The Lemon Sisters (Wildstone #3)(25)

A pissed-off Brooke he knew how to handle. But a sad Brooke . . . he didn’t have a clue. “I always listen,” he said. “I just don’t always agree. Do I need to go beat someone up at Mason’s camp?”

Her response was a low, mirthless laugh. “No. Turns out that was my bad.”

He shrugged. “Mistakes happen.”

“Not to Mindy.”

He laughed, and utterly unable to help himself, reached out and stroke a wayward strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

Brooke stilled at the touch, then lifted her gaze to his, her eyes suspiciously shiny, and so green it almost hurt to hold her gaze.

And yet he didn’t look away. “Mindy would be the first to tell you that’s not true,” he said quietly. “She makes mistakes. We all do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” he said.

“When?”

“You’re not sleeping,” he said instead of answering.

She shrugged.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m a monster.”

“Brooke, I was kidding. You’re not a monster.”

“I am. I lost our baby.”

He let out a slow, careful breath. He was in no way prepared for this walk down Painful Memories Road, but neither could he turn away from it.

Or her.

They’d never talked about it—not for lack of trying on his part. She’d been twenty-one and had been back in Wildstone a whole week that time. They’d made the most of each and every night while still pretending it was just a “one-time thing.”

But deep down, he’d known he’d wanted more—a lot more. He’d never known what she’d wanted. She’d kept her own counsel.

Two months later, she’d shown up again, pale and sick and practically vibrating with tension. When she told him she was pregnant and that he was the only one she’d been with in the past year, he’d somehow been both terrified and elated at the same time. But not wanting to pressure her, he’d let her take the lead on what she wanted to do. Her body, her decision. When she’d put her hands over her belly in a protective gesture, he’d offered to marry her.

She couldn’t have committed to a dentist appointment back then. Hell, neither could he, for that matter, but he’d been willing to try.

And, shocking him, so had she.

That same day, she’d been called back to work. Having not had time to process any of it, they’d decided to keep the pregnancy to themselves for the time being, much like their so-called relationship. Brooke told her bosses she had to give up the climbing and dangerous jobs and keep her feet firmly on the ground, and they’d promised her it wasn’t going to be a problem.

And indeed, the job she’d gone on, taking photos from the safety of a helicopter over Machu Picchu for a crossover special between the Travel Network and Nat Geo, should have been a piece of cake. But there’d been a surprise storm and the helicopter had been forced to try to land at high altitude. Gale-force winds had taken them out. They’d crash-landed, and the survivors had been stranded on a steep precipice for twenty-four hours before being rescued.

The conditions had been brutal. Brooke’s injuries had been more so. Concussion, cracked ribs, pierced lung, broken leg, and internal trauma that had damaged her spleen beyond repair, pierced a piece of her liver, and some other things that had culminated in her losing the baby and nearly her life.

And none of it had been her fault.

Garrett, along with her family, had flown to the hospital in Peru, terrified she’d die. But by the time they got there, she was out of her first of two surgeries and aware enough to make sure no one would mention the baby she’d lost to her family. Only he and the doctors had known.

As far as he was aware, she’d never told another soul, not even Mindy.

When she was finally liberated from the hospital and had come home to recover, she’d brushed off everyone’s concerns, saying she was fine.

With hindsight being twenty-twenty, along with seven years of questionable personal growth and maturity, Garrett had come to realize that Brooke had been too young to deal, so she’d carefully buried it deep and convinced everyone that all was good.

One of her best lies.

She’d left as soon as she could, and because she was a master at evasion when she wanted to be, she’d managed to successfully avoid him every time she’d been in town since.

Which had been few and far between.

“You didn’t lose the baby on purpose,” he said carefully. “Tell me you’re not blaming yourself.”

She didn’t answer.

Shit.

“Brooke,” he said softly.

She covered her face. “Don’t be nice to me about it—I’ll fall apart. You’re mad at me, and you should be.”

“Stop.” He pulled her hands from her face and held on to them, squeezing gently. “How could you think I’d be mad at you for losing the baby? My God, Bee, is that what you think of me? I’m that guy, that selfish bastard who’d blame you for what happened?”

She stared at him, her eyes luminescent—whether at the use of his old nickname for her or his question, he had no idea. “Then why are you mad?” she whispered.

“Brooke . . .” He shook his head. “There’s no reason to go there.”