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He was guarded, bordering on unfriendly, and had barely said more than a couple of words to her the whole time she, Izzy, and Indigo had been here.
Beth was starting to find that something of a personal challenge.
There had been some resistance from the locals of Brightwater to her attempts at friendship—they were a crusty lot, full of mutterings about a “bunch of Americans” coming in and “changing things.” But Beth had been relentlessly friendly and cheerful, and soon their chilly antipodean reserve had thawed.
Except for Finn’s. The chill around him remained and she was desperately curious to know why.
Beth gave him her extra-friendly, extra-wide smile. “Hey, Finn. Sorry, did you want the last sausage roll?”
He did not smile back, his almost-black eyes impenetrable as usual, his reserve fathoms deep. “No thanks.” His voice held a kind of darkness and grit that set something very female inside her vibrating.
It was annoying. In fact, her physical reaction to him as a whole was annoying. She didn’t want to find him as ridiculously attractive as she did because that was a complication shesodidn’t need right now.
Friends. That’s all she wanted. Just friends.
She and Indigo and Izzy were on the point of opening Brightwater Dreams, the little gallery they’d spent the past month setting up, selling local arts and crafts as well as locally produced artisan delicacies. It was a commercial enterprise that was supposed to help revitalize Brightwater—the town was tiny and on the verge of becoming a ghost town—by bringing in new blood in the shape of the three Deep River ladies and potentially more tourist dollars.
Brightwater Valley had sister-city links to Deep River going back to the forties, when American GIs from Deep River had been stationed here during the Second World War, so when Brightwater had called for help to save their dying town, Deep River had answered.
The three of them loved it here. But while Izzy had found love and a new future with Chase Kelly, Beth had more important things to do.
Things such as making sure she had enough stock of her jewelry. She was also trying to secure the last thing Izzy had wanted in the store before it opened—paintings by a well-known New Zealand artist that would hopefully draw in more people.
Except the well-known New Zealand artist was a recluse who lived in Brightwater and had so far refused to speak to Beth.
Okay, maybe Finn Kelly wasn’t the only holdout in her friendship drive.
Evan McCahon was too.
“Are you sure?” Beth lifted the paper bag containing the sausage roll and waved it at Finn. “I can split it with you.”
Bill baked many delicacies that he kept in a cabinet on the counter, and his sausage rolls, meat pies, and scones were the best Beth had ever tasted. Particularly the sausage rolls, which were rolls of delicious flaky puff pastry stuffed with ground beef, onions, and herbs.
She loved them, but sadly so did everyone else in Brightwater Valley, which usually meant they sold out by midday.
Finn stared at her a moment, his handsome face completely unreadable, while Beth fervently wished she didn’t feel quite such a strong urge to stare at the fit of his black Pure Adventure NZ T-shirt, the cotton lovingly outlining the broad width of his shoulders and chest.
He was a tall guy, much taller than she was, six two, six three at least, and muscled like a gymnast or a swimmer, with wide shoulders and lean waist.
Hot. Exceedingly hot.
Beth, much to her annoyance, felt herself blushing under the weight of that dark stare.
“It’s fine.” Finn shoved his hands into his pockets. “You can have it.”
“Oh, I don’t have to.” Beth waved the paper bag at him again, determined now that he should accept at least something from her. “I can get one tomorrow.”
“No thanks.” He turned away.
Rude.
Beth watched him stride out of Bill’s store with the kind of purposeful grace that made the very female, quivery thing inside her quiver again. She ignored it.
Really, this was starting to feel personal now. Finn was nice to everyone but her, and even though she’d been telling herself for the past couple of weeks that she didn’t care, she kind of did.
Had she done something to him he hadn’t liked? Said something offensive? Because if so, she wanted to know so she could fix it and maybe not do it again.
Bill, a short, round man in his early seventies with a few wisps of white hair still clinging to his head, a craggy face, and bright blue eyes, gave her a knowing look from behind the counter.
