Joan Kilby - Meant To Be Hers

Finn smiled at her. “Delicious, thanks...” He read her name tag. “Annie.”

Annie broke into a wide smile that transformed her face. “I’ll be right back with your freshly squeezed orange juice.” With a little skip, she hurried back to the kitchen.

Carly stuffed a forkful of frittata into her mouth. “This is genius. And a lot of food.”

“Remember...” Finn gave her a wink. “If you can’t finish what you start, I’m your go-to man.”

“Stop that, right now.” She pointed her fork at him. “I know what you’re doing so don’t pull those innocent eyes on me. I’ve known you since you were a pimply-faced adolescent.”

“Ouch. So cruel.” He sipped his coffee. “Why did you think I could write a song about your bitterness? Alleged bitterness,” he amended when she bristled. “You have this perfect life in New York complete with a fabulous new job. What could be wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. My life is great.” She pushed a piece of chorizo around the plate. Yeah, the competitive culture at Hamlin and Brand was tough but she could handle it. In this dog-eat-dog world she needed to be a Rottweiler not a Shih Tzu.

“Glad to hear it,” Finn said. “Irene must have been worrying needlessly. She sometimes did.”

“I know, right? For someone so laid-back, she could stress out.” But Irene’s intuition was part of what had made her such a great teacher and musician in her own right. What did she know about Carly that Carly didn’t know herself?

Finn was still studying her face intently. Was he thinking about a song he was writing...or about kissing her? Goodness, why had that popped into her mind? Now she could barely breathe. Feeling heat creep up her neck, she dropped her gaze and concentrated on spearing a mushroom.

A buzz of static from the stage heralded the arrival of a man in jeans and a gray T-shirt with a sun-streaked brown ponytail. He bent to speak into the microphone.

“Welcome to open mike,” he said with an Australian drawl. “My name’s Dingo and I’ll be MC today. If anyone wants to add their name to the list of performers, we have a few slots free.”

“Is that your friend?” Carly asked, interested.

“Yep. He has a cover band that plays mostly sixties rock but he does this on Sundays.” Finn waved to Dingo. A pretty brunette sat at the table next to the stage, a sturdy blond toddler on her knee. When the little boy saw Finn he tried to launch himself across the café. “That’s his wife, Marla, and their ankle biter, Tyler.”

“We have a local hero in the audience today,” Dingo announced. “Finn Farrell, how about singing us your hit song?”

The crowd began to clap, encouraging Finn to play.

“What does he mean, your hit?” Carly asked.

“Just a song I wrote.” Finn shook his head at the stage, mouthing, “No.”

“Ah, right, sorry.” Dingo’s face twisted into an apologetic grimace as if he’d just remembered about Irene and was mentally kicking himself. “No worries, mate.”

The café crowd didn’t seem to notice this exchange. Dingo’s apology was drowned out by whistling and applauding. The clapping became rhythmic. Finn half rose and made a small bow with his hands palm out in gracious refusal.

Still, the audience kept clapping and calling out. Finn sank lower in his seat. Carly frowned. Couldn’t they see that he didn’t want to play? Unable to stand it another second, she moved her elbow and knocked over her glass of juice. It rolled off the table and clattered to the floor. Juice splashed everywhere.

“I’m so clumsy.” She leaped up and dabbed ineffectually at the mess. “Can’t take me anywhere.”

All eyes had now turned to her but the clapping stopped, thank goodness. Annie brought over a cloth and mopped up, retrieving the fallen glass. Meanwhile, Dingo strummed his guitar, bringing attention back to the stage. A murmur of approval rose from the audience.

Carly recognized a recent indie chart-topper. “I love this song.” She glanced at Finn, thinking he’d be pleased no one was looking at him anymore, and was surprised to see he was still tense.

He tapped out the beat with long fingers on his knee. Now and then he grimaced painfully. Before the song was even finished, he was on his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

He lifted a hand in Dingo’s direction and headed for the exit. Dingo sang the last bars but his worried gaze followed Finn across the café.

Carly grabbed her hoodie. She was almost out the door before she remembered the community noticeboard and quickly tacked up the notice Finn had composed.

“Slow down,” she called, running after him. He strode ahead, his long legs encased in skinny jeans, his broad shoulders hunched. Catching up, she grabbed his jacket sleeve, forcing him to look at her. His face was white and dotted with perspiration.

Shocked, she let go of his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

CHAPTER FOUR

FINN PULLED ON the neck of his sweater, sucking in air as Carly stared at him, eyes wide. Inside his tight chest his heart thudded like a drum solo. If he’d known Dingo was going to blindside him like that he would never have set foot in Rhonda’s café.

“What’s going on, Finn?” Carly said. “What happened back there?”

“You wanted to know if you’d ever heard a song I wrote?” he said. “That was my song. I wrote it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes popped. “I had no idea you were famous.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “The band who sang it is.”

“Why didn’t you sing?” she asked. “Why let Dingo do your song?”

“I don’t perform anymore.” He hated the way Carly was looking at him, all worried and wanting an explanation. He’d enjoyed hanging with her and hoped they could spend a day or two together before he went on his way. Not going to happen now.

He resumed stalking up the hill. It galled him that fans loved the Screaming Reindeer’s version, and today, Dingo’s. They were all fine musicians, no offense, but no one had ever heard the song the way he’d intended it to be played. The familiar dilemma stuck in Finn’s craw. He couldn’t have it both ways, simultaneously wanting anonymity and recognition. Craving the applause but not willing to risk making a fool of himself by choking onstage.

“Finn, wait,” Carly persisted, hurrying after him. “Why did you run out? Why do you look like you’re having a heart attack? And why are you scowling? Aren’t you pleased that people like your music?”

“I should be, shouldn’t I?” Finn strode briskly up South Hill toward Irene’s house.

Carly jogged behind, trying to keep up. “So what’s the problem?”

He threw her a black look. “Forget it. It’s no concern of yours.”

“You were my aunt’s favorite student,” she said. “Her concern is my concern.”

“I’m not a lost dog,” he growled. “You’re not responsible for me.”

“I care about you! You and I go back a long way. I thought we were friends.” She stopped and pressed a hand to her stomach.

Finn circled back and put a hand under her elbow. “Are you all right? You look sick.”

“I think I really am going to throw up this time.” Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. “I am never drinking scotch again.”

“Sit down.” He led her to a stone retaining wall and made her sit, gently pressing her head forward with a hand on her back. “Head between the legs. Never would have pegged you as being so high maintenance.”

“I’m not. Usually I’m the one looking after other people.” Her voice was muffled by the messy honey-blond hair falling over either side of her face.

Her slender nape looked so pretty and feminine. Finn blew on her damp skin and massaged circles on her back. Soothing Carly took his mind off himself and helped him calm down. There were better things to expend his emotional energy on than flogging himself for not being the man everyone had expected him to be.