Summer Kisses Page 16

  She felt the tension in his accusation in every pulse-pound at her temples.

  He knows.

  She had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Are you firing me?” The question fell between them, opening a chasm Becca knew she couldn’t cross by walking around the truth.

  Laughter built inside the house. Faded.

  He angled toward her, his hip against the railing, his gaze carefully schooled. Interested. Inquisitive. Like a teacher suspicious that a favorite student was cheating, a teacher wanting to give said student the benefit of the doubt with a surprise pop quiz.

  Her pulse pounded harder. She tried to smile, but her lips felt like an oak leaf come fall, dry and brittle. She’d never been good at tests.

  Flynn switched tactics. “What was he like? Your husband?”

  She didn’t want to talk about Terry. She wanted to talk about her job and Flynn’s letter of reference. She wanted to explain and apologize. Based on whatever Flynn knew.

  What did he know?

  “He was a soldier?” Flynn prompted, when she didn’t immediately answer.

  “A marine. He came from a long line of marines.” But he was the first in his family to die in combat.

  “You must have been very proud of him.” Flynn’s voice, so sure, so steady, so ready to be disappointed in her.

  “I am very proud of him.” But would Terry be proud of her? Becca was desperate to run back into the house, to find Agnes, to return the ring. And yet, she couldn’t do any of those things until she passed Flynn’s test. “And you? No special women?”

  “Couldn’t catch one with all those millions.” Sometime during their conversation he’d moved closer to her. “You know how it is. You have to kiss a lot of frogs...”

  He was trying to get a rise out of her, a confession. Becca’s grip on the post tightened. She could still fix this. Somehow. In a way that didn’t involve disappointing Flynn with the truth.

  “My circumstances are unique. How do I know if a woman wants me or my millions?” Flynn seemed to be looking out on the water, but she had the distinct impression that he was also looking at her, sizing up her weaknesses. “But you...you, Becca... Some man will want to make an honest woman out of you again.”

  “I can’t.” Her voice was low, but she wasn’t lying. “I mean, I won’t. I had my chance at love. When you’ve lost as many people as I have, you realize that love doesn’t come with guarantees.”

  He tsked, the sound as quiet and soothing as the distant sound of frogs down by the river.

  She didn’t want to have this conversation. “I like being alone. I like my life.” Or she had, until Harold swore her to secrecy about the ruby ring.

  “You don’t.” He gestured toward her with his wineglass. He was close enough that the tulip-shaped rim grazed her arm. “You keep yourself apart from everyone who would call you friend. Or family.”

  “I have Abby. She’s all the family I’m looking for.”

  He took a half step closer. His feet were almost touching hers. “Love will find you, whether you want it to or not.”

  Becca frowned and told him what she’d been telling herself for three years. “I’m not willing to risk my heart again.”

  He pulled back. “Never?”

  Relieved, she shook her head. “I’m scared.” Scared that she’d made a muck of her life by taking Virginia’s money and Harold’s ring. Scared that if she told Flynn the truth he’d ask her to leave. Scared that if she kept her silence he’d still send her away.

  “What if love happened to walk by, Becs?” His fingers strolled up her arm.

  She couldn’t stop him. She knew she should stop him. This wasn’t about proving her good intentions or keeping her heart safe. It was about wanting to be held. Wanting to be reassured. Wanting to know that someone in the world, other than her lawyer, believed Becca was a good person.

  His fingers reached her shoulder, hesitated. “If love happened to walk by...” His fingers slid up the slope of her neck, slid around to cup her head. He searched for something to say, but then his gaze dropped to her lips.

  And he kissed her.

  Yes. Her heart whispered, accepting his heat and the tannic taste of red wine on her lips.

  No. Her head whispered, but too weak to be of any use.

  Because Flynn knew how to kiss. He knew how to tempt her with caresses and coax her with a gentle intensity that muddled her brain.

  It was a simple, physical reacquainting. Their bodies were a careful distance apart. But heat ignited in her belly, radiating outward, making her want, making her want to be closer, making her want to forget widowhood and lawsuits.

  Flynn must have read her mind because the hand that did the walking slid down her back and drew her close.

  Desire held sway of her body and mind, reminded her how good living in the moment could feel.

  “That’s my girl,” Flynn whispered against her lips.

  But she wasn’t Flynn’s girl. As soon as he found out she’d lied to him by not telling him about the ring, whatever feelings he had for her would slip away.

  “Don’t kiss me. Please don’t kiss me.” She was trembling as she broke away from his embrace. “I asked you not to kiss me.”

  “I didn’t... I mean, I did.” He grinned. “I’d like to again. Wouldn’t you?”

  What a mess. She couldn’t say it, but her brain was stuck on a loop: what a mess, what a mess, what a mess.

  “I’ll take your silence as a yes. You do want another kiss.” He reached for her again.

  She swatted his hand away. “Flynn! I told you there can’t be so much as a hint of impropriety between us.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to kiss you.” He held up his hands. “I just came out here and there were your lips, just waiting for mine.”

  “There were my...” She slugged him in the shoulder, although not as hard as she might have liked to. “I just told you I wasn’t looking for anyone. Including you!”

  “It was just a kiss.” He scowled, rubbing the spot she’d hit. “What would you rather have happened? Have me ask you about whatever gift you got from your last client? Or what you sto—”

  “Don’t say it. I didn’t steal anything.”

  He sighed and rubbed a hand over his short hair, his hand pausing at the nape of his neck as if missing the long locks. “I can’t have you here if you’re a thief. I can’t let you take care of my grandfather if you’re a thief. I can’t...kiss you if you’re a thief.”

  She felt hollow inside, like the time she learned her mother was dying and there was nothing anyone could do about it. “I get it.” She would have liked to put more heart into the statement, but she couldn’t feel her heart at the moment.

  “I put my trust in you.” His voice hardened. “I vouched for you when someone told me not to. I took your words at face value and looked into your eyes knowing you weren’t telling me the entire truth. But I didn’t question you. I didn’t turn you away.” The expression on Flynn’s face was the same she’d seen the day he’d admitted his father was in prison. The day he said he didn’t care what his father thought. “I didn’t think you were like Joey.”

  “Flynn, I’m not—”

  “Don’t, Becca.” He moved away from her. “Don’t say anything you can’t back up. Your word isn’t good enough anymore.”

  And then he was gone.

  Becca felt ill.

  When had Flynn’s opinion become so important to her? They’d only known each other a few weeks. His loss of faith shouldn’t have hurt so much.

  But it did. And Becca knew there was only one way to make it right.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I THINK YOU’VE had enough,” Slade said, taking away Flynn’s wineglass as soon as he came through the front door. He guide
d him to the couch.

  “I didn’t rate them all,” Flynn mumbled, listening to Becca come into the kitchen through the back. He was an idiot for kissing her. She kept telling him to stay away and he kept bulldozing her defenses. But now he had no more excuses to kiss her.

  Becca was a thief.

  She’d denied it with her mouth, but her eyes—those incredibly expressive dark eyes—couldn’t deny a thing. He should have trusted his instincts the first day he’d met her. She’d scammed him. And for what? A letter of recommendation.

  “You’ve rated enough wine for one day.” Slade turned back to the group, who weren’t paying any attention to Flynn.

  Yeah, Flynn had swallowed more wine than he should have.

  But Becca was a thief.

  There was no other explanation for her nonanswers. He couldn’t look at her, but he was aware of her every movement in the house. Her light tread on the kitchen floor, talking to Emma, washing something in the kitchen sink.

  As if that kiss and nonconfession hadn’t shifted her world ninety-degrees to the left.

  As if she hadn’t taken something from her last employer, something that wasn’t left to her in a will.

  Becca was a thief.

  No better than Joey, who’d done time. More than once.

  Flynn wanted to vomit. Flynn wanted to shake her. Flynn wanted to hire a damn good lawyer to protect Becca from herself.

  Because she probably had a good reason for whatever she did, whatever she’d taken. But this wasn’t a cheesy movie where a repentant apology was the equivalent of a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  “Is your head spinning?” Slade sat next to him, peering into his eyes. “You look like your head’s spinning.”

  Flynn glared at him. “My head is none of your concern.”

  “Becca, what time are you coming tomorrow?” Truman popped up from behind Grandpa Ed’s recliner.

  Becca came out of the kitchen and put her hands on her knees so that she was at eye level with Truman. “You ask like you want me earlier or later. Which is it and why?”

  She was good with Truman. She’d make a wonderful mother someday, if she’d ever realize love wasn’t something to be scared of. Private investigators. Police. Them she should fear.

  “I thought I’d make Grandpa Ed coffee. I like the coffeemaker. It’s like a robot. You can come later and make breakfast.” Truman was drawing a circle in the carpet with his toe.

  “Let’s check with the boss.” Becca straightened, hesitating a moment before turning to Flynn. “What time do you want me tomorrow?”

  Double entendres were a turn-on.

  But Becca was a thief.

  Flynn couldn’t get his mouth to work. He’d let a thief care for his grandfather. He could still taste her on his lips.

  “What time do you want her tomorrow?” Slade murmured. “Let’s not circle this issue too long.”

  Flynn elbowed him and turned to face Becca, fully expecting to see the word GUILTY written in black marker across her forehead. He’d sworn he’d never deal with crooks.

  It couldn’t be true.

  Who was he kidding? It had to be true. Just look at the apologetic flare in her eyes.

  “We’re meeting with Dane at seven-thirty to review the budget,” Slade said helpfully. “And then doing the repair rounds. Followed by Happy Hour with Mayor Larry.”

  “We’re going to smooth out our differences with Larry tomorrow.” Will slung his arm around Rose’s thin shoulders. “After all, we settled our differences, didn’t we, Rose?”

  “Young man, as your future grandmother-in-law, I think you’ve had too much to drink.” Rose glanced down at the coffee table. “Your spit cup is empty.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Will gave Emma a loopy grin.

  “So, you need me first thing?” Becca’s voice was sweet as a rose bloom, but her past had thorns. “Flynn?” she prompted.

  “At seven,” he said crisply, unable to look her in the eye.

  She retreated to the kitchen.

  He’d be fully ironed and dressed when she arrived for work tomorrow. There would be no more interactions. No strolling past the oak tree. No viewing sunsets. No...

  Flynn stood. The room barely spun.

  He followed her into the kitchen, not because he wanted to, but because he was thirsty.

  In the living room, Agnes was calling for ballots. They were alone.

  Everything in his life was in turmoil. His grandfather so accepting of an end so near, the appearance of a father he hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years, and now this— confirmation that he’d been wrong about Becca. Flynn felt his composure crack, his center shift, his equilibrium waver.

  The frustration he’d held at bay for hours or days or weeks swept through his body in a cold, black wave, roiling and pounding into anger. He wanted to run, to drive too fast, to yell at someone. He wanted to scramble up into karma’s face, yowl his frustration, wail his disappointment.

  Flynn commanded his body to turn toward the door, but Becca’s familiar brown eyes penetrated his internal rant. He reached for her, fingers sinking into soft flesh. Squeezed.

  She. She. Everything was fine until she showed up here with her trapped eyes, widow sainthood and her happy dog.

  “Flynn.” Becca’s voice. Peace in a tumultuous ocean.

  Becca’s torso was tense in his hands. He hadn’t been this angry since Carl Quedoba sucker punched him in high school. Becca’s cheeks were pale. Her eyes swimming with concern.

  He should let her go.

  He should hold her tight.

  More than anything, he wanted the truth.

  More than anything he wanted to hear her tell him she’d done nothing wrong, truth or not.

  Flynn caught sight of his reflection in the kitchen window. Joey’s unapologetic eyes stared back at him. They were the eyes of a man who’d do anything to get what he wanted.

  “I’m okay,” Flynn said, feeling anything but. He wanted Becca. Enough to compromise his beliefs? Never.

  He didn’t let go of Becca.

  Crap.

  “Flynn?” she whispered, moving closer to him. “I didn’t steal anything. I promise.”

  How could he trust her? Flynn couldn’t breathe. How could he hold on to her until he decided what he was going to do?

  Agnes rounded the corner with the stack of score sheets. She hesitated when she saw them so close to each other, but only for a moment. “Becca, where is the key?”

  “Yes, Becca.” Slade appeared behind Agnes, a grin suddenly splitting his face at the sight of Flynn’s hands on Becca. “Where is the paper that says which wines are which? Agnes and I are here to help you, our impartial judge, tally up the scores.”

  No one seemed to see Joey in Flynn’s eyes. No one seemed worried that he was holding on to Becca as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake her or kiss her.

  Such faith. He hoped it wasn’t misplaced.

  If Becca, sweet, loveable, trustworthy Becca, could be drawn to the dark side, what hope did he have for himself?

  Flynn released Becca and backed to the opposite counter so he could watch her.

  If he hadn’t been watching Becca, he wouldn’t have seen her exchange a glance with Agnes, wouldn’t have seen Agnes worry a ring on her finger and Becca quickly look away.

  Something ominous and bitter milked its way up his throat.

  “Agnes, I never asked.” Flynn forced the question out. “How did you meet Becca?” Agnes had said they’d only known each other a few days. He’d assumed Becca was just passing through and fell prey to the charm of the town councilwoman.

  Agnes faced him, hiding the ring behind her back. “How did we meet?”

  “She delivered something.” Rose came around the corner.
Her slender white brows puckered. “Never did hear what she delivered.”

  Becca busied herself with the ballots.

  Slade spared Flynn a brief glance and a frown.

  Flynn was no longer floundering. He was on a straight path to the truth. “Something you ordered? Something your family sent you?” He held Agnes still with his gaze—a small, old doe caught in his headlights. “A gift from someone?”

  The paper Becca was holding slid to the black-and-white checked linoleum.

  Rose picked it up. “This was mine.”

  “Flynn, we’re almost done counting.” Slade’s half-tossed scowl clearly spoke of not messing with old ladies or women you wanted to kiss until he’d determined who the winner was.

  Flynn thrust his hands into his back pockets to keep from hauling Becca outside. He wanted to know why she stole the ring. Why she’d given it to Agnes. And why Agnes had accepted.

  A debt? A distant relative? A lover?

  None of them seemed plausible.

  “There’s a tie for the top two red wines.” Becca slid her tally over to Slade.

  “Christine’s cab.” Agnes did little claps, more interested in the score than in Flynn’s revelation.

  “And Fabrizio’s cabernet,” Slade said. “Dang if the sexy-named man didn’t make some good wine.”

  “And the top two white wines.” Becca slid the second tally to Slade.

  “I need some coffee.” Flynn started making a pot. He needed to be sober when he confronted Becca.

  Slade and Agnes leaned over the summary sheet.

  “Christine again!” Agnes was clearly on cloud nine. And as soon as Grandpa Ed heard, he’d be hounding Flynn and his partners to hire her. In his grandfather’s eyes, having roots in Harmony Valley was almost as good as having grown up here.

  “And Charles Montclair.” Slade frowned as he rummaged around for the bottle corresponding to the results. “His label is the one with a wet dog, a skunk and a zeppelin. No clue what that means.” He turned it so Flynn could see, realized Flynn wasn’t in the mood and showed it to Rose, who seemed the only one in the kitchen who cared.