Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(100)

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It was three minutes to ten when I parked beside Julian’s Jeep in the near-empty lot. The windows of The Lush were dim, the chair legs rising up from the tops of the tables silhouetted against the whisky-gold lights behind the bar. I cupped a hand and peeked through the door, surprised when it opened.

Julian stood with his back to me, restocking bottles on the liquor shelf above his head. His crisp white sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his collar was unbuttoned, as if he’d already clocked out for the night. “Sorry. Bar’s closing,” he called over his shoulder.

“I’m not exactly a top-shelf customer.” Julian’s hand stilled, his eyes finding mine in the mirrored wall. I set my purse on the bar and perched on a stool. “Am I too late for that beer?”

“Bottle or draft?” he asked quietly.

“Bottle’s fine.”

He reached into a fridge under the bar. Air rushed from the cap as he broke the seal and rested the bottle on a napkin in front of me. He slung a rag over his shoulder and leaned back against the counter behind him, taking me in as I sipped it. A curl hung over his eyes, their color decidedly gold against the amber glow behind him.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we don’t normally get your type in here.”

“Yeah? What’s my type?”

He pushed off the counter and stood in front of me, his hands braced on the bar. “Unassuming famous authors. The kind who use fake names and wear terrible disguises.”

I set down my beer and extended a hand across the bar. “Hi. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. My name’s Finlay Donovan.”

He gave me a wan smile. “Not Fiona Donahue?”

“I can show you my ID, if you want to card me.”

He seemed to consider that. When he finally took my hand, it felt nice in mine, and I let it linger. Or maybe he did. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Finlay Donovan.”

I hid a blush behind my beer, liking the sound of my name when he said it.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, surprising myself. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I meant it. “I think I am.”

“You want to talk about it?”

I picked at the edge of my napkin. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’m not in any rush.” He reached into the cooler and popped a cap off a beer, his eyes never leaving mine as he took a long, slow sip.

I glanced up at him from under from the shadow of my baseball cap. “Would our conversation be protected by our attorney-client privilege?” My teasing lilt suggested I was flirting, but the question danced around the edges of my very real fear. No one but Vero knew my whole story.

He watched me over another sip of his beer. “I’m not an attorney yet. And you’re not a client. But any bartender worth the salt around his glass will uphold a solemn unspoken oath with the customers who frequent his establishment.” He leaned forward, his arms folded over the bar, his voice falling soft as he toyed with the neck of his bottle. “Call it a duty of confidentiality.”

The bar was empty. The lights over the booths in the back switched off in sections, until all that was left were the soft glow behind Julian’s head and the bright white light through the swing door to the kitchen, where glassware clanked and dishes clattered, the sounds muted under a high-pressure spray.

I took off my baseball cap and set it beside me on the bar, raking back my hair as Julian’s eyes moved over my face. I fortified myself with a long, slow breath, and then I started where every story truly starts—not on page one, but at the very beginning. I told him about my family and my childhood, about Georgia and my parents and my marriage to Steven. I told him about my job as an author and the books I’d written that no one had read. I told him about Theresa and how my marriage had ended. About Vero and my children and the day the electric company turned out the lights. About my meeting with Sylvia at Panera, and how my life had spiraled out of control after that. I told him everything, holding nothing back, watching his face for reactions as I recounted the night I’d slipped out the back of The Lush with Harris slung under my arm. Julian listened, looking away only once to replace my empty beer with a new one. There was no disapproval on his face, no judgment in his eyes. The quickening beat of his pulse in the tight, tanned skin above his thumb as I recounted our escape from Andrei at the farm was the only clue to his thoughts.

When I reached the end, our beers were empty. He didn’t offer me another. I let out a long, shuddering breath as I opened my purse and laid a twenty on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks. And for listening. I should probably go—”

Julian’s hand closed over mine as I reached for my hat. “My shift’s over. Feel like grabbing something to eat?”

My heart hitched. “I’d like that.”

Julian held my stare, his gold eyes warming as he called out to his boss, “Hey, Les, I’m heading out. See you tomorrow.” He set his rag on the bar and shrugged on his coat, meeting me on the other side. I felt his eyes trail over me, a smile creasing their edges when they fell on the long T-shirt peeking out from under my hoodie. He held the door open for me, raising an eyebrow when I pulled my keys from my purse. “Where are we headed?” he asked as he followed me to my van.