Loree Lough - The Firefighter's Refrain

“A lawsuit?” Blond brows drew together slightly. “Just ask Mark—I’m not sue happy.”

“Sue happy...sounds like the title of a country song.”

He got to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. When she put hers into it, Finn noticed that it was warm and strong...and callused. She’d overhead Mark say that he was a firefighter. Had he earned them on the job? And what about the limp? Had he earned it on the job, too?

Steady on her feet again, she thanked him, then dusted the knees of her jeans. A sliver of glass poked into her palm, and she drew a quick gulp of air through clenched teeth.

“Here, let me see that,” he said, holding her hand up to the light.

He hadn’t seemed tall, seated in the booth or kneeling beside her in the muddle of broken dishes. Bending slightly to inspect the cut, he towered over her, and something told her that even if he hadn’t been wearing stack-heeled cowboy boots, she’d still feel tiny standing alongside him.

“If you tell me where to find some gauze and peroxide, I’ll clean it up and bandage it for you. I’m a firefighter, so I have first-aid training.”

He was talking a lot. Talking fast, too. Her snappish reaction to the fall—and the mess—had clearly unnerved him.

She wriggled free of his grasp. “It’s just a little scratch. I’ll clean it up later.”

His pained expression told her his apology and the concern that followed had probably been authentic. But then, Finn could count on one hand the number of honest and decent men who’d crossed her path, and have fingers left over.

Well, at least he wasn’t a musician, like his pal. Mark, band leader and owner of The Meetinghouse, was a regular customer. He often stopped by alone to hunch over sheet music or ledger pages. Other times, the rest of the Marks Brothers Band tagged along to discuss sets or work out four-part harmonies...much to her customers’ delight. Her years as a waitress had taught her to accept their generous tips with grace and ignore their blatant flirtations without insulting them.

“You’re sure? Because I’m happy to—”

“I’m sure. But thanks.”

“Well, okay. But FYI, peroxide will foam up and help work out any glass particles that might still be in there.”

She hid the hand in her apron pocket. “I’ve cut myself a thousand times, with things way bigger than a splinter of glass. So don’t give it another thought. It’ll be better before I’m married.”

His left eyebrow rose slightly and so did one corner of his mouth.

What a stupid, stupid thing to say! she thought, making note of his dimples. Pete used to say, “Small talk won’t kill you,” but at times like these, it sure seemed as though it could.

“I’ll just get Rowdy to, ah, redo your order.”

“No need to go to all that trouble.”

Other customers were watching and listening, so yes, she did.

“Hey, Teddy? Bring me the broom and dustpan, will you, please? And send Bean out here to help with this mess.”

Discomfort sparked in his eyes as he shifted his weight from his bad leg to the good one. He’s a little careless, she thought, staring into eyes as blue as cornflowers, but he sure is easy to look at.

She focused on Mark. “You guys sit tight, okay? We’ll have your new order out here before this mess is cleaned up.”

The kids appeared as if on cue, freckle-faced Ted carrying the broom and dustpan, tall, reedy Bean holding a plastic tub. The firefighter took a step forward, as if planning to return to his seat. Instead, he bent again and retrieved silverware and one unbroken plate. He eased them into the girl’s tub, then relieved the boy of his broom.

“If you’ll just hold the dustpan, son, we’ll have this cleaned up in no time.”

Finn was about to repeat, Thanks, but I’ve got this, when Mark shook his head.

“No point trying to stop him,” he told her. “Ol’ Sam here can’t help himself—he’s a public servant, through and through.”

Funny. He didn’t look like a Sam.

The cook stepped around the fragments—and the group of Right Note employees still gathered in the aisle—and delivered the replacement sandwich. “Here y’go. Just give a holler if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Sam said as Rowdy, Ted and Bean made their way back to the kitchen.

“Well, don’t just stand there takin’ up space, Marshall,” Mark said. “Take a load off, why don’t you.”

He slid onto the bench seat and gazed up at her. “When you bring the check, let me know what I owe you for the stuff I broke, okay?”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I’ll just have to guess, then.”

“Things get broken in here every day.” Finn shrugged. “So forget it. Really.”

The slight lift of his chin told Finn that he meant to reimburse her no matter what she said.

“More iced tea?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Finn turned, picking up a few empty glasses on the way to the service counter. Did he practice that dimple-exposing grin, or was the guileless expression genuine?

She added the glasses to the washtub as Ciara waved from across the room, reminding her that it didn’t make a whit of difference if Sam Marshall was interested or not, the real deal or as phony as a used car salesman.

Because romance and Finn Leary didn’t belong in the same sentence.

CHAPTER THREE

SAM GLANCED ACROSS the diner, where the gal he’d tripped stood talking with the cook.

“You sure know how to make a first impression,” Mark said, following his gaze.

“Yeah, well...” He squeezed a dollop of catsup on to his plate. “At the risk of sounding redundant, why am I here?”

“Good grief. You’re about as patient as a kid on Christmas Eve.” Mark rooted around in the briefcase beside him, withdrew a black ledger and slid it across the table.

Sam flipped it open, but peripheral vision told him that the pretty brunette was watching, making it all but impossible to concentrate on column headings, let alone dollar amounts.

“So what’s her story?”

Mark scrubbed a palm over his face. “Her name is Finn Leary, and she owns this place. Now quit worrying about that mess and the lousy first impression you made. It’s history.” He tapped the ledger. “This isn’t.”

Sam did his best to focus. In the left-hand column, a list of monthly expenses—food and beverages, utilities, insurance, taxes—for The Meetinghouse. In the center, the club’s employee roster and salaries. On the right, end-of-year profits split by Mark and Eli.

“Are these numbers accurate?”

“Yep.”

“It’s good to see how well you’re doing—” he slid the book back to Mark’s side of the table “—’cause it means you can afford to pay me in real dollars one of these days.”

“Owners get paid last.”

“Poor, poor, pitiful you,” Sam teased. He pointed at the impressive after-taxes total. “My heart bleeds for you and Eli.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be good news for you, too...if you say yes to my offer.”

The girl with Finn laughed, too long and too loud. She looked perfectly normal, but her actions and reactions said otherwise. He ran down a mental list of possible explanations for her behavior. Autism. Asperger’s Syndrome. Brain damage...

“I booked a flight on that rocket ship to Mars. How ’bout if I buy you a ticket, too?”

“Ticket?” Sam sat up straighter. “Wait. What?”

“Man. When you take a trip to la-la-land, you really go, don’t ya?” He leaned forward, tapped the tablet again. “I’m trying to cut a deal with you, here, so quit gawking at Finn and pay attention, okay?”

“I wasn’t gawking.” But Mark knew better, so Sam humored him. “What kind of a deal?”