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Mulholland wasn’t the only one who was susceptible to nice girls. Probably because he and Finn had never been allowed anywhere near nice girls when they were growing up. Or when they were adults, either, come to think of it. Speaking for himself, nice girls generally took one look at him and gave him a wide berth. Speaking for Russell, it was the other way around. Russell wanted nothing to do with nice girls. At least these days. Mostly because he’d already met—and married—the nicest girl in the world and lost her. Marti Dennison Mulholland had gotten close to Russell in spite of Russell’s best efforts to keep her away. And when he’d fallen, he’d fallen hard . Since her death . . .
    Well, suffice it to say Russell had fallen even harder. But this time he hadn’t landed in the sort of nice, stabilizing life that brought out the best in him, like he’d had with Marti. On the contrary. Finn would have liked to think that with Max in the mix now, Russell would have been able to keep going somehow. Instead, he’d reverted to his old ways—tenfold. His life these days was about as tumultuous as it could get. It wasn’t that he was a bad or negligent father. It was just that . . .
    Oh, hell. Fact was, Russell was a bad and negligent father. He loved his son—there was no question about that. The problem was, he loved Max too much. So much that he was afraid to let the kid get too close, for fear of losing him, too, the way he’d lost Marti.
    Finn turned to look at Natalie—who, for some reason, didn’t know enough to give him a wide berth—and was opening his mouth to shoot her down before she had a chance to start carping again about her “event.” But he snapped his mouth shut when he saw that she wasn’t even looking at him and was instead studying the selection of beers on tap. And she was showing way more interest in them than she had in him just a little while ago, when he’d been so certain she was showing him an inordinate amount of interest. She was also, he couldn’t help further noting, glancing up to smile at the bartender with way more sincerity than she’d shown when she smiled at Finn a few minutes ago. The bartender who, Finn also noted, was smiling back at Natalie, and doing so in a way that went way beyond simple this smile always gets me a better tip friendly.
    “What can I get for you?” the guy—who was easily ten years younger than Finn and had that clean-scrubbed, all-American golden boy look about him that women like Natalie Beckett probably couldn’t resist—asked her.
    “I’ll have a Nut Brown Ale,” she said with the sort of confidence that indicated she was not only familiar with the product but enjoyed it on a regular basis.
    Something about that realization made Finn feel better. Because it meant that she’d doubtless known coming in here what she would order, which meant she had only been pretending to study the assortment of beers on tap in an effort to fake the sort of nonchalance she’d been faking before at the hotel. And that meant she had followed him in here to carp some more about the “event” she was trying to get Russell to attend, something that should have irritated the hell out of Finn but which, for some weird reason, made him not feel irritated at all.
    That was his story, and he was sticking to it. Except for the part about not feeling irritated. Really, he was irritated. He was. Irritated as hell. Honest.
    Ah, hell.
    Ms. Natalie Beckett who wasn’t a Mrs. then added, “And a bison burger, blackened, medium rare with havarti and peppers, garlic fries as the side.” She ordered with great aplomb—and without looking at the menu, another indication that she ate often at this particular eatery. Her order also indicated she couldn’t possibly have a date tonight—not unless the guy had completely lost his sense of smell—but Finn couldn’t have cared less about that. Really, he couldn’t. Honest.
    Okay, he supposed her familiarity with the