He finally quit whispering to her and straightened up, a teasing grin on his handsome face. Bria stared back at him, her blue eyes warm and soft.
"I'm going to hold you to that," she murmured. "Tonight."
Finn's grin widened.
Bria blushed a little more, then cleared her throat, stepped past him, and addressed the other two women, back in full detective mode. "Ladies, I need to get some statements from you about what happened . . ."
I smiled at their antics, even though they made my heart twinge with pain. Seeing Finn, Bria, and their obvious happiness reminded me of how much I missed Owen. Not for the first time, I thought about pulling out my cell phone and calling him. The only problem was that I didn't know what to say. I love you. I miss you. I killed your ex because it had to be done. Not exactly sweet nothings.
Still, the urge to hear his voice was so strong that I went so far as to grab my phone out of my jeans pocket. My finger hovered over the button that would speed-dial Owen's number, but after a moment, I stuffed the phone back into my pocket. I sighed. I'd never considered myself a coward before, but when it came to Owen, I was as yellow-bellied as the dress I'd ruined.
But my conflicted feelings didn't change the fact that I needed to get back to the Pork Pit and help Sophia with the dinner rush. I'd just taken a step toward the front door when Finn blocked my path.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Outside," I said. "To your car. So you can drive me back to the restaurant."
He shook his head. "Uh-uh. Nothing doing. No way. I told Sophia that you were taking the rest of the day off, and that's exactly what you're going to do. Besides, we are not leaving here until you get a new dress."
"You're kidding, right?"
Finn turned to the rack closest to him and grabbed a long dress that shimmered with red sequins. "What do you think about this one? Yeah, this is much too orange of a red for you. With all that pale skin, you need a blue-red, like this one."
He plucked another gown off the rack, held it out at arm's length, and examined it with a critical eye.
"Oh, yes," he said. "This would look divine with your complexion. And I think I saw some shoes earlier that would be absolutely smashing with this."
I just groaned.
* * *
After another hour of trying on dresses at the Posh boutique, Finn and I headed back to the Pork Pit to grab some dinner. The attempted robbery might have broken up some of the tediousness of dress shopping, but I still wanted some comfort food from my own restaurant. So I dished us both up some burgers, chili-cheese fries, and triple-chocolate milkshakes.
Later that evening, Finn finally dropped me off at Fletcher's house - my house now. Being a gentleman, he carried in the ridiculously expensive dress, shoes, and purse he'd picked out and insisted I buy. Then he headed out, saying that Bria was expecting him. Of course she was, given the heated promises he'd whispered to her in the boutique.
"Good luck with your seduction," I sniped, following him out onto the porch.
Finn waggled his eyebrows at me. "Luck? Finnegan Lane doesn't need luck, baby. Enough said."
His excessive confidence made me laugh, although a bit of bitterness tinged my chuckles. "Of course you don't."
Finn hesitated, picking up on my sour mood. "You know, I could always cancel with Bria, if you wanted some company tonight - "
"I'm fine," I said, cutting him off before I could see the pity in his eyes. "In fact, I'm plumb tuckered out from all that shopping. I plan to take a shower, get in bed, and curl up with a good book."
Once again, he hesitated. "Well, if you're sure . . ."
I gave his shoulder a little push. "I'm sure. Now, go. Have fun with Bria."
Finn nodded, stepped off the porch, and got into his car. Cranking the engine, he waved at me before zooming down the driveway. I kept my arm up and my features fixed into a pleasant smile until he disappeared from sight. Then I let out a quiet sigh, and my fake, happy face melted like a scoop of rocky road on a hot summer day. I hadn't lied to Finn. I was tired - of pretending that I was okay. That I didn't miss Owen.
That my heart wasn't a bloody, pulpy mass of broken bits, splintered pieces, and sharp edges.
But standing outside and brooding into the evening sun wasn't going to help anything, so I shut and locked the front door, then went upstairs to my bedroom. I hung up the garment bag containing my new dress, stripped off my clothes, and took a long, hot shower to wash away the last lingering traces of the dwarf's blood. When that was done, I pulled on a pair of short, loose cotton pajamas patterned with blackberries and crawled into bed.
I glanced at the nightstand and the copy of What's the Worst That Could Happen? by Donald E. Westlake that I was reading for my latest literature class over at Ashland Community College. But I didn't feel like reading tonight, so I snapped off the light and snuggled under the soft, thin sheets, even though it was still early in the evening.
I tried to sleep, but the flickers began almost as soon as I closed my eyes. More nights than not, I didn't dream so much as I remembered old jobs, old dangers, and old enemies I'd faced . . .
The job had gone sideways.
It was supposed to be an easy hit. Fletcher Lane, my mentor and the assassin known as the Tin Man, had taken out drug lords like Peter Delov dozens of times before. Breach the perimeter, get close to the target, and twist the knife in until he was good and dead before slipping back into the shadows once more. Simple. Clean. Easy.
But it hadn't worked out that way at all.
I'd helped Fletcher gather intel on Delov for weeks, and I supposed him bringing me along tonight was my reward for all of that hard work. Plus, now that I was fifteen and two years into my training with him, Fletcher had said that it was finally time for me to see exactly what being an assassin really meant - and all the bloody violence that went along with it.
As if I didn't already know all about blood and violence from living on the streets - and watching the murders of my mother and my older sister.
But Fletcher had said that soon I'd be ready to start doing solo jobs and that these dry runs with him would help me prepare. I didn't really understand what he was talking about, though. On the few jobs I'd been on so far, all I'd done was stand in the shadows, watch him get close to the target, wait for him to deliver the killing blow, and then leave the scene of the crime with the old man. Not exactly the hands-on method I'd imagined.
But that had all changed tonight.
Fletcher had learned that Delov had sent his giant guards on down to his Miami mansion that afternoon, while his personal staff was at the airport, readying his private plane. Delov was leaving early in the morning to meet with his drug suppliers down in the Keys, and he was the sort who'd want everything picture-perfect for his trip.