picking up a few empty glasses on the way to the service counter. Did he practice that dimple-exposing grin, or was the guileless expression genuine?
She added the glasses to the washtub as Ciara waved from across the room, reminding her that it didn’t make a whit of difference if Sam Marshall was interested or not, the real deal or as phony as a used car salesman.
Because romance and Finn Leary didn’t belong in the same sentence.
SAM GLANCED ACROSS the diner, where the gal he’d tripped stood talking with the cook.
“You sure know how to make a first impression,” Mark said, following his gaze.
“Yeah, well...” He squeezed a dollop of catsup on to his plate. “At the risk of sounding redundant, why am I here?”
“Good grief. You’re about as patient as a kid on Christmas Eve.” Mark rooted around in the briefcase beside him, withdrew a black ledger and slid it across the table.
Sam flipped it open, but peripheral vision told him that the pretty brunette was watching, making it all but impossible to concentrate on column headings, let alone dollar amounts.
“So what’s her story?”
Mark scrubbed a palm over his face. “Her name is Finn Leary, and she owns this place. Now quit worrying about that mess and the lousy first impression you made. It’s history.” He tapped the ledger. “This isn’t.”
Sam did his best to focus. In the left-hand column, a list of monthly expenses—food and beverages, utilities, insurance, taxes—for The Meetinghouse. In the center, the club’s employee roster and salaries. On the right, end-of-year profits split by Mark and Eli.
“Are these numbers accurate?”
“Yep.”
“It’s good to see how well you’re doing—” he slid the book back to Mark’s side of the table “—’cause it means you can afford to pay me in real dollars one of these days.”
“Owners get paid last.”
“Poor, poor, pitiful you,” Sam teased. He pointed at the impressive after-taxes total. “My heart bleeds for you and Eli.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll be good news for you, too...if you say yes to my offer.”
The girl with Finn laughed, too long and too loud. She looked perfectly normal, but her actions and reactions said otherwise. He ran down a mental list of possible explanations for her behavior. Autism. Asperger’s Syndrome. Brain damage...
“I booked a flight on that rocket ship to Mars. How ’bout if I buy you a ticket, too?”
“Ticket?” Sam sat up straighter. “Wait. What?”
“Man. When you take a trip to la-la-land, you really go, don’t ya?” He leaned forward, tapped the tablet again. “I’m trying to cut a deal with you, here, so quit gawking at Finn and pay attention, okay?”
“I wasn’t gawking.” But Mark knew better, so Sam humored him. “What kind of a deal?”
“Let me cut to the chase—while I still have your undivided attention. Eli asked me to buy him out of the business so he can use his share for a new guitar and amp, a mic and gooseneck stand, clothes to wear onstage.”
“And you want me to take his place? As partner?” Sam laughed. “Maybe I need to show you my year-end total.” He shook his head. “I’m a city employee. Trust me, it’s nothing close to that!”
“I know it’s last minute, so I don’t need the whole shebang right now. I can deduct your share out of your weekly paychecks until you’re full in. Or you can skip paychecks altogether and get there sooner.”
Sam had some savings, but between fire department responsibilities, performing and auditioning for producers every chance he got, where would he find the time to comanage a place like The Meetinghouse?
“Business is booming,” he told Mark. “Why not keep the profits all to yourself?”
“Workload, man. Workload. Takes hours to manage the place.”
“Just how many hours do you need from me?”
“That’s up to you.”
“I’d still have time for the Marks Brothers?”
“Absolutely.”
Well, that certainly sweetened the pot. The rumor he’d heard upon arriving in Nashville had proved true: agents, producers and other career makers often paid surprise visits to The Meetinghouse. Maybe if he was in the club more often, one of them would make his career dreams come true.
“If help is all you need,” Sam pointed out, “I can do that without the whole partnership thing.”
“You know the old saying, in for a penny, in for a pound?”
Sam got it: Mark believed he’d work harder if he had more to lose.
“But why me? Torry already knows the business.”
“True, but with the movie roles he’s been getting, he wants the freedom to come and go as he pleases.”
“He said no?”
“He said no.”
Sam chuckled. “Not sure I like being second choice.”
“Does that mean you’re in?”
Finn stepped up to the table. “Do yourself a favor,” she said, refilling their glasses, “and say no.”
“Why?”
One perfectly arched eyebrow rose. “Because it sounds like a pipe dream, and nothing good ever comes of Nashville dreams.”
Finn turned to leave, pausing just long enough to add, “The sandwiches are on the house.”
Sam watched until she disappeared into the kitchen, then looked at Mark.
“What was that was all about?”
Mark picked up a sweet potato fry. “Y’got me by the feet, but don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You probably broke ten bucks worth of dishes.” He took a bite. “So? What do you say? Can I count on you?”
Sam glanced toward the serving counter, where Finn was engaged in an animated conversation with the cook. She shot a glance over one shoulder and locked gazes with him. He’d read somewhere that according to Indian legend, when a man and wolf locked eyes, their spirits merged. In that mind-numbing, heart-pounding instant, he understood how that might be possible.
Somehow, he found the strength to look away.
“I thought you were picking
