Carly’s fingers tightened on the mug. Teasing was one thing but mocking her? “My life is not bitter, okay? Rather sad at the moment but not bitter.”
“No need to be defensive. I wasn’t talking about you.” Finn pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket and scribbled with the stub of a very sharp pencil. A silver ring etched with black runes circled his left index finger.
“I’m not defensive. Just setting the record straight.” She tried to read upside down but his hand covered the words. “I hope you’re not writing a song about my alleged bitterness.”
He ripped out the page and showed her. LOST: IRISH SETTER, answers to RUFUS. South Hill area. “Rhonda has a notice board. We can post this on our way out. What’s your cell number?”
She told him, thankful that his brain cells were working even if hers weren’t.
Flipping the notebook shut, he leaned back in his chair, one side of his mouth curling up. “So, would you like me to write a song about you?”
“No! I wouldn’t want my intimate secrets aired in public.”
Finn leaned forward. “Tell me more about these secrets. They sound interesting.”
“I hardly know you now,” she said primly. “Why would I tell you secrets?”
He grinned. “Last night you were ready to haul me off to bed.”
“You had your chance and muffed it,” she countered with a dismissive flip of her hand. “Too late.”
The waitress arrived just then with their breakfast. Chorizo, spinach and feta frittata with fried potatoes, mushrooms and roasted tomatoes. Healthy-ish, but with enough carbs and grease to soak up the lingering alcohol in her system.
The waitress lingered, pulling at her brown ponytail, as Finn took his first bite. “Is it okay?”
Finn smiled at her. “Delicious, thanks...” He read her name tag. “Annie.”
Annie broke into a wide smile that transformed her face. “I’ll be right back with your freshly squeezed orange juice.” With a little skip, she hurried back to the kitchen.
Carly stuffed a forkful of frittata into her mouth. “This is genius. And a lot of food.”
“Remember...” Finn gave her a wink. “If you can’t finish what you start, I’m your go-to man.”
“Stop that, right now.” She pointed her fork at him. “I know what you’re doing so don’t pull those innocent eyes on me. I’ve known you since you were a pimply-faced adolescent.”
“Ouch. So cruel.” He sipped his coffee. “Why did you think I could write a song about your bitterness? Alleged bitterness,” he amended when she bristled. “You have this perfect life in New York complete with a fabulous new job. What could be wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. My life is great.” She pushed a piece of chorizo around the plate. Yeah, the competitive culture at Hamlin and Brand was tough but she could handle it. In this dog-eat-dog world she needed to be a Rottweiler not a Shih Tzu.
“Glad to hear it,” Finn said. “Irene must have been worrying needlessly. She sometimes did.”
“I know, right? For someone so laid-back, she could stress out.” But Irene’s intuition was part of what had made her such a great teacher and musician in her own right. What did she know about Carly that Carly didn’t know herself?
Finn was still studying her face intently. Was he thinking about a song he was writing...or about kissing her? Goodness, why had that popped into her mind? Now she could barely breathe. Feeling heat creep up her neck, she dropped her gaze and concentrated on spearing a mushroom.
A buzz of static from the stage heralded the arrival of a man in jeans and a gray T-shirt with a sun-streaked brown ponytail. He bent to speak into the microphone.
“Welcome to open mike,” he said with an Australian drawl. “My name’s Dingo and I’ll be MC today. If anyone wants to add their name to the list of performers, we have a few slots free.”
“Is that your friend?” Carly asked, interested.
“Yep. He has a cover band that plays mostly sixties rock but he does this on Sundays.” Finn waved to Dingo. A pretty brunette sat at the table next to the stage, a sturdy blond toddler on her knee. When the little boy saw Finn he tried to launch himself across the café. “That’s his wife, Marla, and their ankle biter, Tyler.”
“We have a local hero in the audience today,” Dingo announced. “Finn Farrell, how about singing us your hit song?”
The crowd began to clap, encouraging Finn to play.
“What does he mean, your hit?” Carly asked.
“Just a song I wrote.” Finn shook his head at the stage, mouthing, “No.”
“Ah, right, sorry.” Dingo’s face twisted into an apologetic grimace as if he’d just remembered about Irene and was mentally kicking himself. “No worries, mate.”
The café crowd didn’t seem to notice this exchange. Dingo’s apology was drowned out by whistling and applauding. The clapping became rhythmic. Finn half rose and made a small bow with his hands palm out in gracious refusal.
Still, the audience kept clapping and calling out. Finn sank lower in his seat. Carly frowned. Couldn’t they see that he didn’t want to play? Unable to stand it another second, she moved her elbow and knocked over her glass of juice. It rolled off the table and clattered to the floor. Juice splashed everywhere.
“I’m so clumsy.” She leaped up and dabbed ineffectually at the mess. “Can’t take me anywhere.”
All eyes had now turned to her but the clapping stopped, thank goodness. Annie brought over a cloth and mopped up, retrieving the fallen glass. Meanwhile, Dingo strummed his guitar, bringing attention back to the stage. A murmur of approval rose from the audience.
Carly recognized a recent indie chart-topper. “I love this song.” She glanced at Finn, thinking he’d be pleased no one was looking at him anymore, and was surprised to see he was still tense.
He tapped out the beat with long fingers on his knee. Now and then he grimaced painfully. Before the song was even finished, he was on his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
He lifted a hand in Dingo’s direction and headed for the exit. Dingo sang the last bars but his worried gaze followed Finn across the café.
Carly grabbed her hoodie. She was almost out the door before she remembered the community noticeboard and quickly tacked up the notice Finn had composed.
“Slow down,” she called, running after him. He strode ahead, his long legs encased in skinny jeans, his broad shoulders hunched. Catching up, she grabbed his jacket sleeve, forcing him to look at her. His face was white and dotted with perspiration.
Shocked, she let go of his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
FINN PULLED ON the neck of his sweater, sucking in air as Carly stared at him, eyes wide. Inside his tight chest his heart thudded like a drum solo. If he’d known Dingo was going to blindside him like that he would never have set foot in Rhonda’s café.
“What’s going on, Finn?” Carly said. “What happened back there?”
“You wanted to know if you’d ever heard a song I wrote?” he said. “That was my song. I wrote it.”
“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes popped. “I had no idea you were famous.”
“I’m not,” he said