s all okay, Pru.”

  She could only shake her head and try to pull free. She didn’t deserve his sympathy, didn’t deserve—

  “Pru. Babe, you’ve got to breathe for me.”

  She sucked in some air.

  “Good,” he said firmly. “Again.”

  She drew in another breath and the spots once again dancing in front of her eyes began to fade away, leaving her view of Finn, on his knees before her, steady as a rock. “I’m okay now,” she said. And to prove it she stood on her own. To gain some desperately needed space, she walked away from him and walked around his office.

  His big wood desk wasn’t messy but wasn’t exactly neat either, a wall lined with shelves on which sat everything from a crate of pub giveaways like beer cozies and mouse pads, to a big ball of Christmas lights.

  Pictures covering one wall. His brother. His friends. A group shot of them on the roof of the building, where people went for star gazing, hot summer night picnicking, or just to be alone on top of the world.

  There were a few pics of Finn too, although not many, she saw as she moved slowly along the wall, realizing the pics got progressively older.

  There were several from many years ago. Finn in a high school baseball uniform. And then a college uniform. He’d played ball for a scholarship and had been destined for the pros—until he’d quit school abruptly at age twenty-one when he’d had to give everything up to care for his younger brother after the death of his father.

  She sucked in a breath and kept looking at the pictures. There was one of Finn and a group of guys wearing no shirts and backpacks standing on a mountaintop, and if she wasn’t mistaken, one of them was Archer.

  Another of Finn sitting in a souped-up classic-looking Chevelle next to a GTO, a pretty girl standing between the cars waving a flag. Clearly a pre-street-race photo.

  Once upon a time, he’d indeed been wild and adventurous. And she knew exactly what had changed him. The question was, could she really help bring some of that back to him, something she wanted, needed, to do with all her heart.

  Chapter 7

  #WafflesAreAlwaysTheAnswer

  Finn watched Pru’s shoulders tense as she looked at the pictures on the walls, and wished she’d turn his way so he could see her face. But she kept staring at the evidence of his life as if it was of the utmost importance to her. “You okay?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Whether in answer to the question or because whatever was on her mind weighed too heavily to express, he had no idea. Turning her to him, he watched as her long lashes swept upward, her eyes pummeling him with a one-two gut punch.

  And going off the pulse racing at the base of her throat, she was just as affected by him, which was flattering as hell but right now he was more concerned about the shadows clouding her eyes. “You’re worried about something,” he said.

  She bit her lower lip.

  “Let me guess. You forgot to put the plug in your boat and it might sink before your next shift.”

  As he’d intended, her mouth curved. “I never forget the plug.”

  “Okay . . . so you’re worried you’ve maimed me for life and I’ll have to give up my lucrative bartending career.”

  Her smile faded. “You joke,” she said, “but I could have maimed you if I’d thrown higher.”

  “Or lower,” he said and shuddered at the thought.

  She closed her eyes and turned away again. “I’m really so very sorry, Finn.”

  “Pru, look at me.”

  She slowly turned to face him. There were secrets in her eyes that had nothing to do with the dart thing, and a hollowness as well, one that moved him because he recognized it. He’d seen it in the reflection of his own mirror. Moving in close, he reached for her hand, loosely entangling their fingers. He told himself it was so that he could catch her again if she went down but he knew the truth. He just wanted to touch her.

  “I’m sure you have to get back out there—” she started.

  “In a minute.” He tugged her in a little so that they were toe to toe now. And thanks to her kickass boots, they were also nearly mouth to mouth. “What’s going on, Pru?” he asked, holding her gaze.

  She opened her mouth but then hesitated. And when she spoke, he knew she’d changed whatever she’d been about to say. “Looks like your life has changed a lot,” she said, gesturing to the pictures that Sean had printed from various sources, stuffed into frames, and put out on the shelf in chronological order the day after they’d opened the pub.

  When Finn had asked him what the hell, Sean had simply said “not everyone is as unsentimental as you. Just shut up and enjoy them—and you’re welcome.”

  Over the past year new pictures just showed up. More of Sean’s doing. Finn got it. Sean felt guilty for all Finn had given up to raise him, but Finn didn’t want him to feel guilty. He wanted him to take life more seriously.

  “It’s changed some,” he allowed cautiously to Pru. He didn’t know how they’d gotten here, on this subject. A few minutes ago she’d been all sweetly, adorably worried about him, wanting to play doctor.

  And he’d been game.

  “It looks like it’s changed more than some,” she said. “The fun pics stopped.”

  “Once I bought the pub, yeah,” he said.

  He’d had different plans for himself. Without a maternal influence, and their dad either at work or mean as a skunk, he and Sean had been left to their own devices. A lot. Finn had used those years to grow up as fast and feral and wild as he could. Yeah, he’d been an ace athlete, but he’d also been a punk-ass idiot. He’d skated through on grades, which luckily had come easy for him so his coaches had been willing to put up with his crazy ass to have him on the team. His big plan had been to get drafted into the big leagues, tell his dad to go fuck himself, and retire with a big fat bank account.

  It hadn’t exactly gone down like that. Instead, his dad had gotten himself killed in a car accident that had nothing to do with his own road rage—he’d been hit by a drunk driver.

  Barely twenty-one, Finn might’ve kept to his plan but Sean had been only fourteen. The kid would’ve been dumped into the system if Finn hadn’t put a lock down on his wild side, grown up, and put them both on the straight and narrow.