The Lemon Sisters (Wildstone #3)(20)

She knew what was probably in her gaze. Lust. Longing. Need. And now she also knew what was in his.

Nothing.

Face carefully blank, he nodded. Then he gave a jerk of his chin to the cats and the three of them strode into the barn like royalty. Garrett waited for them and then . . . slowly slid the barn door closed, leaving him on one side of the wood and Brooke on the other.

AN HOUR LATER, she was in Mindy’s kitchen slicing her fresh-out-of-the-oven sweet lemon bread, concentrating on making an even number of slices. When in doubt, she baked. And she did a damn good job of it, if she said so herself. Not up to her sister’s standards, but no one was up to her sister’s standards. Mindy could give Martha Stewart a run for her money in the baking department.

But Brooke had needed the distraction, desperately. Every time her mind rewound to the barn, she flashed hot with mortification. “Not thinking about it,” she reminded herself. She was going to find a way to say what she’d come to say and do what she needed to do to make sure Mindy was okay. Then she was out of here, and she wouldn’t think about Garrett again.

Ever.

Her phone sat on the counter, judging her. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said, still counting slices—three, four . . .

Her phone didn’t respond, but the silence was filled with ’tude. She had a whole slew of texts and messages from Mindy, who, in spite of her chosen absence, still felt the need to direct from two hundred miles south in Los Angeles. There were also four missed calls from Cole, and a text that read, Tell me you’re home and are coming to work tomorrow.

Dammit. She called Cole on speaker and kept slicing.

Cole answered with “Why do I have a bad feeling about this call?”

She made a big show of sounding sick, because telling him she was still in Wildstone would worry him enough to maybe actually drive up, and she didn’t need him in protective mode. “Caught something from the kiddos,” she said. “I need the rest of the week.” She sniffled for good measure.

“You need more phlegm on that lie,” Garrett said from behind her.

She went to cut piece number seven but slashed herself with the knife—proof that odd numbers were evil. The cut wasn’t deep, just enough to completely annoy her.

“Shit,” Garrett said, and grabbed the paper towels.

“It’s nothing. Just a nick. A Band-Aid will do it,” she said, having adopted Mason’s motto. When you had a cut, a Band-Aid will do it. When your world fell apart, a Band-Aid will do it . . .

Garrett took her hand to inspect the injury. He’d put his shirt back on, which was definitely for the best. She could think much better when he had his shirt on. She pulled free.

“What’s going on?” Cole asked tightly from the phone.

“Nothing,” she said, glaring at Garrett. “My brain just has too many tabs open.” She jabbed a finger at the door, an obvious demand for Garrett to get the hell out.

“Why don’t you sound sick anymore?” Cole asked.

“It’s . . . complicated,” she said, and grimaced. “And hard to explain.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe you’ll try over dinner tonight. I’ve got veggie tofu stir-fry leftovers.”

Garrett, who hadn’t budged in spite of her repeated and dramatic gesturing in the direction of the door, made a face, probably at the tofu. Cole was a vegetarian. Garrett was most definitely not. The sexy jerk took up his favorite position leaning against the counter, looking better than the sweet lemon bread, damn him, as he casually reached out and stole slice number six.

Which left an odd number of slices. Clueless to her turmoil, he added a slab of butter to his piece and dug in.

“Brooke?” Cole asked.

She turned her back on the sight of Garrett inhaling her bread. “I’m still in Wildstone.” There. The truth.

Silence from the phone.

“Cole?” she asked. “You okay?”

“Are you going to come back?”

“Yes,” she said definitively.

“Then I’m okay. What’s going on, sweetness?”

Incredibly aware of Garrett in the room, she drew a deep breath. Cole cared, deeply, and that caring was in his tone and in everything he wasn’t saying. He was a good enough guy to assume she was a grown-up and would tell him if she needed help.

So maybe he didn’t know her quite as well as she thought. “What’s going on is that I’ve got some things to take care of up here. I need more time. That’s all.”

“Do you need me?”

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of guilt. He would take her as is, right now, if she wanted that. She’d told him she wasn’t meant for a deep relationship, and he’d taken her at her word. She could love him for that alone. “I’m okay.”

He paused, then simply said, “Call if you need me,” and disconnected.

A beat of silence reigned in the kitchen. Then Garrett spoke. “You’re still good at that.”

She turned to face him. He’d indeed taken a second piece.

“To leave an even number of slices,” he said quietly.

She lifted a startled gaze to his. He knew.

“I’ve always known,” he said.

She’d have to dwell on that later, how her own family had never figured it out, but he had. “Good at what?” she asked instead, ignoring the quiver in her belly.