Chapter 7
Inside, Van Halen’s “Runnin’ with the Devil” poured out of the jukebox.
Finn stood behind the bar, leaning against the shelves of bottles, a book in his hand.
The cover was weathered, and the cracked spine bore a white label denoting it was a library book.
He set it aside before Effie could read the title, smiling at Martha as he did.
“Martha. Ladies.” Effie’s eyes locked with Finn’s, his narrowing before he fixed his smile in place. “Must be my lucky day.”
“Don’t get cute with me, Finley Joseph,” Martha warned, and that was new, as middle names were not common in Scotland until after the sixteenth century. It suited him. “It is certainly not your lucky day. How could you?”
“What did I do?” Finn frowned. “I’ve been here all morning.”
Martha gave him a withering look. “Not only did you secretly marry this girl in a drunken farce of a wedding, now you refuse to do the right thing and divorce her so she can marry the love of her life? You’re stubborn.
That’s gospel; you got that from your mother.
But I didn’t take you for a—for a tyrant! You are holding poor Effie hostage.”
He shot her a dry look. “A drunken farce? Really? That’s what you’re telling people?”
She hid her smile with her hand and did her best to make her voice small, defeated. “You gave me no choice but to seek outside counsel.”
Finn rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “Look, I don’t know what Effie’s been telling y’all, but it’s more complicated than that.”
“Then, put it in simple terms for us,” Iris suggested, her placid tone at odds with her scowl.
Luella crossed her arms. “Just tell us why you won’t do the decent thing so she can move on.”
“So you both can move on,” Avaline snarked.
Effie lowered her hand, and while none of the women were looking, mouthed the words that had been on gleeful repeat in her head since yesterday.
Checkmate.
His jaw rocked forward, and a thrill shot through her, victory so close she could taste it. And god, was it sweet.
“You want to know why?” He stepped out from behind the bar and didn’t stop until he was right in front of her, the toes of his boots nearly touching hers.
“I’ll tell you why.” He reached out and tipped up her chin, a brazen move that made her breath catch in her throat. “Because I don’t want to move on.”
Effie looked up into Finn’s eyes and felt strangely weak, her knees knocking together. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and the urge to turn her face into his palm was almost irresistible. Almost.
She gathered her bearings, reminding herself that no matter how much he looked like him, this Finn was not her Finn, and reared back, smacking his hand. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His face was solemn, but his eyes glittered with amusement. “I’m not ready to put the past behind us.”
“What past?” She sneered. “You don’t even remember—”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I’ve tended plenty of bars in plenty of places, and I know one thing’s for certain.
” He reached down, capturing her hands in his, her reflexes frustratingly slow with him looming over her.
Tall and broad and…imposing. Finley MacDonald was an unfair, unwelcome obstacle, with hands that swallowed hers right up and eyes that unmoored her.
This close, his scent was a siren’s call, a heady mix of sandalwood and warm skin, the sweetest, most dangerous temptation.
“Drunken words are sober thoughts, and no amount of alcohol on this planet could get me to make a promise I didn’t intend to keep. ”
His thumb swept across her knuckles, causing her to shiver visibly, violently. Effie wrenched her hand free and glared. “If this is coming from some misplaced sense of honor—”
“It’s got nothing to do with honor.” Finn took a small step back, eyes flickering over to Martha and the other women, and it was clear what this was. A performance. And she his reluctant scene partner. “See, my memory might be foggy, but my heart knows the truth.”
“What truth?” Luella asked, breathless. “Don’t leave us hanging.”
“Yes, enlighten us.” Effie spoke through gritted teeth. “What truth?”
Her heart pounded, something about the way he was looking at her making her feel like she was at the top of a steep roller coaster, suspended in the smile curling at the edges of his lips, seconds stretching into an eternity as she waited, breath bated for the plunge.
“Effie MacLeod,” he said, and she could swear she felt the wind rushing up to meet her. “I think I love you.”
Gasps filled the air. Effie stood frozen, glaring furiously up at Finn, her nostrils flared. “You most certainly do not.”
“Mm, I think I do,” he said, looking as if he was trying hard not to laugh.
“Then, you’re mistaken.”
“You can’t tell me what I do or don’t feel.”
Oh yeah? “I can tell you one thing for sure and it’s that I don’t love you.”
“You don’t love me yet,” Finn corrected, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Martha, you asked me why I won’t divorce this woman. It’s because I want a chance.”
“A chance?” Effie scoffed and Finn raised a brow defiantly. She didn’t, however, miss the once-over he gave her, a lingering look that sent a tingle down her spine. Her jaw clenched. “A chance to what?”
“To win you back, obviously.”
Puh-lease. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she was tired of it. She turned to Martha. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
“Oh, Effie, I don’t know.” Martha bit her lip. “If my Earl said anything half as romantic as that, I’d be beside myself.”
“He did make a compelling argument,” Iris said, and what fucking twilight zone had Effie entered?
“Ladies,” she snapped. “Focus. Remember what we talked about. It was a drunken farce of a wedding. We clearly are not suited. I’m a—a tart, remember?”
Finn choked. “You’re a what?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” She turned back to Martha and the other ladies. “I have a fiancé, in case you forgot in the ten minutes it took to get here.”
“That’s right. You do, don’t you?” Luella swooned. “Oh, it’s just like in The Notebook.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Martha clasped her hands under her chin. “Finley, have you considered fixing her up a house? Making it real nice?”
Under other circumstances, it might’ve been funny how Finn’s brows squashed together. “I hadn’t, actually—”
“You know they both die at the end of that movie, right?” Aveline said, apparently the only sane person left in this bar save for Effie.
“Not in the book, they don’t,” Luella fired back. “In the book, they make love.”
“A house, you said?” Finn looked at her, a shit-eating grin splitting his face from ear to ear. “Maybe I’ll take that plan under advisement after all.”
Effie scowled. How quickly her plan had unraveled, and all because of what? Because Finn had seen fit to concoct some bullshit story about—
Oh, that dirty, rotten son of a bitch.
He’d bested her at her own damn game.
While the other women bickered over which was better, the book or the movie, Effie took a step closer to Finn and jabbed a finger at his chest.
“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing,” she hissed, “but you don’t have a chance in hell of winning it.”
“In case it slipped your notice, you’re not in Hell anymore, honey.” He leaned in close, his stubble brushing against her cheek. “This is my town. That means we’re playing by my rules.”
“Your rules?” How cute. “Fire is the only thing you’re playing with. And you know what happens when people play with fire, Finley?” She tipped her head back, looking up at him squarely. “They get burned.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth. “What makes you think that’s not what I’m after?”
Effie bristled, a dizzying rush of heat crackling through her. Her fingers fisted in the front of Finn’s shirt and she fought the urge to give him a good hard shake, shoving him instead. Finn, the bastard, smirked and barely budged.
“You’ll be so sorry for this.” She wasn’t sure whether her words were a warning or a promise.
“Sweetheart.” He chuckled, all breath. “I’ll never be sorry you walked into my bar.”
Game on.
He wanted a wife?
She’d give him a wife. A wife whose prerogative it was to make her husband’s life a living hell.
“Ladies,” she called over her shoulder, eyes still trained on Finn and his smug smile, taking solace in the fact that he had no idea what was about to hit him.
Fuck around and find out, the old adage went.
He’d have no one to blame but himself for what happened next.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. ”
“I don’t know, Effie,” Martha dithered. “It’s a little early for me, and I really ought to get back to the—”
“First round is on me,” she said.
“Well, twist my arm, why don’t you?” Martha laughed. “Whatever you’re ordering, go on and make mine a double.”
Luella raised a hand. “Something sweet for me, please.”
“Just no vodka.” Iris shivered violently. “Not unless you want to know what I ate for breakfast.”
“I don’t give a hoot what you give me, just by golly make it strong,” Avaline begged.
“Sweet and strong…Say, Finn? Do you know how to make a Suffering Bastard?” Effie smiled. “If you don’t, I’d be happy to show you how I make one.”
“I’m familiar,” he said, staring flatly back at her.
“A round of those, then. And keep ’em coming.”
“Another, ladies?”
A ruddy-faced Martha burped, then shook her head. “I really shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t is for quitters,” Effie said. “You don’t want to be a quitter, do you, Martha?”
The question was met by a roar of boos from Luella and the other girls, who’d all passed tipsy about two hours ago and were well on their way to wasted.
“It’s not that I want to be a buzzkill,” Martha moaned. “But I’m fixin’ to fall asleep sitting up. I need a nap.”
Aveline shook the basket of fried pickle chips at her. “Bitch, what you need is to eat something and rally.”
“Avaline!” Luella sounded scandalized. “You can’t go around calling people a”—she dropped her voice—“B-I-T-C-H.”