Meant To Be Hers. Joan Kilby
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a taxi sounded its horn, ready to take another group of guests home or to their hotel. When Finn had realized the party was getting out of hand he’d insisted drivers hand over their car keys. Brenda had purred at him as she put her keys in the bowl, evidently under the mistaken impression she was participating in a seventies-style, sexy free-for-all. He hadn’t seen her for a while and assumed she’d found a bedroom upstairs and was sleeping it off.
As he paused at the landing, Carly slithered out of his grasp and sat abruptly. She gazed blearily up at him, her blond hair mussed and her sky-blue eyes smudged with mascara. The top three buttons of her tailored white blouse were undone, exposing the curve of a creamy breast.
“Ya know,” she said, slurring her words and stabbing a finger at him. “Ya might be a screwup but you’re awesome. You turned a stuffy funeral into a f-fiesta. Irene woulda been proud.”
“She deserved a good send-off.” A screwup? Was that how Carly thought of him? True, he’d passed up a chance at a music scholarship after working his ass off for years. But at eighteen he’d changed his mind about wanting to be a classical pianist so it was no loss.
“How come you’re not drunk?” Hiccupping, Carly lolled against his leg, stroking the fabric of his suit.
“Didn’t feel like it.” He’d restrained himself when he realized Carly was going on a bender. Partly because he owed it to Irene to watch out for her. But also because his own emotions—grief over Irene’s death, his feelings for Carly, plus ambivalence about being back in Fairhaven—were too big and complicated to drown and too scary to unleash.
Tonight Carly had been like a tightly coiled spring with the pressure released, springing in every direction, out of control. Something was up with her, as Irene had alluded to in their last conversation. He’d like to know more, but he wasn’t going to get a meaningful answer in her present condition.
He grabbed her under her arms and tugged her gently to a standing position. “Ready to go?”
She swayed into him, draping her arms around his neck and plastering herself against his body, meltingly soft and warm. “Man, I am so ready.”
Her breath held a not unpleasant aroma of aged scotch and her hair gave off a perfumed scent he wanted to bury his nose in. His hands slid of their own accord down her back and settled on the flare of her hips. His gaze dropped to her full, pink mouth. Did she taste as good as he remembered from that time in the tower?
A few years ago he’d looked her up on social media, but she didn’t share anything publicly except a few photos of herself with work colleagues, and cute animal videos. His finger had hovered over the Add Friend button then he’d decided that even if she wasn’t still pissed off at him, he couldn’t bear to field questions about “what are you doing these days?” Followed by polite silences when she found out. Although he didn’t know why he thought that way. Everyone he knew in Los Angeles thought he was doing pretty darn good. And he was, only not in the way folks in Fairhaven had expected.
Her eyes drifted closed and she tilted her face as if expecting a kiss. Not being the kind of guy who took advantage of inebriated women, he wasn’t going there. Instead, he unhooked her arms from around his neck, faced her forward, and readjusted his grip. “Gee up, little pony.”
“Aw, I’m not a pony.” She clutched the banister and staggered up another step. “Maybe a Lipizzaner. They’re beeyootiful.”
“They’re stallions.”
“Stallions, really? All of them?”
“The ones that perform are. Almost there.” He coaxed Carly down the hallway. Judging from the snores emanating from behind closed doors, at least three of the five bedrooms were occupied. “Are you in your old room?”
“Uh-huh. Down th’end.”
“I know.”
She twisted her head to peer at him. “How d’you know?”
“I used to watch your lighted window on summer nights.” He’d ridden his bike across town, from his family’s small home in a poor neighborhood to this heritage home on South Hill—which his mom called Snob Hill. Except that Irene was no snob and Carly...well, she’d never once made him feel any less than an equal because of where he lived, even though her father was an investment banker and Carly seemed to have inherited his drive to succeed in business. Finn had no problem with a good work ethic, he had one himself. But what had Irene said? Carly was pushing herself too hard, working all the time. What did she have to prove?
Her face lit with a delighted grin. “You couldn’t have seen anything. I always drew the curtains.”
“Your silhouette was very sexy.”
“Liar, I was a beanpole.”
Not any more, he thought. She was shapely in all the right places.
He opened her bedroom door and maneuvered her inside. The single bed was unmade and clothes were piled on an open suitcase balanced on a chair. He got her a big glass of water and stayed beside her while she drank it. “Do you need anything else?”
She splayed her fingers over his chest and looked up at him. “You.”
It was the alcohol talking. “Not tonight.”
Regret stabbed him for what else he’d thrown away besides the scholarship. Carly? No, that was making too much of their friendship. Her New York family came from old money, and her future was blue chip. She might have a fling with a guy like him but when the crunch came, she would run back to her own kind.
“Come on, Finn.” Her finger slid up to rest on the pulse beating in the base of his neck. “Why don’t you finish what you started back when we were teenagers?”
For a moment he was tempted despite everything. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could still have a shot at finding out if that spark they’d had could burst into flame.
Yeah...no. Better not make this any more complicated or difficult than it already was. In a day or two he’d be heading back to LA, and out of her life. Anyway, he wasn’t the guy she used to know, the talented pianist with a bright future. Back then he’d been a big fish in the small pond of Fairhaven. Now he was a guy who played on studio recordings for other artists and wrote songs at night. True, one of his songs had become an indie hit, even though Screaming Reindeer had messed around with the tempo. Ruined it, in his opinion. That aside, all his demons were here in Fairhaven, writhing and wailing, buried just out of sight. He didn’t want to drag Carly down into his personal hell.
“In you go.” He gently pushed her into bed and pretended he hadn’t heard her proposition him.
She seemed to have already forgotten anyway, flopping onto the crumpled covers still in her dress. Her stockings were full of runs and one big toe poked through a hole. Not quite as well turned out as earlier in the evening but she was softer, more vulnerable.
Yawning, she punched the feather pillow. “Where are you bunking?”
“Downstairs on the sofa.” He thought about helping her out of her clothes and then decided against it. He was going to have a hard enough time sleeping as it was. “I planned to stay at Dingo’s but it’s late and I don’t want to wake him and Marla—”
“Rufus.” Carly suddenly bolted upright in bed, eyes wide. “I didn’t see him when I went out to give him his dinner.”
“He’ll be all right.”
“I should let him in.” She started to get out of bed.
“Stay put. I’ll get him.”
“But...”
“Go to bed. That’s an order.”
“Well, okay. Thanks.” She subsided onto the pillow and closed her eyes. He was about to turn out the light when she spoke. “Why’d you give it up? Music, I mean. You’re good. Professionally-speaking.” She slurred the word professionally