ake sat in his sister’s Honda Accord and stared across the street into Gordon Chase’s dark office window. If looks could laser, he’d already be inside. As it was, he was waiting patiently to make his move until the last of Chase’s business park neighbors, a lawyer by the name of Finola Scott, finally cleared out of her office. The last thing he needed was anyone tipping off Chase that they’d seen him lurking around; still, the key Rhonda Bacon had given him was practically burning a hole in his palm, and he was anxious to use it. He knew that anything he found wouldn’t be admissible in court, but if he knew it was there, he could give Gerard Levy a nudge in the right direction, let the department take it from there. Then he would have fixed what he’d broken, and he could move on from it. Finally forget the whole damn thing. All he had to do was be sure the evidence was really there first, and in order for him to do that, Finola Scott had to go the hell home.

He glanced at the clock glowing green in front of him, watched as 8:52 switched silently to 8:53. Jake thumped his head back against the headrest. This was going to be the longest night of his life. He could feel it.

The cell phone in his shirt pocket vibrated. Glancing back at Finola Scott’s window—light still on, he could see her riffling through the filing cabinet, her and her damn work ethic—he glanced down at the caller ID: The Goodhouse Arms. He flipped the phone open and smiled.

“I didn’t steal your car, Mercy. I borrowed it without permission. Totally different thing.”

“Jake?”

Even with only one syllable, her voice bounced. “Hey, Annabelle. What’s up?”

He leaned forward in his seat as he caught some movement behind Finola Scott’s window; was she finally putting on her coat?

“I know it’s your night off and everything,” Annabelle said, “and I really wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t important, you know that, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Oh, good, because I would hate it if you thought I’d just bother you for any old thing, but I didn’t know...”

Yes, Finola Scott had definitely put on her coat. And now she was pulling her keys out of her purse.

About damn time.

“... and the music is really loud and she won’t answer the phone, and all the shades are drawn and I don’t think there’s been any movement...”

Jake shook his head and tried to latch on to something in Annabelle’s conversational meandering that made any sense.

The light in Finola Scott’s office went off.

“Look, Annabelle, I’ve kinda got a thing going on. You wanna cut to the chase?”

“It’s Flynn,” she said, her voice taut with worry. “I’m probably overreacting, so I don’t want to call the police, but—”

“Wait, what?” Jake blinked, glanced away from Finola Scott’s window, and tried to focus. “Why would you have to call the police?”

“Because of the sleeping pills,” Annabelle said, frustration deep in her voice.

Jake’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “What sleeping pills?”

“I told you, Flynn had Herman deliver her a bottle of Tylenol PM this afternoon. Weren’t you listening?”

Jake relaxed. “Tylenol PM are not sleeping pills. They’re glorified antihistamines.”

“Not when mixed with a liter of peppermint schnapps,” Annabelle hissed. “I’m really worried about her. She was acting kinda weird today.”

“And that’s different from every other day how?”

“I’m serious, Jake. She found a bunch of Pop-Tarts in Esther’s desk and got really upset. It was weird. I think she might be... you know... unstable.”

Jake shrugged. “Again. We’ve covered this ground.”

“But then she asked me to have Herman deliver a bottle of Tylenol PM. When Herman dropped it off, he saw Esther’s old rocking chair just sitting on the porch, and there was an empty bottle of peppermint schnapps on it.”

“I’m sure it’s all fine. If she was alive and well enough to dump the rocker on the porch—”

“That was five hours ago. Music has been blaring from the cottage since three o’clock this afternoon. She’s not answering phone calls. She’s not answering the door.”

Tendrils of alarm began to vibrate within him, and Jake sat up straighter. He didn’t figure Flynn Daly for the suicidal type, but if he’d learned anything while he was a cop, it was that everyone had a surprise or two up their sleeve.

A chill went down his spine. Flynn had just had lunch with Chase. Had she obstinately told Chase she wasn’t going to sell just to be a pain in the ass, to prove to him that she wouldn’t be played? It seemed in her character to do something like that, and people who ended up being a pain in Chase’s ass usually ended up neutralized one way or another.

But Chase wouldn’t hurt her. He had no reason to hurt her.

Unless he had a reason Jake just didn’t know about.

“Christ.” Jake tossed Chase’s office key on the passenger seat and started up the car. “I’m on my way. Go on in there and make sure she’s okay.”

“My key won’t work,” Annabelle said. “Esther never locked up, so I haven’t ever had to try it, but it doesn’t work. And what if...”

Jake screeched out of his spot on the street, cutting off Finola Scott’s BMW as he did.

“Jake,” Annabelle said, anxiety thick in her voice. “What if she’s dead? I don’t like dead bodies, Jake. They make me very tense.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” he said, running the red light in the center of town. “You go out there and bang on the window, try to peek through the shades. If she doesn’t answer, or you can see she isn’t moving, you call the police whether I’m there yet or not, okay?”

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it down, unconcerned about where it landed, certain even as his heart pounded in his chest that this was a nothing situation. Flynn Daly was the last person in the world who would commit suicide...

On purpose. But chasing over-the-counter meds with booze without thinking first? She seems exactly the type.... and it was a hell of a stretch to think that Chase would do anything to her...

Although Esther got in his way, too, and look where she is now.

A vision flashed in his mind: Flynn, lying on the bed where they’d found Esther, body limp, dead eyes staring blankly out into the world. He pounded the accelerator. He had no idea why he was so panicked, she was probably fine, but reason wasn’t a player at the moment. He had to get to that cottage, had to see for himself that Flynn was okay even though he knew in his gut that she was.

He ran a stop sign.

He’d worry about how that made sense later.

Flynn sat cross-legged on the bed in her golden aura’d bedroom, smiling smugly at Aunt Esther, who rocked on the ghostly chair in the corner. As one of the many anti-Esther tactics she’d employed that afternoon, Flynn had dumped the real rocking chair on the porch. She’d also doused the room with holy water, which turned out to be more emotionally comforting than technically effective. In a case of true serendipity, when she was out in the garden shed looking for wood she could fashion a cross from, she’d found a CD player with AC/DC’s Back in Black in a garden shed and been hit by inspiration. Blaring the music hadn’t prevented Esther from visiting, but the obvious annoyance on the old lady’s face as she tried to shout over the music was oddly gratifying. Flynn put her hand to her ear and shook her head at her aunt’s ghost.

“Sorry?” she yelled. “I can’t seem to hear you, lady. Maybe you’d better just go find that white light, because I’m of no use to you if you can’t communicate with me, right?”

Aunt Esther merely rolled her eyes and wound another piece of purple yarn around the tip of one knitting needle.

Okay, fine. So maybe the blaring music wasn’t working as far as the general haunting went, but it sure was shutting up Aunt Esther. That was a good thing. That was progress.

BOOM! Flynn gasped and jerked as a loud banging sound came from the living room. What the...? She turned wide eyes on Esther.

“Was that you?”

Esther put her hand to her ear, shrugged, and pointed at the stereo.

Flynn narrowed her eyes. “No one likes a smart-ass, lady.”

THWACK! The bedroom door burst open and suddenly Tucker was in the room, his eyes all wide and crazy. Behind him, Annabelle flew in and ran to the CD player, which she shut off. The quiet was so marked, it felt loud. On the bed, Tucker was shaking Flynn’s sleeping body, and Flynn could feel the pull of his will on her.

“Flynn!” Her teeth rattled as he shook her shoulders. “Flynn! Wake up, goddamnit!”

As Flynn felt herself being yanked back, she caught one last glimpse of Esther grinning, and heard the old lady’s parting shot: “We’ll talk later, dear.”

With an almost audible pop, Flynn’s eyes opened and she looked up to see Tucker’s face just inches from her own. His cheeks were red, his eyes crazy, his breath ragged and coming down over her in rough, angry waves. His right hand came up from her shoulder to touch her face, and she could see his Adam’s apple jump as he swallowed hard.

“Flynn,” he said, his voice oddly soft, “what the hell did you—”

But then Annabelle pushed herself between them, pulling Flynn into a tight, bouncy hug.

“Oh, my God, Flynn. I was so worried!” Annabelle’s bony arms wrapped around Flynn, and it kinda hurt, but Flynn fought the urge to recoil. Instead, she glanced up to see Tucker stepping back from the bed, running his hand through his hair. He turned his back to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but based on the tension in his stance, she guessed he was at least a little pissed off. Which didn’t make any sense. She was the one who’d been woken up like a crackhead on an episode of COPS.

“... and the music was playing and I couldn’t see through the shades and my key doesn’t work so we had to break the door down and...”

Annabelle was chattering away, her hands grasping at Flynn’s as she spoke.

“... but whatever it is, it’s not worth your life. Life is so precious, Flynn. So precious, and you have to know that you’re so much better than—”

Flynn held up her hand to shush Annabelle.

“Wait. What? You guys think I tried to kill myself?”

Tucker motioned toward the bottle of Tylenol PM on the nightstand by her bed, his eyes blazing with accusation. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm and controlled. “Between this and the empty bottle of booze sitting on the porch, what did you expect us to think? You’re out here for hours, music blaring, no sign of life...”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Flynn leaned against the wall and motioned toward the pill bottle. “Open it. Go ahead.”

A shimmer of surprise flashed over Tucker’s expression, then he grabbed the bottle, popping the top off. He stared at it for a long moment before handing it to Annabelle, who blushed hard as she saw the unbroken silver safety seal.

“The booze was Esther’s. It was leaking, stinking up the place. I found it in the bed. Literally, in the bed. She actually cut a hole in the box spring to hide it.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God.” She turned and looked up at Tucker. “That’s my fault. I used to take her bottles sometimes.” She turned her pleading eyes on Flynn. “I didn’t mean to drive her to hiding it. Isn’t that a sign of alcoholism?”

“No, that’s drinking until you pass out,” Flynn said, right as Tucker said, “Not if you can’t find the bottle.” Flynn raised her eyes to his and allowed a quick, involuntary smile until she remembered she was still kind of pissed off at him.

“Anyway,” Flynn said, directing her focus to Annabelle. “Personally, I’m not a schnapps kind of girl, so I emptied what was left of it into the sink and tossed it on the porch with the rocker.” She took a deep sniff, and could still detect the sticky peppermint. “I think I’m going to have to burn this box spring, though.”

Annabelle silently took the plastic cap from Tucker’s hand, then snapped it back onto the Tylenol and returned it to its spot on the nightstand. She glanced up at Flynn, eyes guilty as she nibbled at her lower lip. “Am I fired? I mean, between the pills and the booze and the music and the not answering—”

“No, you’re not fired. I can’t fire anyone for four more days.”

A look of confusion flashed over Annabelle’s smile. “Okay. Well. I guess we’ll just be—”

“You go on ahead,” Tucker said, his voice quiet. Annabelle glanced at him, then back at Flynn, and Flynn could see the hurt on her face. Tucker, however, seemed oblivious. How was it possible he didn’t know Annabelle had a huge thing for him?

He’s a man.

“Um, okay.” Annabelle squeezed Flynn’s hand one final time. “I’m so glad you’re all right. Sorry about the door.”

“It’s no problem, Annabelle,” Flynn said. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

Annabelle nodded and pushed up off the bed. Tucker didn’t speak until the front door closed with a soft click, but when he did, his voice was heavy with accusation. “So, what the hell was that?”

Flynn pushed herself up off the bed. Now that they were alone, she felt awkward being with him in her bedroom.

“It was me, trying to get some damn sleep.” She headed into the living room, Tucker tight on her heels.

“With the doors locked? Shades drawn? Blaring music like that? What the hell, Flynn?”

“Fine!” Flynn turned on him, her index finger bearing down on his chest as she nudged him back against the wall. “I was trying to get rid of her, okay? Every time I go to sleep, there she is, on that stupid rocker, knitting her stupid little purple afghan, talking to me about Pop-Tarts. My life is complicated enough without my dead aunt seeing me as her own personal Jennifer Love Hewitt. All I want to do is sleep like a normal person, and I can’t do that when she’s there all the time!”

To her horror, tears of exhaustion filled her eyes. She glanced upward to spread them out, keep them from falling.

Not in front of him. Anywhere but in front of him.

“I’m not crazy,” she said finally, her eyes focusing on the wall over his right shoulder.

“I never said you were. Not to your face, anyway.” His voice was kind, and soft, and full of humor. She raised her eyes to his in search of his typical sarcasm, derision, and cockiness. But none of that was there. He just looked down at her, his gaze trailing down from her hair, over her forehead, down her nose, to her mouth. She wondered if he thought her lips were too full, her smile too big, her eyes too wide apart, and then she wondered why she was wondering. Finally, he smiled, setting a flock of butterflies loose in her stomach.

Stop that.

“So,” he said, his voice thick with amusement, “you thought blaring music was the way to get rid of her?”

Flynn blinked away the last of the moisture in her eyes and shrugged. “It was a theory. It did shut her up. I couldn’t hear her. But she was still there.” She glanced toward the front porch. “Maybe if I burn the rocker...”

“Maybe if you listened to her...”

She turned her attention back to him. “What?”

“Pardon me for pointing out the obvious, but if she’s trying to tell you something, maybe you should just listen to her. What have you got to lose?”

“Sleep, for one.”

“Which you’re losing anyway, so that argument doesn’t hold water.”

“Then there’s my sanity.”

He grinned. “Can’t lose something you don’t have.”

“Hey!” She thwacked him on the shoulder. “Just because you come busting into my room to save my life—which was never in danger, by the way—does not mean you get to be all chummy with me. I still haven’t forgiven you for that stunt you pulled the other day.”

He sighed, and the grin abated. “Ah, yes. That.”

“Yes. That. It was a lousy thing to do.”

“It was.”

“I don’t know what your game is here, but I don’t like being played.”

“No one with half a brain would.” He paused, dipping his head so he could smile directly into her eye line. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

She had expected him to fight back, and the lack of anticipated resistance made her feel a little off balance.

“Okay.” She crossed her arms over her stomach. “As long as all parties understand who the big jerk is here...”

He held her eyes for way longer than absolutely necessary. “All parties, I think, are in complete agreement.”

His smile faded and Flynn felt the mood downshift a bit. He was looking at her in that way again, and they were standing closer than was absolutely necessary. Her skin began to tingle, and she thought... maybe...

But that would be bad, fooling around with the bartender. On a lot of levels, not the least of which was that Freya would never let her live it down.

“I don’t believe in this, you know,” she said quietly.

Tucker’s eyebrows quirked in question, but he didn’t say anything.

“In ghosts,” she continued. “I don’t believe in them.”

“You don’t believe in life after death?”

“I don’t believe in chatting after death, no,” she said quickly. “Do you?”

“I don’t know. But there’s a lot I don’t know. I still can’t figure out how they get that automatic foaming soap to automatically foam. It’s completely beyond me. So on matters of ghosts and spiritual whatsis, I try to keep an open mind.”

“My dead aunt Esther is not talking to me, okay?” Flynn rubbed her arms to ward off the goose bumps forming on her skin. “It’s my subconscious. I’m torturing myself because of some deep-seated psychological issues. Or something like that. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”

He smiled, and the butterflies inside took flight once again.

Enough, already.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s say it is your subconscious. If it’s appearing to you, in whatever form, it obviously has something to say. It stands to reason that the only way to make it stop is to listen to it.”

He was right, of course. And Flynn knew it. The only admission she allowed, however, was the slight shrug of one shoulder.

Tucker smiled, recognizing her minor acquiescence. “I’m just saying it’s worth a shot. So, tell me, what has your subconscious in the form of Esther been telling you?”

Flynn thought back on her interactions with Esther. “Well, mostly, she doesn’t like me much and she misses Pop-Tarts.”

Tucker gave a scandalized gasp. “There are no Pop-Tarts in heaven? I have to say, that comes as a surprise.”

“She’s not in heaven yet. She’s kind of... caught. I think. I don’t know. She thinks that since I’m the only one who can see her, that it’s my responsibility to help her move on.”

“I guess that makes sense.” He smiled down at her, and once again Flynn became acutely aware of how close they were standing. There was a whole living room, and yet she was just a few inches from him. How had that happened without her noticing?

“What else did she say?” Tucker asked.

She took a step back. “What does it matter? It’s my subconscious. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s like when you dream about a train going into a tunnel.”

“Well, that’s obvious sex imagery.”

“No, water is sex. A train in a tunnel is just... Hitchcockian.”

Tucker chuckled. “You said cock.”

She tried not to laugh, but failed. “Oh, my God! What are you, twelve?”

“On occasion.” Their eyes connected again, and Flynn felt a little dizzy.

“Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t think it means anything,” she said, her voice thick with lack of conviction.

“Fair enough.” Tucker took a step back and nodded toward the bedroom. “Now, go pack an overnight bag.”

Flynn stayed where she was. “And where, exactly, do you think I might be going overnight?”

“Well, you shouldn’t stay here, not with a front door that won’t lock.” He motioned toward the door, and Flynn noticed that the wooden doorjamb was completely splintered where the dead bolt had been. “Herman can probably fix it tomorrow. In the meantime...” Tucker reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, then handed it to her. It was old, like the one that opened the cottage, the key chain an oval of silver with Thank you for choosing The Goodhouse Arms engraved on one side and Rm. 213 engraved on the other. She looked up at him.

“You keep room keys in your pocket?” She gave him her most skeptical look. “How convenient.”

“I got it yesterday. You know. In case someone might need it.”

His eyes met hers, and she realized that he’d gotten this room specifically for her. She looked down at her hand and tightened her fingers around the key.

“Thank you, Tucker.”

“It’s no big deal.” He reached out and touched her arm gently with his fingertips. “Go pack. I’ll walk you up there and get you settled. Maybe Esther will leave you alone there, maybe not. But it’s worth a shot, right?”

Flynn nodded. “Right.”

She kept her eyes on Tucker as she started toward her bedroom, then turned away and focused on the task at hand, trying to ignore the residual tingle she felt where his hand had grazed her arm.

Here we go. The one-two punch of butterflies and tingles was more than even she could ignore—she officially had a thing for the bartender. Which was okay. He was cute, she was human. It wasn’t like she was going to act on it; she’d learned her lesson about workplace romances. So, it was okay. A little crush. No big deal.

She opened the armoire and surveyed her nightwear options, her eyes instantly locking on to a lovely pair of cream-colored silk pajamas that Freya had ordered for her...

Flynn closed her eyes.

Having a crush is okay. Acting on it is not. Do. Not. Act.

She released the breath, opened her eyes, and pulled a thick, decidedly unsexy BU sweatshirt on over her cotton camisole and ratty flannel lounge pants. She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. If he hit on her while she looked like this, there was no hope for either of them.

Jake opened the door for Flynn, poking his head in the room and turning on the light before stepping back to allow her passage.

“All clear,” he said. “No dead Esthers.”

Flynn made a show of rolling her eyes before stepping in, but he caught the small smile she let slip when she thought he couldn’t see her. For a moment he considered just shoving her in and hurrying back to Gordon Chase’s business park, but he realized now that it would be rude. Inhospitable. And how long would it take to show her around?

“So, you can see, the king-size bed,” he said, walking around behind her and turning on the light by the bedside. “Dial 109 on the phone to put on a Do Not Disturb; it’ll go right to voice mail. Although I’m the only one who knows you’re here, so...” Their eyes met and held. Jake cleared his throat and motioned toward the bathroom. “The bathroom is fully stocked with your basic toiletries, and the armoire has extra blankets if you need any.”

Flynn nodded, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Nice,” she said, bouncing a bit.

Jake’s mouth went dry. “Yeah. Well. You get some sleep. I’m just gonna...”

He motioned behind him toward the door, but he couldn’t turn away. Flynn sat on the bed, looking up at him with that wild hair falling around her shoulders, and all he wanted was to strip that sweatshirt off of her, to know what it would feel like to bury his fingers in that hair...

He felt a familiar stirring down below. Time to go, or Flynn would soon know exactly what kind of pull she was having on him. For the gazillionth time in his life, he envied women the fact that their bodies allowed for a little mystery.

“So, good night,” he said, his voice tight. His hand was on the doorknob when she called out, “Tucker?” behind him.

He closed his eyes for a second. Dead kittens. Physics textbooks. Queen Elizabeth II. He opened them again and turned to face her. “Yeah?”

“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to know what the deal is with you and Gordon Chase.”

Well, that certainly did the trick. Jake leaned his back against the door. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because you two both seem intent on marking me as your personal territory. I think as the object in the middle of your competing urine streams, I’m owed an explanation. I know I’ll never get a straight answer from Chase, so I’m going direct to the source: you.”

She stared at him, her eyes sharp and intent on their target. Jake swallowed, trying not to smile as the words I know I’ll never get a straight answer from Chase vibrated in his head. She’d seen right through Chase, charm, smarm, and barrel. It only confirmed what Jake already knew, that Flynn Daly was smarter than your average bear, but still. Knowing she’d seen past Chase’s money and good looks only warmed him in places that didn’t need warming at the moment.

“It’s a long story,” he said finally. “And I know you want to get some sleep, so I’ll just—”

“I’ve been sleeping all day,” she said. “Kind of. And as soon as I go to sleep, Esther’s gonna be there, nagging at me. I’m happy to put that off for a while.” She played with a frayed edge of her sweatshirt, then sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just humor me, okay? Distract me with your sordid tale of testosterone gone stupid.” She nibbled one corner of her lip, scuffed the toe of one Ked on the floor, then raised her eyes to his, her hair hanging loosely over one shoulder as she cocked her head to the side. “Please?”

That hair. There was so much of it. He could reach out and touch...

Oh, man. Dead kittens.

“Look,” he said. “I need to... I’ve got a... Um.” He motioned toward the door. Harvey Fierstein. Carol Channing. Gramma Tucker. “I’m gonna get us something from the bar. If you really want me to give you the whole story, it’s gonna be a long night.”

Flynn’s face lit up. “Jameson’s?”

Wow. Had she been that pretty when she first got off the train? He knew she’d been pretty, but he didn’t remember her being that pretty.

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll be right back.”

He ducked out and shut the door behind him, leaning against the door and staring up at the ceiling. On a scale of one to ten, he wondered how bad an idea it would be to tell her everything; he placed it at about a three. It wasn’t like he was going to continue dangling her in front of Chase, anyway. He’d made that decision when he ran that last stoplight on the way to the Arms, when he thought that all his games might have gotten her hurt, or worse. He could find another way to distract Chase, and if Flynn knew how dangerous he was, then maybe she’d agree to stay away from him. Of course, there was the risk that if he told her about Chase, she’d run off and tell Chase what he was up to, but at least then Jake wouldn’t have her getting hurt on his conscience.

Then, it would be her own damn fault.

Oddly, that didn’t make him feel any better about that possibility. Since seeing Flynn passed out on the bed in Esther’s cottage, his entire being had been buzzing with a strange, stupid, and inappropriate need to touch her, to protect her, to not let anyone near her who wasn’t him.

Although, unable to shake the vision of her bouncing on the edge of the bed in the hotel room, his desire to touch her had hit number one with a bullet.

He pushed away from the door and headed down the hall, untucking his shirt and working hard to drum up images of dead kittens.

“So...” Flynn sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, her mind whirling with all the new information Tucker had been telling her over the last hour. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Tucker twirled his glass in his hands. “That pretty much brings you up-to-date.”

“I’m really sorry about your dad.”

Tucker shrugged it off. “Yeah, me, too. But it was a long time ago.”

Flynn watched him, remembering what Mercy had said about their father’s death being so hard on Tucker. Considering the fact that his dad wouldn’t have even been at that factory if it wasn’t for Gordon Chase’s greed, it all made sense. Suddenly the piano falling on the safety inspector didn’t seem even remotely funny anymore.

“So,” she said, shifting conversational gears. “You really think Gordon Chase killed Esther?”

Tucker shifted in the antique tub chair he’d pulled up next to the bed. His feet rested on the far edge of the nightstand, which was being used as a temporary cocktail table. “No. I don’t know. Something’s off. Esther was old, and she had a heart condition...” He shrugged and took a sip from his glass. “But something’s still not sitting right with me.”

“It’s that cop’s intuition,” Flynn said, feeling as though it was a new Tucker sitting before her. A Tucker who’d been a cop. A Tucker who cared about more than he let on. A Tucker whose eyes...

She blinked and sat up straighter. She must be drunk, thinking about eyes. She set her glass on the nightstand and then edged it a little farther away with her index finger. Just to be safe.

“So, anyway. That’s what all that Gordon Chase stuff is about.” He smiled lightly. “By the way, feel free to light into me at any time for putting you in the middle of that. I’m waiting for that other shoe to drop.”

“Oh, forget it. I’d have done the exact same thing.” She waved her hand in the air and attempted a casual laugh, but it came out in an awkward snort. Tucker chuckled. This is what happens when you start thinking about eyes, she admonished internally. She cleared her throat and asked, “So, how are we going to nab him?”

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Did I miss a memo? When did the ‘we’ happen?”

“Well, you were using me to get to him anyway—”

“Hey, there’s that shoe.”

“I’m not dropping a shoe. I’m just saying, I don’t think it was all that bad a plan. I can totally string him along while you investigate. And I won’t even have to be all that dishonest about it. I mean, we haven’t made any final decisions yet about this place.” Which was true enough; Freya said it would be at least two weeks before Dad chose a buyer.

Tucker focused on his glass and ran his index finger along the rim. “Really? You’re thinking about staying?”

Flynn shrugged and felt a small shot of excitement ride through her at the thought. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but she was starting to feel kinda... warmly toward the place. Her eyes trailed over the room, with the canopy bed and tub chairs and antique writing desk. The roses on the wallpaper. The tall windows. Her gaze landed on Tucker sitting next to her bed, watching her with an inscrutable expression.

The bartender.

“What?” she said, rubbing self-consciously at her nose.

“You’re thinking about staying.” It was a statement this time, as though he’d just read her mind and was merely saying it out loud for the record.

“No,” she said, using the petulant tone of a twelve-year-old denying a crush on her science lab partner. She worked up the nerve to meet his eye, allowing the big humming ball of strange and awkward energy to intensify between them before losing the game of chicken and looking away first.

“You know how many jobs I’ve had in the past eight years?” Flynn angled her head to look at him. Tucker shook his head. “Fourteen. I have been, in no particular order, a nanny; a cashier at a bakery; a database administrator; a slime line worker in an Alaskan fish cannery; a prostitute at a Renaissance Faire...” She trailed off and smiled gently at him. “I mean, I played a prostitute.”

He whistled and shook his head. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled the fantasy.”

She laughed, turned her eyes back to the ceiling. “I like animals, so I was a veterinarian’s assistant for a while, until I discovered I really only like healthy, fluffy animals. I’ve done everything, pretty much, at least once, but I never found it. You know, the one thing I really wanted to do for the rest of my life.” She spread out her arms and breathed in deep, then lowered her eyes to Tucker’s and, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, said, “My mother was a dancer. She taught ballet to little girls.” Just as she was working up the energy to explain what that meant, he nodded his head and said, “I get it.”

She blinked in surprise. “You do?”

“Yeah. Dancing isn’t the kind of thing you do to pay the bills. It’s the kind of thing you do because you love it. Because you can’t not do it. That’s what you were looking for.”

Flynn lowered her eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. “So, I mean, yeah, the thought has crossed my mind that if I’m not gonna find it at the Renaissance Faire, I might as well not find it...”

“... here,” he finished for her. Their eyes met again, and Flynn knew that the heat in her face had nothing to do with the booze, although if asked, she would have sworn otherwise.

“Look,” she said, “even if my father keeps this place, there’s no way he’d ever let me run it. I have no experience. No idea what I’m even doing here. He’ll put someone in here who knows what they’re doing, and I’ll go back to some desk job in Boston.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

She leaned forward, hugging her knees to her chest. “So let me help you.”

Tucker laughed. “You’re gonna give a guy whiplash, you keep taking corners like that.”

“This thing with Gordon Chase, it could be my last chance to... I don’t know. Do something that matters, I guess. And you know, I’ve got a stake in this, too. If Chase did kill Esther, then that’s probably why she’s haunting me.”

He stared at her in silence, his eyes narrowing in thought, and she was sure he could see her heart pounding even through the bulky sweatshirt. She waited for him to say something, but he just watched her with an intent gaze.

“Okay,” he said finally.

“Okay? Okay, what?”

“Okay. You can help.” He held up an index finger. “But we’ve gotta have ground rules. Number one is, you don’t so much as look at Chase without me knowing about it. If he calls you or contacts you in any way, you let me know before jumping into anything.”

Flynn sat forward, practically bouncing in excitement. “Okay. Deal.”

“I’m not done. You don’t tell anyone about anything. If Chase did get to Esther, he might have someone here on the inside helping him, so keep quiet about it.”

“You think someone here would harm Esther? It seems like everyone loved her.”

“All it takes is one person who didn’t,” he said. “And I haven’t really wrapped my head around a solid theory yet, so, just keep it all under your hat for the time being, okay?”

“Okay. Fine.” A sudden yawn hit her like a truck. She indulged it, then blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “So what do I do?”

Tucker chuckled, sat forward, and put his glass down on the nightstand. “You get some sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He shifted, about to get up, and Flynn was surprised by how powerfully she wanted him to stay. It was the smell of his skin, or maybe the kindness in his smile, or the amused tones in his voice—something about him was so innately comforting to her that she hadn’t even noticed until he made the move to leave, threatening to take her comfort away.

“I don’t want you to go.” The words were out before she’d even had time to think them, let alone to stop herself.

He let out a rough sigh. “You know I can’t stay.”

She stared at him for a long time, not sure what to say. She hadn’t intended to hit on him, exactly. It wasn’t that she wanted to sleep with him—although her stomach did take flight at the thought—she just wanted him to stay. Something about him seemed to fill cracks inside her she didn’t know she had, and now that they were filled, she didn’t want to go back.

“You can stay for a little while,” she said quietly, hoping she didn’t sound as pathetic as she felt.

“I can’t, Flynn.” There was regret in his smile, which was only a small comfort. “You’ve been drinking. There are rules.”

“I’m not saying... We don’t have to... That’s not what I’m asking for. I just don’t want you to go. Not yet. I...”

She groaned and put her hand over her eyes. She was the lonely, horny innkeeper, hitting on the bartender. She was a cliché, a tired joke, a sexual harasser.

She heard him get up, and her whole body froze as she prayed that he’d just leave and then she could keep her hand like this, covering her eyes, for the rest of her time here. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be doable, she was sure.

She felt the mattress shift as his weight settled next to her on the bed. Warm fingers circled her wrist, pulling her hand away from her face. His smile was gentle, and his eyes were kind, and even his tousled, unkempt hair was making her stomach tighten.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. One of his hands rested next to her hip, his body crossing hers, blocking her from jumping up and running to the bathroom for sanctuary. His other hand still held her wrist, one thumb absently tracing the tendons under her skin. With every second of silence, her heart beat harder, and she was sure her face was practically radioactive with heat by now. He released her wrist and reached up to touch her face, his fingers grazing her cheek, making her skin tingle.

Okay. That’s enough. She pushed her back up against the headboard, putting only maybe an inch or two of extra space between them, but it was space she suddenly needed.

“Tucker—”

“We’re in bed together. I think you can call me Jake now.”

“I can’t.” She swallowed.

A slow smile spread over his face, and he laughed. “Stubborn, thy name is Flynn.”

She could feel heat from his body, hovering so near, not technically touching her but still effecting an intense visceral reaction. This had to stop. He either had to get in that bed for real or leave.

“Jake...” she said quietly, hoping he’d understand his choice without her having to lay it out for him. Avoiding that humiliation was worth the concession of using his first name.

He nodded. He understood, and she could tell by the look of resignation on his face that she’d be alone in just another minute. Still, he leaned forward, one hand cupping the back of her head in his hand, and his lips landed softly on hers, at first gentle, but then the energy between them started to crackle and he dove in deeper.

Oh, this is good. This is goooood. Her entire body hummed with the feel of him as he leaned over her. Sensations came at her in bits and pieces; the softness of his hair under her fingers, the strength of his arm as it pulled her up to him, the harmonizing heart-pounding rhythms that reverberated through them both like primal drumbeats. Her fun parts were just getting into the swing of things when he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled back, his eyes heavy-lidded and, she thought with satisfaction, not entirely able to focus.

“Well,” he said. “That was...”

She let out a sharp breath. “Yeah. It was.”

“Okay.” He released her shoulders, then ran one hand through his hair. “Okay.” He hopped up off the bed, took a few steps toward the door, then turned back to face her, gesturing over his shoulder toward the door. “I’m gonna go.”

“Fine.” She heard the petulant strain in her voice, but there was nothing to be done about it. She gave him a stiff wave. “See ya.”

A confused look flashed over his face, and he took a step closer. Good God. Was he trying to torture her? Why didn’t he just leave already?

He squinted at her a bit, his expression unsure. “Are you mad?”

“Mad? No. Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know. I just—”

“I mean, just because you kiss me like that and then run off like it’s Superbowl Sunday. Who would possibly be offended by that?”

“Oh, Christ.” He took another step toward her, looked at her like she was the crazy one here. “Flynn, I’m leaving because I just kissed you like that. I...” He shook his head and let out a long breath. “There are rules.”

“Since when do men care if a girl’s been drinking a little? I thought most guys used Jim Beam for their wingman.”

“Well,” he said, his eyes locked on hers, “I’m not most guys.”

“So... what, then? Are you gay or something?”

His head reeled back in shock. “Am I...? You think I’m gay?”

“Look, I would have stopped you.” Probably. “But you didn’t even go for the sex. That means gay, married, living with Mother, or crazy. None of which bode well for you.”

Anger flashed over his face. “Or, maybe, I was raised by a family of women who beat it into my brain that there are certain things you don’t do when a girl is—”

He stopped suddenly. Flynn threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, advancing on him as she spoke. “When a girl is what? Weird? Undesirable? From Boston? What?”

“Special.” He raised both hands, his fingers raking the air in frustration. “When a girl is special, you take her on a date first. You shower beforehand. With soap. You buy her flowers or candy, both if she’s really making you nuts. You follow steps, you stick to the rules. God! I’m killing myself to do the right thing here, and you assume I’m gay? What, were you raised by wolves?”

Flynn softened, chose to ignore the raised by wolves comment, and smiled.

“You think I’m special?”

He let loose with a frustrated chuckle. “There are many definitions of special.”

“You think I’m special,” she said in a teasing singsong voice as she took a step closer to him.

He smiled and shook his head. “You thought I was gay?”

“If it helps, I hoped you were just living with Mother.” She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t live with Mother, do you?”

“Oh, hell.” He threw his arms up and headed toward the door. “Good night, Flynn.”

“Good night,” she said softly to his back. His hand touched the doorknob, then he froze where he was. She was just about to say something when he turned suddenly and grabbed her, pulling her to him so fast she thought she might get whiplash. She closed her eyes and fell into the kiss with him, allowing the feel and scent of him to finally silence her internal chatter. Every movement sent off sparks in different parts of her body, and if she had been able to think anything, it would have only been, Don’t stop.

But he did, and they pulled back from each other a bit, both of them breathless and flushed.

“Okay,” she said. “I take back the gay thing.”

He laughed, put his hand on her face, and traced her lower lip with his thumb, making the muscles in her legs tremble. She let out a little moan and his eyes fluttered a bit, but then his face cleared and he released her.

“Do something for me?” he asked softly.

“Yeah?”

He let out a rough breath. “On another night, when the time is right, if you’re so inclined and you haven’t been drinking...” He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. “Ask me again.”

She made some kind of guttural sound that she hoped would pass for, “Sure.”

He let out a soft laugh. “Good night, Flynn.”

“Night.”

He shook his head, chuckled lightly to himself, and then let himself out, leaving her alone, dizzy, and unsure. She leaned forward slowly and let her forehead rest against the dark wood of the door. She saw his face when she closed her eyes, and it wasn’t hard work to recall the feel of his arms around her, the earthy scent of his skin, the...

“Hoo boy,” she said, releasing a breath as she pulled herself away from the door. She walked to the bathroom, turned the shower on, and stared at herself in the mirror.

“This is a prime example of poor decision-making,” she told herself. “Bad news. Do not get all gooey over the bartender.”

As her reflection smiled back at her, she heard the retort clear as a bell in her head.

Too late.