Page 9

Saturday morning arrived after another restless night for Danny. Being back in his own bed helped only enough to fall asleep. It did nothing to stop his body’s unconscious need to reach out in the middle of the night to cup the curve of Jessica’s hip the way he’d always done. When his hand fell through empty space and grasped a cold sheet, he jolted awake.

One month. She couldn’t even give him one month of being faithful.

His anger sprang thick enough to chew, but this time not at her. At himself for his na?ve belief that she’d change for him.

He sat with his legs over the side of the mattress, holding his head. With nothing to distract himself, the early mornings were always the hardest. Nights of fitful sleep, startling awake, remembering everything Jessica said and did ... he was so tired of this damn cycle.

His stomach soured and he rubbed over it. If this didn’t stop, he’d end up with an ulcer.

The soft orange glow of his digital clock caught his periphery, reminding him he’d set an alarm the night before. With a grumble, he reached out and flipped it off.

Six a.m.

He stared at the numbers. Was this some kind of sick joke? Almost every morning this week, he woke up before his alarm to see those same numbers.

Once—only once did Claire disrupt his life at this time a week ago, and he couldn’t stop associating it with her.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Not today.”

He wouldn’t think about her today—except he already had. Or rather, the frustrating fact that several times this week he’d almost asked a local if they’d seen her or knew where she was staying. That’s a nightmare scenario he didn’t need right now. Him, recently divorced—the town gossips cooking up a non-existent love affair.

Outside, his gate creaked, and he sprang up, throwing back the curtains. The hint of morning barely colored the horizon, making it hard to see clearly, but he knew someone had come in. Was it her? The overhang below his window blocked his view of the door, so he shoved his legs into sweatpants and crawled inside a shirt.

Making a quick stop in the bathroom, he splashed water over his beastly hair, but didn’t bother to tie it back.

The stairs complained under his heavy steps and tavern floorboards creaked in protest. He stopped just shy of the door and rubbed his forehead. What would he say if she were there? I’m glad you’re here? Sorry I was so stupid last week? No. None of those would work because he absolutely wasn’t hoping she stood on the other side.

He ran fingers through his hair and huffed a breath, settling on acting surprised. He unlocked and swung it open.

He didn’t need to act.

A couple of barely teen boys screeched and ran, stumbling through the gate without falling.

Dammit. Not Claire, and he fell embarrassingly short of the goal of getting them to pee themselves. That Viking scare would go down in Solsken history as one of his weakest ones on record.

“And stay out,” he yelled, but the damage was done. He’d have to work hard to keep his reputation intact. If he cared about that right now.

He shut the door and plunked his head against it. Maybe she’d already left Solsken. Actually, with his luck, he was sure of it.

It shouldn’t bother him that a woman he hardly knew would only remember him as the hungover guy that slept half-naked on the floor of his tavern, then ran away from her. But it did.

Maybe if he hadn’t introduced himself as a jerk and then slept on her for eight hours, he might not care so much.

Her shoulder. He had to stop remembering how well he slept on her shoulder.

As he simmered tea leaves for Royal Milk Tea and added the milk and sugar in a dazed stupor, he remembered something. Claire was famous. According to Chris, the bartender, so famous he should’ve known all about her.

He shouldn’t. Should he? He sipped tea, staring at his phone on the kitchen table. Searching for her on the internet wouldn’t necessarily make him a creep, would it? Not if he only did it to find a way to get a message to an agent or something, explaining the misunderstanding. Then maybe he could forget it—forget her—and move on with getting his crappy life back in order.

He snatched the phone before his brain fully woke and talked him out of it.

What started as a simple search, hours later, had him down yet another rabbit hole. There was no writer named Madelynn Johnson. Nor was there a Claire Johnson. There was, however a Madelynn Claire Cooke-Johnson, but no books written under that name.

“Well, shit.” Cooke wasn’t just any family name. No, of course not. Cooke had to be one of the wealthiest families in the US. Old money that dated back before even his family settled in Solsken.

Grumbling, he rubbed his brow and tried a different search. Written under a pen name of only her initials, he finally found her books. And he’d definitely heard of her. Not because he read any of them, but because someone he knew was literally obsessed with them. And he’d more than once made fun of them for it.

Gothic horror. Mild-mannered, quiet Claire wrote gruesome tales set in historical settings. He couldn’t picture it.

Though more of a niche fan base in the US, to the rest of the world, especially the UK where most of her stories were based, she was practically worshipped. Image after image of cosplayers in strange, demented costumes of demons, ghouls, vampires, and werewolves doing live reenactments of her novels.

I’m writing the end of my career.

He thought about the answer she’d given him. If she was this successful, what could she possibly write that would end her career?

He closed the browser tab before he spent hours pointlessly searching for answers and was brought back to the main search page.

A picture of her popped up and he tilted his head. It wasn’t a full image, just a thumbnail, but his eyes slid down the evening gown glued to her curves. Why the hell did she cover all of that in a bulky cloak?

He hovered a finger over the picture, debating if he should.

Most people had seen the picture, right? It’s not like it was private. His finger pressed down before his good sense could stop it, and his phone filled with her.

His breath filtered out in short bursts. The cream-colored gown displayed strong hints of a long, lithe, dancer-shaped body underneath. Her hair, tied in a low side-twist, exposed the nape of a slender neck, and more than once, he zoomed in for a closer look. Especially at the back of the dress, draped low, showing smooth, touchable skin.

She was elegant and graceful and—he’d never admit it out loud—sexy as hell. That is, if he was looking. Which he wasn’t. Nope.

Dammit. Yes, yes, he was.

A man stood at her side. Her husband, he figured. Tall and handsome in a pretty boy sort of way. He was clean-shaven and middle-aged. At least ten years her elder with dark, peppered hair and a lean, muscular physique.

Danny decided almost immediately that he didn’t like him, but couldn’t come up with a good reason why. The man had died, after all. Why should he be bothered by him?

At first, he thought it was the cocky smile he wore while she held her face in a humble half-downturn. Or maybe it was the possessive way he gripped her side or the way the article said, Dr. Brandon Johnson was seen out with his wife tonight for the premier, like she was a nobody beside him. Not even worth naming.

Who the hell was this guy anyway?

After a little more digging, he found that Brandon hadn’t come from much, but quickly rose to fame by his association with the Cooke family, making him sought out by the rich and famous.

“Well, isn’t that convenient.”

Without realizing, Danny started comparing himself to the man and quickly came to the conclusion they were nothing alike in appearance. Where Brandon was sleek and wore fine suits, Danny had his tattoos and beard, spending most of his days in jeans and a t-shirt.

His mood soured. If Claire had a type, Danny wasn’t it.

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” He sighed but allowed himself one more close look at her face. Probably the last time he’d see it.

Her bright-red lips were held in her practiced smile, not her real one, and he wondered if that was because of her husband or the cameras.

Shutting off his phone, he sent it sliding across the dining table. This had to stop. He’d known her for only a week. What right did he have to judge her smiles?

Dragging a hand over his face, he eyed his living space. Between more grumbles and sips of tea, dust and dirt he hadn’t seen before now clung to the bottom of a dust rag.

Emelie still gave Danny lip for the hell of it, but she never came late for work again. Especially when he explained that he needed her to help train a McClellan newbie.

Though the McClellan and Larsson rivalry was legendary on the island, Flygande Norseman had always been the unofficial Larsson-McClellan neutral zone.

Any McClellan that wanted to be in the whisky business was required to work at Flygande and learn about the customers they made whisky for. Every Larsson had to work there for one season during the busy summer months, regardless. This gave them a taste of hard work and a good lesson in their family history.

At thirty minutes to eleven, Danny opened the front door to retrieve the local paper, and a body toppled over his feet. A feminine body, hidden underneath a black cloak and hat, with wide sunglasses peering up at him upside down.

“Claire?”

“Good morning, Daniel.” She lay across his boots. “Your note wasn’t clear on what time I should come. But I figured it should be after sunrise this time.” She smiled—her real smile.

“Note?” He peered around. “How long have you been out here?”

“Umm ... ” She patted herself down, looking for her phone, and he unknowingly stayed focused on the shape of her mouth wrong-side-up. Specifically, how her bottom lip was fuller than her top.

Emelie smacked his arm, jolting him. “Who’s this and why is she lying at your feet?”

Apparently, the view of her mouth made his brain freeze because the dummy who’d lost his damn mind forgot to help her up. “Uh, this is Claire.”

Claire waved and Danny clamped around her moving hand, swinging her up. She yelped and swayed to catch her balance.

“Sorry.” He snatched her waist, steadying her as his pulse thundered inside his eardrums.

She was here, not gone. Right here in front of him, still smiling. She glanced down at his hands firmly glued to her sides, and his fingers sprang open and dropped.

“Claire?” Emelie gaped down over her. “Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to meet you.”

Danny darted a cockeyed look at her. He’d never heard his cousin squeal like that before. “You know her?”

“You look cold.” She ignored him and shoved him out of the way to drag Claire in. “I’m Emelie Larsson.”

“Larsson?” Claire slowly removed her glasses. “As in, Daniel’s wife?”

Danny went still, and Emelie barked a laugh. “Hell, no. Cousin.”

“Oh, I see.” Claire’s smile returned as she followed Emelie into the dining room.

Daniel remained frozen, arguing with himself. He had to be wrong. There was no way it was anger that had flashed in Claire’s eyes.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t real.” Emelie hooked her arm through Claire’s and walked her to the lit fireplace.

“Not real? What do you mean?”

“Ian had ... ” She clamped her lips closed and plastered another smile. “Never mind, sit, sit.” She motioned to a chair. “Danny and I will get you something warm to drink, maybe a full fika?”

Claire turned and looked only at him. “I’d like that.”

It wasn’t until she said those words that he released his first breath since seeing her.

“Come, hubby.” Emelie grabbed him, still chuckling, as they made their way to the kitchen.

“The new McClellan kid, Finlay, or is it Fin? Anyway, he needs to learn the back kitchen.” Danny pushed through the swinging kitchen door. “I caught him circling like a lost puppy.”

“Finney?” She propped a hand on her hip. “Finney is who you’re going to talk to me about?”

“Yes?” Danny said slowly.

“You’re unbelievable. How do you know her?”

“Who, Claire?”

“Oh my God, you’re going to pretend like a gorgeous woman wasn’t lying on your feet a minute ago?”

“I didn’t ask her to. She fell on them.”

She quirked a brow. “Right, and that’s why you couldn’t stop staring at her.”

“Staring? I wasn’t staring.”

“It’s okay, you know.” Emelie’s voice softened as she touched his forearm. “You don’t owe Jess anything.”

He held up a warning finger. “Just like I told Ian, I’m not doing this with you, or-or with anybody.”

“Doing what?”

“You playing dumb won’t work either. There’s nothing going on with me and Claire.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Well, tell that to your face next time.”

“What’s wrong with my face?” He touched it.

She slowly smiled. “Nothing, except it was very happy to see her.”

He turned his back and rolled his eyes. Was he that obvious? “It was surprise you saw not happiness.” She snorted and he ignored her, pulling down two teapots. “Grab some kanelbullar, would you?” He pointed to the warming tray of fresh cinnamon rolls brought in from the local Swedish bakery.

Using metal tongs, she placed two on a plate. “So, you told her what Jess did to you?”

The pot clanked on the tray and he steadied it, taking a deep breath. “’Course not, why?”

He wasn’t really lying. He never mentioned specifically that it was Jess that did those things to him.

“She seemed pretty pissed when she thought I was your wife.”

“You misunderstood.”

Damn, even Em saw it? His hands shook as he sliced limpa bread and cut a triangle of farmer’s cheese from a wheel, placing a cheese-slicer to the side of it. He could feel her watching him, and it wasn’t helping. “Hand me some kladdkaka and go make sure Fin isn’t lost.”

“Sure thing, hubby.”

He remembered something and turned around. “Em?” She held the door half open, and he motioned for her to come back in. “Do you know anything about a note?”

“Uh ... no.” She rushed for the door again.

He stepped in front of her. “Did you send her a note?”

“’Course not.”

“What did Ian tell you about her?”

“Nothing.” She pushed to get past him and he blocked her way. She crossed her arms. “This is harassment.”

“Sue me.” He dipped his head. “What note was Claire talking about?”

“How should I know?” she said louder. So loud he was afraid Claire might hear.

He whispered, “You better not have done what I think you did.”

“Me? I did nothing.” She held up her right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“You hate the scouts. You can’t use their honor.”

She grinned, ducked under his arm across the door, and slipped out.

He yanked out his phone and shot Ian a text. DID YOU SEND CLAIRE A NOTE?

SORRY, CAN’T TALK. BUSY. Danny could feel his grin through the phone, and it was confirmed when the next text popped up. YOU’RE WELCOME.

Danny cursed him under his breath and spent extra time preparing the tray for fika. Small plates and spoons with brightly colored Dala horse napkins. His family wasn’t from the Dalarna province, but tourists loved the symbolic wooden horses.

He made sure everything was carefully placed. With the knowledge of some note and everything else wrong and embarrassing he’d done in front of Claire, he needed to show that he wasn’t a complete moron.

The tray organized to his liking, he straightened his back and headed out to the main dining room. Before reaching the corner that led to the giant fireplace, he stopped to take a breath. His palms sweated and his eardrums slammed with his pulse. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous. Why was he so damn nervous?

Forcing himself forward, he came around the corner, half expecting to see her chair empty. Instead, his eyes fell on her gentle, yet scrunched face bent over and focused on a journal. He kept watching as she stopped writing, sat up straight, and pressed the eraser end into her bottom lip—the full, plump lip he was staring at again.

The thundering in his ears grew louder, and he closed his eyes, ordering his heart rate to calm the hell down. Plastering a neutral face, he took the last steps toward her. “I wasn’t sure if you liked Royal Milk Tea, so I made a pot of regular too.”

She jumped with a squeak and clutched her chest. “I didn’t see you coming.”

“Sorry.” He stood in place, awkward, teetering the tray.

“What was it you said?”

“Royal Milk Tea. I wasn’t sure if you liked it.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

He forced himself forward again. “It originated in Japan and was one of Lennon’s favorites. My mom is a huge Beatles fan. So, she taught herself how to make it.”

Claire blinked but didn’t respond.

Heat crept up his neck and reddened his ears. She stared at him as if he sprouted an extra head.

“Uh ... here.” He plopped down the tray. “Eat and drink whatever you want.” He spun on his heel, rubbing his forehead. How did he mess that up so badly?

“Daniel?”

He stopped but didn’t turn back around.

“I’m not sure what any of what you said means, but would you like to join me? I need to ask you something.”

His mind bypassed the needing to ask him something, and he peered over his shoulder. “Which part don’t you understand?”

“Lennon? Beetles? Is your mom an entomologist?”

“You’ve never heard of the band, the Beatles?”

“Oh, they play music?”

He nodded slowly. “They did, yeah.”

“That explains it.” She smiled weakly. “I lived a bit sheltered and married young. Brandon didn’t care much for music.” Her fingers traced the outline of a Dala horse. “I also wasn’t allowed anything other than classical with a bit of baroque growing up. If you’d mentioned Mozart, Beethoven, or even Handel, I would sound less stupid.”

“You don’t sound stupid. I was surprised that’s all.”

It hadn’t occurred to Danny that he still faced away, looking at her from over his shoulder. But he was pretty sure this was a legit reason to put Brandon on his really don’t like list. How do you not like music?

“Well, I’m ignorant at least,” she said. “Texting and email are as much technology as I use. Like you don’t watch television, I don’t use computers or the internet. So, if they’re famous, I still wouldn’t know about them.”

From everything he saw about her on the internet, he could understand why she’d never want to be on there.

Crap. He’d internet stalked her this morning.

“But,” she continued, smoothing out the napkin, “I’d like to learn about the Beatles if you want to tell me.” She motioned to the space across from her. “I can’t drink and eat all of this myself, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

A loud clang echoed, stealing her attention, and she watched Fin lifting a chair he’d dropped.

“Unless this is a bad time for you.”

“It’s not a bad time for him.” Emelie appeared out of nowhere and twisted Danny around in the right direction, giving him a little shove. “I’ll even get some Beatles playing over the speakers so you can hear them for yourself. Lennon was a god. Don’t even get me started on McCartney.” She fanned herself.

Unable to glare at Emelie for both eavesdropping and being obvious, Danny was out of excuses and made his way to the table. He moved a chair across from her and lowered down, looking anywhere but her face. He’d spent all morning creeping on her life and couldn’t shake how awkward he felt about that. Like he’d intruded on her without her permission.

“Can you tell me what all these beautiful treats are?”

Swedish baked goods were something easy to talk about and he pointed to each one, naming them. The more he talked, the more she smiled, and he began to relax. The same kind of relaxed he’d been on the plane with her.

She oohed and aahed, and a bit of family pride swelled up in telling her about their origins and what made them delicious. Before he knew it, he smiled right along with her.

Dual English singing voices pierced the air with, “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” and Danny’s face blanched.

He was going to kill Emelie.

“Oh. This is catchy.” Claire tapped her toe, missing Danny’s reaction. “Would this be classified as rock and roll?”

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” He tore out of his chair.

Before he made it to the office where the stereo was located, Emelie switched it to“Paperback Writer” and came barreling out, grinning.

“Claire, it’s your song.”

He didn’t have time to ask how she knew Claire was a writer and glared as she whooshed past him. At the sound of a squeal, he turned to see Emelie pulling Claire up by both hands. They started dancing what looked like the Mashed Potato, laughing.

The corner of Danny’s mouth tugged.

Emelie never liked Jessica and that, like many other things, had been a topic of tension between them. With how close he and Em were, he hated that they didn’t get along. Now he understood why. She’d seen straight through to who Jess really was, long before he did. His stomach coiled in a knot.

“Join us, Daniel.” Claire squealed as Emelie spun her around.

“Nah, I’ll just watch.”

Emelie fake pouted and Claire said, “You’re missing out.”

He disagreed. Especially when she removed her cloak, and he finally caught an eyeful of Claire. Still in all black, his gaze trailed down over hip-hugging slacks to their flared bottoms, back up to a cropped sweater short enough to expose the tight lines of her stomach.

He didn’t know which vintage year she was wearing, ’60s or ’70s. He only knew it looked good, really damn good, on her.

Shit. He half-turned and stared up at the beams. Ugly beams. He would think of ugly but clean beams and how sore he’d been from scrubbing them. Not Claire—her accentuated curves in tight pants and cropped shirt—no, not Claire.

Beams.

He rubbed his forehead and cursed under his breath. He should probably put something more exciting on the ceiling if this kept up. Or worse yet, if he didn’t get this adolescent rebirth under control, his cousin might notice, and he’d never live it down.

“Oh, come on, you can still dance.” Emelie’s voice did the trick, and he rolled his shoulders before lowering his eyes. To his great disappointment, Claire seated herself and pulled the cloak over her shoulders, swallowing herself inside.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

“Are you leaving?” he asked.

“No, not yet.” She sipped the Royal Milk Tea, and he waited for a reaction.

Nothing came. Maybe she hated the tea?

“What’s going on?” he whispered to Emelie, who walked up to him, shaking her head. He hoped she had the secret woman code for whatever switched Claire’s whole demeanor. She sat rigid in her seat, stirring the liquid in her cup.

“I think she thought she embarrassed you.”

“What? No, it wasn’t that, I was—” He stopped himself too late. A light sparked in her eyes and a slow smirk wormed up her cheek. He rolled his eyes. Dammit, she knew.

“Maybe you should tell her that then.”

“I can’t tell her that.”

She snickered. “No, definitely not that, but you better tell her something to keep her here. I like her.”

He blinked. She already liked Claire and they’d just met. Maybe he wasn’t irrational with how quickly he felt the same way.

Emelie elbowed him. “Go, now. Fix.”

His recent track record proved he couldn’t fix anything, but he rubbed the back of his neck and forced a deep breath before striding over to the table as gracefully as his thick legs allowed. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, quite.” She continued to stir her tea with a stiff posture, not making eye contact.

“Do you like it?” He pointed to her cup, desperate to figure out what had changed so quickly in her. She was a completely different person.

She forced her unreal smile. “I love it, thank you.”

He gripped his frustration on the edge of the table and leaned forward. “And what are your thoughts on the Beatles?”

“I think they’re ... ” She froze mid-stir, and her tea-colored eyes slowly traveled from the cup to his hands still cuffed along the edge of the table. Inch by inch, her eyes drifted up the sinews of his left forearm to the cut of his flexed biceps and stopped at base of his tattooed dragon tail.

Her lips parted.

Heat burst from his belly and spread out to every limb and—not again.He dropped into his chair and creaked the legs across the floor, shoving his lower half under the table.

She shook herself out of her zoning and stared wide-eyed into the fireplace. Rose-colored splotches bloomed on her cheeks.

He absolutely was not going to let himself read too much into whatever her thick, heated gaze meant. Or address his sudden lack of bodily control. He would, however, let honest and blunt Danny out to play.

“Did you think I was embarrassed by your dancing?”

She stiffened and darted a quick glance toward him. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

His jaw ticked. Who was the first? He sure as hell hoped it wasn’t Brandon. “I grew up around Ian, who insisted on learning traditional Scottish jigs. There is nothing you could do to embarrass me. Besides, you said you were having fun.”

“Yes, I did. But maybe a bit too much.”

“No such thing.”

Her posture softened, and a smile formed on her mouth. “I’ve always felt that way, but ... ” She let the rest of what she thought drift away and brought the rim of the teacup up and sipped. “Royal Milk Tea is delicious. How do you make it?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

She chuckled, and he smiled, fully relaxing again. He liked making her laugh. “It’s really easy. You make it on the stove. I’ll write down the recipe.”

“The stove?”

He took in the note of panic in her voice and slowly said, “Or I could just show you sometime. If you want.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course—”

The front door gusted open, and Merv came in, followed by George. Danny waved to them and smiled at their predictability.

They lived on two different sides of the island yet showed up at the same time. Always played chess. Always bickered at each other, but never stopped hanging out.

George stumbled to a stop when he saw Claire. “Mother?”

Merv snickered and smacked his back. “She ain’t your mom, George. I’ve been telling you for years you need a new prescription for those glasses.”

“Hello.” Claire waved. “Thank you for helping me find this place the other morning.”

“S-Sure thing, ma’am.”

Danny sat, stunned. In all the years he’d known George, never had the retired veteran turned that shade of red or stuttered. He watched in increasing amusement as George shrugged off his friend’s taunting back slap and mumbled, “fika,” to Emelie.

“What does that say?” Claire brought back Danny’s attention and pointed over his head.

“The words above the bar? V?lkommen Familj—Welcome, Family.”

Her breath hitched and her eyes glistened. What did he say wrong?

“Are you alright?”

She swiped quickly under her eyes and cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m fine. I like that.”

He looked over his shoulder again. What about the sign made her tear up? “It’s old. Probably need to replace it.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He whipped back to find her smile returned. “This place has a great atmosphere, Daniel. Don’t change a thing.” She held up her journal and flipped through the pages. “You have no idea how important it is for a writer to find the right kind of atmosphere to write in. I haven’t gotten this many words down in one sitting for ages. My muse likes it here.”

“Well, your muse is welcome anytime. You could tag along, too, I guess.”

She laughed in her cup, and tan-colored bubbles popped up.

He grinned, hoping to keep finding ways to make her laugh, and took a long, satisfied drink from his mug. “Didn’t you say you needed to ask me something?”

“Oh, yes.” She placed her cup down and unbuttoned her cloak. Peeling it off her shoulders, she twisted to hang it over the back of her chair, having no idea she made someone’s day.

The lifting of her arms lifted the hem of her sweater and Danny tilted his head, watching the lines around her navel shift and flex. She turned back around, and he plastered his eyes to hers, commanding them not to drop and keep exploring.

“I needed to ask if I could have your wood.”

Danny choked and coughed, delicious tea making a raw reentry through his nose. “Excuse me?”

“Wood? Gertrude said I needed to see you if I wanted to buy some for my cottage.”

“Oh, firewood.” What was he, fifteen again? How the hell did his mind drop in the gutter so fast? If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his control over himself. Since meeting this woman, he seemed to have lost it all. “Of course.” He wiped droplets from his shirt, silently cursing himself. Mustering up one last drop of dignity, he casually pulled out his phone. “Where are you staying? I can get some out to you this afternoon.”

“Oh, you’d bring it?”

“I usually deliver it. Is that a problem?”

“Well ... ” Her eyes darted around and settled on Fin, who made another loud bang when he dropped a tray he tried to balance.

Emelie stood in front of him, tapping her foot. “Get it together, Finney.”

“It’s Finlay,” he mumbled.

“I’m sure you’re going to be busy here,” Claire said. “I can arrange for someone else to bring it. I’ll pay extra for any inconvenience.”

Danny dropped his eyes and swallowed. “No need. First cord is on the house. If you really prefer I not deliver it, you can give Fin over there your address, and I’ll have him deliver it instead.” He glanced back up, hoping he was wrong, but her face washed with relief.

“Oh, could you? Yes, I’d much prefer that. Thank you, Daniel.”

He shoved up and ran a hand through his hair before jamming it into his pocket. “Sure. Yeah. No problem.” He couldn’t look at her. “I should probably get back to work. Things get a little crazy on Saturdays. So, um ... bye, Claire.” He hurried around the corner.

Instead of going to the kitchen where he knew he’d be met by Emelie’s grinning face and million questions, he ran up the stairs to his apartment. Closing the door, he smacked the back of his head against it.

It felt worse. Her words stung so much worse than they should, and it was nobody’s fault but his own.

He banged his head again and covered his face, sliding to the floor with a loud groan.