Anything for You (Blue Heron #5)(60)

It was moments like these that she loved most of all with Davey—the way he could appreciate the smallest thing, that, when you stopped to look with him, turned out to be pretty remarkable.

Their mother had been like that, a little. Every time a butterfly drifted into their grubby little yard at the trailer park, Jolene would call everyone over to see, each time as delighted as if she’d never seen a butterfly before.

But Davey wasn’t talking much, and this bothered her. She’d have to watch Iron Man with him tonight. That always perked him up, though she could recite the movie by now. Still. Robert Downey, Jr. It could be worse.

Davey hadn’t mentioned their father again. Keith had sent her two emails at work, finding her through the Blue Heron website. Both were full of the expected AA lingo. Make amends. Powerless over addiction. Take full responsibility. He understood that dealing with him was her choice, and he would respect that.

And then the killer—But Davey will always be a child, and I’m praying you’ll give me the chance to be a better father to him than I was to you.

Three years sober. If he was telling the truth, that was. There was no reason to trust him. He’d lied, cheated and stolen all her life.

Give me the chance to be a better father to him than I was to you.

A father figure was one thing she really couldn’t be to her brother.

Well. She had work to do—show Connor the marketing plan for his microbrewery.

As always, O’Rourke’s was cheerful, immaculate and happy. “Jessica!” Colleen said from behind the bar, where she stood with a pretty girl. “My idiot brother is expecting you.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Connor!”

“Colleen, inside voice,” he muttered, coming through the swinging doors in his chef’s whites, two days of stubble, his thick hair slightly mussed.

Damn. Had she ever seen him clean-shaven? Did she ever want to?

“Hey, Jess,” he said, and her uterus trembled.

There was that feeling again, that dangerous feeling, that they were meant to be together. Scratch the surface of that, and you’d end up unhappy and worse than when you were alone...but still.

“Your brother is so handsome,” breathed the young woman behind the bar.

“You need to get over that, Jordan,” Colleen said. “First of all, he’s really ugly. Secondly, he’s your boss.”

Connor ignored them both. “Let’s go sit down.” He put his hand on her back and guided her to the last, most private booth.

Jess found that her mouth was dry. Other parts were not.

Had she actually broken up with him? Or was it the other way around? And what was the reason again? Because not only could the man cook—that lasagna had been unfreakingbelievable—he looked like a sullen angel, that dark, dark brown hair, the blue eyes, those big, manly hands, the smear of something across his chest.

“How are you?”

“Oh, good. Good, good. I’m good.”

“Good.” There was a smile in his eyes. “Things okay with your father?”

Right. She shrugged. “Things are stable.”

He nodded. He had the most beautiful mouth; lips that were full and soft and brooding—could lips brood?—and when he smiled, she could actually feel it, a warm force that practically knocked her on her back, and hey, if she was on her back, they might as well—

“Let me get you a drink,” he said. “Sorry, I should’ve offered first thing. Seltzer and cranberry, lemon twist, right?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

He went off to the bar. There was a crash as the new girl dropped something, then the low rumble of Connor, reassuring her, no doubt. He went behind the bar and the girl—Jordan, was it?—swayed on her feet, her face fire-engine red as Connor bent to pick up the pieces of whatever she’d broken. Her heart, maybe.

First a date with Marcy. Now the pretty bartender with a huge crush.

She was going to have to find a way to make that okay in her head.

Connor deserved to be with someone great. Rumor had it that Colleen was on the case, so it’d be a matter of months before he was in love with someone.

She remembered the time she’d seen him kiss that redhead, and how it felt like a razor slice with an acid chaser.

But she’d turned him down for all good reasons, and he’d been generous enough to offer his friendship, anyway.

She wondered if everyone knew how incredibly decent Connor O’Rourke was underneath his grumblings. How many men would do that?

She could only think of one.

“First-day jitters for Jordan there,” he said, setting her glass in front of her.

“And a massive crush.”

He rolled his eyes and sat down across from her. “So what have you got?”

“Behold,” she said. She dragged her laptop out of her bag and opened it, clicked a few buttons, then turned the computer so Connor could see it.

The first slide was the brewery logo, using the same font the pub used. But it was even better; Jess had enhanced the colors, giving the brown letters a shadow of gold, adding some Victorian-style corners.

Connor nodded. “Nice.”

But this was dumb. She slid around to his side of the booth and sat next to him.

He was warm. He smelled like garlic. Her uterus trembled again.

The next few slides were mock-ups of labels for the types of beer he planned to produce: India Pale Ale, Amber Lager, Pilsner, Porter, Stout. Each had its own label—the Dog Face IPA was her favorite, featuring an antiqued photo of a collie, after his sister. She glanced at his face; there was a slight smile there.