CHAPTER 5
Finn
All the blood drains from this girl’s face. And I mean that she goes sheet-white. Her deep brown eyes widen. Her body trembles.
She sinks further into the chair.
I’m convinced that somehow, some way, she’s trying to scam our family. But there’s no faking what I’m looking at. She’s pale. Terrified. Shaking.
So this Emma Clark person is either a highly skilled grifter or she’s for real and is need of help.
I stare at her. Unable to move. Unable to decide, which is not like me.
If she’s for real and faints on my watch, I couldn’t live with myself. Because that would mean it was my duty to help her and I failed.
I’m a MacLaine. We do what’s right. More specifically, I’m Finlay MacLaine, the dude who refuses to let history repeat itself.
Those huge dark eyes of hers are lassoing me in, begging me to take her under my wing, give her what she desperately needs. She starts to slide under the table.
Summer bumps into me. “Snap out of it, champ.”
Emma goes limp, scanning the tent, afraid she’s the center of attention. But nobody notices her. The wedding party is going strong, and everyone is tipsy or dancing or both.
Summer punches me in the shoulder. “You’ve seen the email. She’s telling you the truth. Be decent.”
I look at the wrinkled piece of paper again. I don’t recognize the sender’s email address. There seems to be a thread, but the printout is only one page, and it’s been cut off. I have no context for this message. I have no clue what’s going on.
“I was told to come here today,” Emma squeaks. “I was told you wanted me. That you needed me.”
“That’s for sure,” Summer says under her breath.
I give her some wicked side-eye.
“I don’t need a cleaning lady,” I say.
“A housekeeper,” Emma corrects me.
I rub the back of my neck. It’s the oddest scam I ever heard about. Not much of a con to insist that she’s been offered a job as a housekeeper. Still, I never advertised for one, and I’m not about to let a stranger in my house.
Around my daughter.
But she doesn’t look like a con artist. The truth is, I don’t want to believe she’s a liar. So I opt for the kinder approach to putting an end to this bullshit.
“I think this is a mistake,” I tell her, making sure my voice is gentle. “Maybe someone’s playing a joke on you. All I know is that I didn’t place an ad for a housekeeper and I don’t want one.”
Oh, shit. Not this. Not tears.
I clear my throat. “This ranch is a no-crying zone.”
Summer snorts.
Emma quickly wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I’m not crying.” If she drops any lower in that chair her ass is going to hit the ground.
“It’ll be okay,” Summer says.
“Right. It’ll be totally fine,” I say.
There she goes. She’s slipping. I grab her by the upper arms and set her back into the chair. I felt nothing but skin and bones beneath my touch. And something else I have no business trying to name.
“You’ll find another job,” I tell her. “A much better job.”
Her eyes overflow. Her chin trembles.
“You got a place to stay?” Summer asks.
Emma drops her chin to her chest and slowly shakes her head. “I have fifteen dollars.”
Oh, fuck.
I’m such a sap. But I can’t send some poor girl out on the state highway at night. And this county isn’t exactly a social services mecca. It’s true—I don’t know her. But I can’t just pretend she never wandered in here.
I shove my hand into my pants pocket and come out with my money clip.
“Problem solved.” I rip bills from the clip and hand them to her. “See? Now you have money for—”
“A place to stay?” Summer asks, her eyes flashing at me.
Maybe Summer’s right. Three hundred won’t find her a place to stay, at least not for long.
I stare at the money Emma clutches in her hand. I see the dirty nails and cuts on her fingers.
“Thank you,” she croaks, wiping her eyes again.
“So…” I don’t know what I’d planned to say after that. I’ve got nothing. I should probably just walk away. Or maybe ask Joe the stable hand to drive her to Sweetbriar. Or do I go back to the house and write her a check?
I’ve never been in this position before. It’s awkward. And I realize that it’s because none of those are what I want.
I don’t want her to leave.
For some reason that’s totally over my head, I have the feeling that this Emma Clark person is here for a reason.
Thankfully, Aunt Phyllis is headed our way. She’s all dressed up tonight. It’s kind of weird seeing her without apron strings tied behind her neck and around her waist.
Since my mother died, she’s been the bedrock of the family. In a sea of testosterone-toxic ex-military hotheads, she keeps people on the straight and narrow and, if we let her, she keeps our households running smoothly.
Phyllis takes no shit from anyone, but in a very sweet way. Often while serving tea. With coffee cake. And withering commentary.
I can count on her to smooth over this awkwardness and fix whatever problem has just been dumped in my lap.
“You must be Emma Clark,” she says to the crying girl.
Say, what?
Phyllis takes Emma’s hand—the one not clutching my wad of cash—and pats it. “I’m so glad you made it on time. Did you get a plate? You must be exhausted after your trip.”
“Uhm…” Emma looks to Phyllis, then moves her eyes to Summer. She skips me entirely.
“Hold up,” I say. “You know this woman, Aunt Phyllis?”
“I ate some shrimp puffs,” Emma answers. “And some cheese.”
“That’s a start,” Phyllis says, patting Emma’s hand again. “But that certainly doesn’t qualify as a meal, now does it?” She tosses me a dirty look. I make a show of examining my shiny wingtips.
I know better than to defend myself. Aunt Phyllis may come off like a softie, but I’ve met the Warrior Priestess who lives under those zip-up housecoats.
“Come with me, honey. I’ll get you settled and make sure you get a meal.” She pulls Emma from the chair and walks her out of the tent.
Summer and I watch them leave. Emma has her duffel bag swung over her shoulder, and Aunt Phyllis is holding her hand as they approach the exit. Declan stops Phyllis to ask a quick question, and they’re on their way again.
“What the hell?” I say.
“Weird,” Summer says. “I gotta get more shrimp puffs before they’re all gone.”
She leaves me standing by myself at the table. The elderly couple seated there is staring at me in anticipation. Waiting for the next act in my roadshow, I guess.
“Enjoying the wedding?”
No response.
“I like your hat, ma’am.”
They just stare. Time to go.
“Excuse me. My daughter needs me.”
It’s a legit excuse, since I haven’t seen her for a while, and nobody can argue with a guy doing his fatherly duties. I scan the open space lit by a sea of fairy lights.
By this point in the evening, many women have kicked off their uncomfortable shoes and a lot of men have loosened or removed their ties.
I spy my brother Declan across the dance floor.
Jasmine is standing on the tops of his shoes as he takes the lead.
My girl’s looking up at him and laughing, her face nothing but pure happiness.
She adores her Uncle Declan. Jasmine adores all her uncles, but Declan maybe most of all. I think that’s because Declan is a kid at heart—probably always will be.
“What was that about?”
I put my hand on my heart and spin around. “Fuck me, Special K. You scared the piss out of me.”
Our baby brother, who ironically is the biggest of the five us, just snuck up behind me. He stands with his arms crossed, the seams of his jacket sleeves about ready to burst from the strain.
Special K doesn’t respond. He’s the strong, silent type.
His real name is Kevin, and a lot of people assume his nickname means “Special Forces Kevin.” I can see why they might think that.
He’s basically the poster child for a Special Forces psychological profile—stable, adaptable, flexible, tight-lipped.
But that’s not it at all.
He’s been called Special K since he was born. Our poor mother, who already had four boys, wasn’t planning a fifth. But there he was, his hair as blond as the rest of us were dark. Mom referred to him as her “special surprise.”
He’s staring over my shoulder at the moment, apparently waiting for me to answer his question, so I do. “Some chick showed up saying she was hired to be my housekeeper.”
“Sounds reasonable.” He resumes eye contact with me.
“Reasonable? What do you mean? I don’t need a housekeeper interrupting my privacy.”
Special K grunts. “Privacy? To do what—parade around in Disney princess dresses?”
“Excuse me? I don’t wear Disney princess dresses.”
He grunts again.
“Not lately, anyway. Jasmine doesn’t even want to do tea parties with me anymore. She prefers shopping with Victoria.”
Special K groans, raking his fingers through his hair. “I think my balls just shriveled up into my abdominal cavity hearing that shit. I’m out.”
He turns on his heel and heads toward a group of women near the chocolate fountain. Declan and Jasmine stop dancing, and Jasmine heads for the fountain too, where Special K picks her up and tickles her. Declan points at me and laughs.
I put my hands out to my sides, palms up. “What?” I mouth.
He shakes his head in disbelief and laughs again. Another song begins to play, and Declan leaves the dance floor.
“What’s so funny?” I ask him.
“You hired a girl to be your live-in housekeeper?”
“Uh… no. Where did you hear that? That was a total mistake on her part.”
“That’s not what Aunt Phyllis just said.”
“What did she say?”
“She said it’s a done deal. She’s showing the girl your house as we speak.”
My throat closes, and I choke. Declan slaps my back.
It takes a moment for me to regroup. I stare at him, incredulous. “What the fuck is Phyllis doing to me?”
“I suppose congratulations are in order, then.”
“For what?”
“For finding a way to bring a woman into your life. Even if you have to pay her to do it. Nothing wrong with that, of course.”