The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(115)

She turned to stare at him. She was supposed to be the perceptive one, not Panda.

Maybe because the words had come from another man, Mike stopped. He looked back at Panda, who shrugged. Mike glanced toward the path. And then he began to move.



BREE HAD JUST REACHED THE back steps when she heard a loud rustling in the woods. Toby leaned against her side, warm and solid. Beloved. She turned and saw Mike come out into the yard. Her chest constricted.

He stopped at the edge of the trees and stood there. If he was waiting for her to run into his arms, he’d be waiting a long time. She cradled Toby tightly against her body and gazed at Mike. “I’ve lost just about everything,” she said quietly. “You can believe I’m using you for a meal ticket. Or you can believe the truth. What’s it going to be?”

Toby went unnaturally still, as if he’d quit breathing.

Mike’s hands slipped into his pockets, his salesman’s confidence deserting him. “I know what I want to believe.”

“Make up your mind,” she said. “You’re either part of this family or you’re not.”

Still he didn’t move. Instead of looking at her, he looked at Toby. Then he began walking slowly. But he didn’t make it all the way to the back steps. Instead he stopped halfway. “Toby, I love Bree.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I’d like your permission to marry her.”

Bree gasped. “Hold it! I’m—I’m glad you love me, but it’s way too soon—”

“Really?” Toby exclaimed. “Really? I say yes!”

She couldn’t believe the leap of faith Mike was making, the courage he displayed in offering his heart to someone he had no right to trust. But it was three o’clock in the morning, and they were exhausted. It was too early to talk about the future. She needed to set him straight. Except in order to do that, she first had to stop smiling, and she couldn’t seem to manage that.

As Mike gazed into her eyes, she pressed her cheek against the top of Toby’s soft head. “I love you, too. With all my heart. But for now, I’m only interested in pancakes.”

Mike cleared his throat, which didn’t stop the swell of emotion in his voice. “How about I make them? I’m really good at it.”

She looked down at Toby. Toby looked up at her. “I say yes,” he whispered.

She had Toby in her arms, but her eyes found Mike’s. “I guess I’ll have to say yes, too, then.”

His blazing smile cut through all the darkness left inside her. She held out her hand. He took it. And the three of them went inside.



LUCY COULDN’T GO BACK TO the cottage tonight. Whatever was transpiring there needed to unfold without an outsider looking on. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m going to bunk down in the boat for what’s left of the night.”

Panda stood by the picnic table, one foot on the bench. “You can stay in the house.”

“The boat’ll be fine.” But before she went anywhere, she had to clean up. Not just from the dirt and honey but from the tiny slivers of glass cutting her. Even though the outside shower only had cold water and she had nothing to change into, she didn’t want to go in the house. She’d wrap up in one of the beach towels and change at the cottage in the morning.

She walked past him toward the shower, hating this stilted awkwardness, hating him for causing it, hating herself for being so hurt by it. “The shower’s not working,” he said from behind her. “The pipe broke last week. Use your old bathroom. I never got around to moving back downstairs.”

That seemed strange, since she’d been out of the house for almost two weeks, but she wasn’t asking questions, wasn’t saying more to him than she needed to. As much as she dreaded going in the house, she couldn’t sleep while she was such a mess, and without a word, she made her way inside.

The kitchen door gave its familiar creak, and the old house embraced her, still smelling faintly of damp, coffee, and the ancient gas stove. He flipped on the overhead light. She’d vowed not to look at him, but she couldn’t help herself. His eyes were red-rimmed and his beard stubble villainous. But it was what she didn’t see behind him that surprised her. “What happened to your table?”

He acted as if he needed to search his memory. “Uh … Yeah … Woodpile.”

“You got rid of your precious table?”

His jaw tightened, and he sounded unnecessarily defensive. “I kept getting splinters from it.”

He’d thrown her off balance, and she was even more disconcerted when she noticed something else was missing. “What about your pig?”

“Pig?” He’d acted as though he’d never heard the word.

“Fat little guy,” she snapped. “Speaks French.”

He shrugged. “I got rid of some stuff.”

“Your pig?”

“What do you care? You hated that pig.”

“I know,” she sneered. “But hating it gave my life focus, and now that’s gone.”

Instead of delivering a counterpunch, he smiled and took her in. “God, you’re a mess.”

His tenderness made her heart constrict, and she threw up her defenses. “Save it for somebody who cares.” She stalked toward the hall.

He moved behind her. “I want you to know … I … care about you. It’s going to be hard not seeing you. Talking to you.”