Stirring Up Trouble (19 page)

She’d been right here in front of him the whole time. He should’ve known.

“Bree, listen,” he said, pulling back to look at her only after her sobs had subsided into intermittent hitches of breath. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you felt this way. Well, not like this, anyway.” Christ, even now he was botching this. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bree shook her head and wiped her face with the back of one hand. “I was mad at you. We were a family, but then you left, and you didn’t come back until Mom got sick. I didn’t want to tell you anything private because I thought you’d just leave again anyway. I thought she’d get . . . better . . . and you’d go back to Chicago . . .”

She paused for a shaky breath. “But then she didn’t. And then after she died, you were busy with the grown-up stuff, like bills and work, and I thought you’d think I was weird because I was still sad.”

“You think I’m not still sad about Mom?” Gavin stared at her, unable to say anything else.

Bree hesitated, then eked out a tiny nod. “You just seemed so normal, so calm. And then you were at work a lot, like nothing had ever happened. So I felt weird that I still missed her so much.”

“I think about Mom every day,” he insisted. “No matter what it looks like.” God, all those hours he’d spent researching his mother’s treatment plans before she died, the mind-numbing details he’d had to sort through to plan her funeral—not to mention all the times he’d walked out the door to go to work just to get away from his grief for a couple of hours—Bree had been stuffing her own grief down the whole time.

It had been well over a year since he’d come back from Chicago. Over a
year
of her thinking he didn’t care.

And he hadn’t realized how deep her distress was.

Brand-new tears tracked over the light smattering of freckles on her cheeks. “I didn’t know how to tell you the part about, you know. Wanting to be like everybody else. It’s embarrassing, and I feel stupid. It’s hard to be normal without a mom.”

“None of that is stupid. I wish you’d told me.” Gavin brushed a hand over her face and forced strength into his voice. “I know it’s not ideal. I know I’m not . . . Mom.” He swallowed hard over the understatement. “But you’re right. If I’d listened better, I might have been able to help you with some of this.”

Bree sniffled. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about you taking me in.” She dropped her head, her words threaded through with emotion. “I know you love me.”

“I do love you, Bree. But it’s
because
I love you that I do what I do.” He worked up a small, self-deprecating smile. “I know it doesn’t always feel like it, but I really do have your best interests at heart. It’s my job to take care of you. And that includes keeping you safe and making decisions that you’re not ready to make yet, even if you don’t like what I decide.”

Bree furrowed her brow. “Like whether or not I need a babysitter?”

Every cell in Gavin’s body froze, and he whipped his head toward the spot where Sloane had stood—God, had that only been twenty minutes ago?

But it was empty.

He blinked back at Bree, who was clearly waiting for an answer. Discovering Sloane’s whereabouts would have to wait.

“That’s one thing, yes. It’s not that I think you can’t take care of yourself. It’s just that a lot could happen while you’re here alone, including you just being lonely. And I don’t want that.”

Her lips parted. “I thought you didn’t trust me.”

“You’ve got to admit, kiddo, some of the things you did before we left the city didn’t argue well for you in the trust department.”

“Oh.” Bree dropped her chin to her chest, but the gesture became a nod. “I know the whole mess with those older girls was stupid, but I really didn’t steal those CDs. I wouldn’t have done that.”

“I know,” Gavin said, and meant it. “But I still have to do what I think is right to make sure you’re cared for. And for now, that means having someone stay with you when I’m not here.”

“I guess having a babysitter isn’t a horrible idea.” She slipped a glance around the kitchen. “And spending time with Sloane is okay. She doesn’t make me feel like a kid, even though she still has rules.” Bree’s gaze flicked to the spot where Sloane had stood. “And she’s pretty smart. I like her.”

His gut clenched. “I like her, too.” The truth was, they wouldn’t even be standing here having this conversation if it weren’t for Sloane’s intervention. It hadn’t taken much, but she’d somehow known exactly what to say to get them to talk to each other rather than yell.

So where on earth was she?

Bree tried on a tiny smile. “So it’s okay if she comes over for breakfast tomorrow? That kind of sounded like fun.”

Just an hour ago, nothing would have made Gavin happier than spending the morning in the kitchen with Bree, getting back to something that had once been so easygoing and right.

But now, the right thing was to back up his words with his actions.

“How about this? Why don’t I call Mrs. Carter on my way back to work and talk to her about the ski trip. If you promise to be careful and check in when you’re supposed to, I can ask Sloane to drop you off tonight and then I’ll pick you up from the resort tomorrow when you’re done. Then we can have breakfast together next week. Sound okay?”

Bree blinked. “Y-yeah. Are you sure?”

His heart lurched against his ribs with an ungainly thud, but he nodded. “You and I still have a lot of talking to do, and that will come in time. But you’re right. You’re old enough to do things like this. If Mrs. Carter is going to be there, I don’t see a problem with you going skiing with your friends.”

She threw her arms around him, and both the force of the movement and the emotion behind it knocked into him like a battering ram. “Oh my God! Thank you thank you thank you. I promise you won’t be sorry! Can I go call Caitlin and Sadie and tell them? Please?”

Her burst of happiness was infectious, and Gavin chuckled by default. “Go. I’ve got to get back to the restaurant, but I’ll work out the particulars with Mrs. Carter and call you in a little while.”

“Okay.” Bree rushed to the entryway, excitement visible on every one of her features, but she paused when she got to the door. “Thank you. I really mean it.”

“You’re welcome. And hey”—Gavin paused for a second, the words sticking to his throat with emotion—“no matter what happens from here on in, just promise you’ll talk to me.”

She nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

Gavin stood in the middle of the kitchen for a moment after she was gone, simply inhaling the quiet. So many thoughts flung themselves at his brain, and even more at the spaces in his chest and his gut, that trying to process them would take hours he didn’t have.

Getting this parenting thing down was going to take his entire life. Even then, the odds were good that he wouldn’t get it completely right.

Then again, did anybody?

“You did a really great thing, you know.”

Sloane’s voice startled him halfway to the ceiling, and he whipped back to reality with a graceless jerk.

“Sorry,” she said, not moving from the kitchen doorframe. “I was in the living room. I know I should’ve given you complete privacy, but . . . I wanted to make sure you two were okay. So I overheard a little of what you said.”

Even if she hadn’t copped to being within earshot, her red-rimmed eyes and quiet tone would’ve been a dead giveaway. He nodded, but it did nothing to bring order to his thoughts.

“Oh. Yeah, we’re, ah . . . okay.” The word didn’t touch the tip of the iceberg of what he felt, but he was too overwhelmed to go into further detail. Hell, he was too overwhelmed to spell his own name right now. Despite the fact that he and Bree had made more progress today than they had since their mom got sick, he still had no clue how to parent her. After all, Sloane had done more in five minutes than he’d managed to do in the last year, and she had no experience with kids whatsoever.

Words snapped around in his brain, trying so hard to form phrases, thoughts,
something
to let her know how he felt, but it was all so overpowering that he couldn’t get out from beneath the guilt of not having seen it all sooner.

So he covered it up instead.

Gavin blanked his expression, save for a small, perfunctory smile that was as forced as it was uncomfortable. “If you could drop Bree off at Jeannie’s in a little bit, I’d be really grateful. Then we’ll just see you on Tuesday morning, I guess.”

“Gavin, wait.” Sloane looked right through him with those beautiful summer-sky eyes, under his skin, past the wall he’d desperately thrown up, and God damn it, she saw everything.

“You’re not really okay, are you?”

Something larger than his desire to cover up all of his emotion pushed words to the forefront, and he took a step toward her to say
no
and bury himself in her arms, knowing he’d feel right there. But his cell phone rang, jolting him from his reverie.

And his feelings went right back where they belonged.

“I appreciate all your help today, Sloane. I’ve got to get back to the restaurant. Just give me a call if you need anything, okay?”

And then he was gone.

Chapter Nineteen

Sloane flipped the collar of her cherry-red pea coat over her ears to ward off the biting wind and hit
send
before she lost either her nerve or the feeling in her toes.

Gavin picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi!” she chirruped, perky enough to make herself cringe. She bit her tongue into submission and clutched her fuzzy merino scarf tighter around her neck to trap her dwindling body heat before it made a jailbreak. Next time she chose a place to live, it was going to have an average temperature in the mid-eighties, minimum.

“Sloane? Is everything okay?”

God, his seriousness knew no bounds. She pulled in a breath, but cut it short when it froze to her throat and refused to migrate down to her lungs. “Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Um, because it’s ten-thirty on a Sunday night and you sound like you’re in a tin can. What’s going on?”

Well, crap. Best to just come out with it then. Otherwise she was going to end up with a serious case of frostbite to go along with her idiotic impulses.

“Well, you said I should call you if I needed anything, and as it turns out, I need something.” She swallowed a mouthful of subarctic air, wondering how on earth her palms could still sweat in weather like this.

Gavin stammered. “You . . . what? What do you need?”

No going back now.
Sloane straightened in her spot on the weatherworn porch boards.

“I need you to open your front door.”

After a telltale click, the door swung open, bringing them face-to-face. “What are you doing here?” he murmured with a look of pure surprise. A flicker of something she couldn’t identify glinted in his melted-chocolate eyes, and suddenly, the cold felt like it was on some faraway planet rather than invading her personal space right down to her bones.

“I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you something to eat.” She lifted two thick paper bags bearing La Dolce Vita’s name and logo, and his cinnamon-colored brows moved in the direction of his hairline.

“We don’t do takeout at the restaurant.”

“Yeah, well, I have friends in high places,” she said, allowing a saucy grin to emerge on her lips. “And they told me you haven’t eaten anything since lunch. But unless you want piccata Popsicles, I’d invite me in.”

“Oh! Sorry. You must be freezing. Come in.” Gavin took both bags from her frozen fingers and ushered her into the cottage. “These friends of yours didn’t happen to mention that chicken piccata is one of my favorite dishes, did they?”

She followed him into the kitchen, rubbing her hands together in an act of utter futility as he lifted the bags to the counter. She slanted him a look and debated her answer.

Screw it. Subtlety had never been one of her strong suits.

“No, but they did mention that you left early, and after what happened before, I was a little, um . . . worried about you.”

Gavin’s hands stopped with a Styrofoam container halfway out of the bag, but it was a momentary glitch. He popped the lid off the container to check the contents. “I appreciate it. But I’m fine.”

Sloane’s bullshit meter erupted like Vesuvius on a bad day, but instinct told her not to push him. Not yet, anyway. “So what kind of wine goes best with chicken piccata?” she asked, moving toward the cupboard to take out a couple of plates.

It got a grin out of him, albeit a small one. “French Chablis. You want some?”

“Well, that depends. Is it two hundred dollars a bottle?” No way was she getting suckered into that again. At least, not without knowing it up front.

“No.” Gavin passed her a container full of salad greens and the bowl he’d just pulled from the counter, and his grin kicked up a notch. “Not even close, although it’s still good.”

“Whew. Drinking wine that expensive makes me sweat.”

“Wine is supposed to lower your stress levels, not jack them higher.”

She snickered and gave the emerald green leaves a toss as she put them in the bowl. “Only if you drink enough of it to forget your problems.”

“I wouldn’t waste good wine just to get drunk. That’s what liquor is for.” He crossed the kitchen and popped the pantry door open, barely looking at the bottles before sliding one from a rack in the wine cellar.

“Come on, you’re the quintessential wine guy. Surely you’ve overindulged on occasion.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not on wine.”

Sloane laughed for just a beat before she realized he wasn’t kidding. “Oh, no way. You’re serious.” She deposited the salad on the pristine white tablecloth with a residual smile.

“So you keep reminding me.” Gavin brought the bottle of wine to the breakfast bar and placed it on top of the counter. “I’m not saying I’ve never been drunk. That’s asinine. But drinking wine just to
get
drunk seems wasteful to me. It blurs everything good about it.”

He cast a glance at her and continued. “And anyway, is being serious really that bad?”

“On you, it’s perfect. On me, not so much. Then again, I’ve never really been a go-with-the-crowd kind of girl.”

Gavin chuckled as he moved through the kitchen for a corkscrew and a pair of delicate pear-shaped glasses without stems. “Yeah, you do have a penchant for stirring up trouble. But it suits you, and plus, you seem happy just like you are.”

“I am.” The words sounded strange without the usual defensive coating she had to slather onto them, and she busied herself by leaning against the opposite side of the counter and watching while he uncorked the bottle with seamless movements. “So I’m not quite sure I buy into the theory that wine is good for you.”

“What makes you doubt it?” Rather than coming off as a challenge, his question was edged with genuine curiosity, and he eased the cork from the bottle with a muted pop.

“It just sounds hokey. I mean, isn’t the whole drinking-is-healthy thing just an excuse to go to happy hour instead of the gym?”

He laughed, and the pure richness of it stoked a fire under her skin. “Not entirely. The theory is based on the idea that there are some health benefits to drinking wine in moderation. Some kinds of wine contain antioxidants that can help knock down cholesterol levels. Other kinds work to lower your blood pressure, making you feel less stressed.”

“Ah. And what does this kind of wine do?” she asked, pointing to the glasses of golden liquid Gavin held in either hand.

“This particular label tastes good and promotes relaxing conversation. It’s your turn to toast.” He placed the glass in her hand, and although their fingers didn’t touch as he pulled away, the heat of him was suggestive enough that Sloane felt it regardless.

And she wanted it. Badly.

“Oh,” she murmured, wishing it had been something more eloquent. She flushed. “Don’t we have to let this breathe or something?”

He shook his head, leaning across the breakfast bar so she had no choice but to look right into his liquid-brown eyes. “That’s usually with reds and drier wines. This Chablis is more full-bodied and crisp, so its flavor profile won’t benefit from breathing.”

“Translation, please?” Sloane wouldn’t know a flavor profile if it socked her in the mouth.

“It’s going to taste the same in an hour as it does right now.”

She lifted her glass, noting the pretty shimmer of the wine inside it as it met more light from overhead. “In that case, here’s to testing theories.”

“To testing theories.” Gavin raised his glass and inhaled once, chasing his breath with a sip of the wine. Sloane followed suit, and the sweet scent of the wine mixed perfectly with the crisp flavors in her mouth, one turning over the other only to layer back again, until they melded together into a wonderfully mellow glide down her throat.

“Oh, wow. It tastes like . . . summer.” Sloane slipped her eyes closed, where inviting images of warm sunshine and dipping her toes into the cool, dark green water of Big Gap Lake rose to meet her. She took another slow sip, and suddenly she was in the lake up to her knees.

Gavin countered quietly. “This vintage gets a lot of its sweetness from the notes of apple and pear. That fruitiness is what makes it so crisp.”

Her eyes popped open in a rush of recognition, and she slapped the counter in front of her with glee. “Yes! The apple flavor makes it kind of spicy, too.”

“Now you’re catching on,” he said, a smile evening out over his face. “What does it make you think of?”

“Sticking my feet in Big Gap Lake.” She grinned. “How about you?”

He tipped his glass, taking a long sip before asking, “Me?”

But letting him off the hook was the last thing on her mind. “Yes, you. I’m not the only one who’s supposed to be relaxing here, remember? Come on, tell me what you see.”

“Okay, okay.” Gavin closed his eyes, and his eyelashes cast slight shadows over his cheeks. For a heartbeat, Sloane wondered if this was how he looked when he slept.

And then her heartbeats grew decidedly faster.

“I see an apple grove.” He drew in a breath and nodded. “Yeah. There’s this apple orchard, way out past the suburbs in Philly. Trees as far as you can see, full to bursting with Jonagolds, Braeburns, you name it. The air smells brand-new, like no one’s even breathed it before, and you can taste the sun on the apples when you bite into them.”

Sloane’s senses prickled with awareness as Gavin opened his eyes and continued. “One time, when Bree was eight, she begged for the apples from the top of the tree. She swore they must taste better, and we couldn’t convince her that all the apples were the same. So I climbed fifteen feet up to the top of this apple tree, and the whole time I remember thinking I must be crazy for risking my neck over a handful of apples.”

“Was she right?” Sloane breathed, unable to tear her gaze from him.

Gavin’s expression softened around his upturned mouth, becoming a warm chuckle. “Hell if she wasn’t. They were the best damned apples I’ve ever had.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Her words stopped the laughter brewing in his throat, prompting a tight shrug. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

“Are you kidding?” She pulled back with surprise and stared. “I mean, I know it’s not all rainbows and unicorns and stuff, but anyone can see how much you care about her.”

He released a slow breath. “I do care about her.”

Silence unspooled between them as Gavin looked away, raising his glass with a faster-than-necessary jerk, and even though she didn’t want to, Sloane took the hint.

“I guess we should warm the food up before we eat, huh?” She put her glass on the counter and made her way back to the heart of the kitchen, reaching for the plates she’d taken out of the cupboard.

Gavin turned to fall into place next to her. “Sure. How about you plate, and I’ll man the microwave?”

“Look at you, breaking out the fancy techniques. You’re a culinary tour de force over there.” She handed him a plate loaded with chicken, capers, and artichokes, and even lukewarm from the restaurant, it smelled divine.

He took the plate, stepping close enough to fill her senses with the masculine scent of his skin and the dark, seductive smile that was like her own personal brand of Kryptonite. “I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”

“Not even a little bit, Microwave Man. I’m not that easy.” But the traitorous tingle of heat percolating at the seam of her jeans negated every last syllable.

Well. Didn’t that just add a whole new dimension to the
pants on fire
part of things?

“Guess I’ll just have to try harder,” he said, bringing the microwave to life with a handful of touches. Oh, God, if she didn’t come up with a distraction, stat, he was going to find out exactly how easy she was, right here in the kitchen.

Cut it out!
She’d come over here in an honest-to-God act of concern, not to get laid. So she blurted out the first thing she could think of that didn’t make her want to whip off her shirt just to feel him on her skin.

“So, um, how’d you get to be such a wine expert, anyway?”

His shoulders eased up by a fraction and he took the second plate from her. “Not the flashiest answer going, but it started in culinary school.”

A tiny smile poked at the corners of her lips, and she enjoyed another sip of Chablis before answering. “Come on. Of all the things you could’ve become an expert on, you chose wine?”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” he said, handing her the first plate with a wry smile. “Why, what would you pick?”

“Something different every day. And I’m not knocking it. I just meant there are a bazillion things you could’ve chosen. Why wine?”

“Oh. Well, I think it kind of picked me, to be honest. We studied a lot of different regional cuisines, and I always came back to the ones that centered around wine pairings—mostly Italian and French, but of course there are others. I was fascinated by how the wine enhanced the meal and made it an experience. It didn’t take long for me to discover that wine could actually
be
the experience.”

“I never really thought of wine as its own complex thing,” Sloane admitted, turning the idea over in her mind as she walked the steaming plate to the table.

“Most people don’t. We’re conditioned to do things as quickly as possible, eating and drinking included. It’s just a means to an end. But wine is one of those things you’ve got to take your time with, otherwise you miss the point. It’s the journey, remember?”

Her face flushed at the reminder of his words from the night of Carly’s wedding, but looking away from Gavin’s piercing stare right now wasn’t even on her menu of options. “I remember.”

“Isn’t writing the same way? I mean, you don’t race through it just to get to the end, do you? You must enjoy the process part a little bit, too. Look at how hard you work on putting it together.” He pulled his plate from the microwave, crossing the kitchen to place it on the table across from hers, and Sloane’s gut twanged at the reminder of the book she shouldn’t be writing.