Chapter 10
EMMA WASN’T ENTIRELY sure what had happened to the past three days, but they’d disappeared in a rush of work.
Two days ago she’d taken the trucking company responsible for delivering the furniture to its knees.
The furniture had shown up this morning, seven days ahead of schedule.
That meant she’d been putting the finishing touches on the cabins, ironing and hanging curtains, arranging furniture for appeal and to maximize space.
She’d finished about an hour before dinner, giving her a chance to quietly move all of her stuff to the little one-bedroom honeymoon cabin while the family was preoccupied. It had taken a couple of clandestine trips to transfer everything, but she’d managed.
She was officially out of the house.
Reagan had looked at her funny when she’d come in for a quick meal, but the woman hadn’t questioned Emma in the midst of sandwich-making chaos.
Every time the brothers descended on the kitchen, they inevitably left scraps of this and pieces of that.
When all was said and done, the kitchen appeared as if an F5 tornado had swept through the space.
It was insane that feeding three educated, civilized men could leave such chaos in its wake.
She began cleaning up with one hand while she ate her sandwich with the other, but Reagan waved her off.
“I’ve got this. Practice has taught me how to best manage the mess.
It’s something no sane woman should have to tackle until she’s so smitten that it doesn’t leave her with that particular expression. ”
“What expression?” Emma asked, grateful to set her sponge down.
“The one that wordlessly asks, ‘How do these men behave in public?’” The other woman laughed. “You’re smitten, yes, but not quite enough to handle cleanup.”
Swamped with a strange sense of discomfort, Emma nodded.
Some things she simply wasn’t good at, and keeping house was one of them, particularly when that house was a home.
She had no idea how to cultivate that kind of warmth, to make a room livable or to make a house the center of the family dynamic.
“I envy you this,” Emma said reverently.
Reagan paused in the middle of spraying the counters with 409 and looked up. “You what?”
“I...nothing.”
“Seriously, Emma. You envy me what?”
She finished chewing her bite of sandwich and took a swallow of lemonade. Anything to stall. But there was only so much she could do before her mouth, dry with anxiety, was empty.
“This.” She swept her hand around in a wide arc.
“You have a way about you, an almost maternal air, that gives off a sense of security. You’ve made me feel so at home, so welcome.
I wouldn’t hesitate to dig through the fridge to get whatever I crave, or to make a sandwich at 2:00 a.m., because I’m sure you won’t mind and of course there will be food.
A mom never allows a house to run out of food.
” Eyes burning, she closed them and continued.
“Usually there’s nothing more than bottled water and a bad lemon in my fridge.
I have a cleaning service come in because I can’t manage the housework on a two-bedroom condo occupied by one constantly absent person.
An interior decorator decked out my house for a magazine shoot.
He did such a good job I’m afraid to put my feet on my own sofa.
” She opened her eyes, staring at Reagan through the faint sheen of tears.
“I don’t want to return to Seventy-second Avenue because it’s not my home.
Worse? I’d give anything to make it feel like this, but I don’t have that skill.
I’ve always lived in a house, never a home, and it just hit me how horribly lonely it really is. ”
Closing her eyes again, Emma willed the last bite of sandwich down.
It hit bottom heavier than a lead ball. She wiped her mouth on her paper towel and cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry, Reagan. Truly. I’ve never been mothered, and it just occurred to me that I’ve thrived on your nurturing. ” Hesitantly, she touched Reagan’s arm.
Cade stomped into the kitchen. “Forgot my water bottle.”
Reagan studied Emma for the briefest second before setting the sponge down. “Emma, will you grab Cade’s bottle? You’re nearer the fridge, and if he comes in here all filthy after we just cleaned up, I’ll kill him.”
“Sure.” She moved toward the refrigerator.
“I’ll grab the stuff so we can make cookies.”
Emma stumbled. “Cookies?” she called in a total panic.
But Reagan didn’t answer, just lifted a hand in acknowledgment and skipped down the stairs to the basement.
“What’s in the basement that’s necessary to make cookies?” Emma demanded of Cade.
He shrugged. “Chocolate chips are always in the freezer, so I’d imagine that’s what she’s after. Maybe butter since we buy in bulk and it keeps longer if it’s frozen. Why?”
She wanted to answer, but the words wouldn’t come.
“Emma?”
“Cookies,” she wheezed. “I’ve never made cookies. Hell, I can’t cook. What is she thinking?”
Cade faced her, his brow creasing. “It’s just chocolate chip cookies, Emma. Maybe Ranger cookies if she brings up the coconut, too.” Emma saw the moment he registered just how foreign to her this was, how alien his upbringing had been to hers. “Wait. Your mom never made cookies with you?”
“My mom wasn’t the mothering type, Cade.
I told you, I had nannies.” She hated, hated, the fact she couldn’t make that statement without her voice wavering.
But this whole experience, from the moment Michael had given her the file until now, had spun her in circle after circle until she was dizzy with emotion.
The line between his brows deepened. “Right, but I thought... Your nannies didn’t do stuff with you?”
“They didn’t usually last that long. I never even saw the cook make a meal.”
Cade moved in close, his movements slow and deliberate, his voice soft. “What did you eat?”
“Whatever I was told to eat.”
“You didn’t rebel if they put broccoli on your plate?”
“No!” she nearly shouted. “No.” Quieter.
“I ate what I was served, alone more often than not, and always with the right utensils. I ate in the kitchen so as not to disturb my parents’ meal, and the cook refused to eat with me.
If I complained, I was sent to bed with an empty stomach.
So, no, I don’t know how to make cookies. ” Her voice broke, surprising her.
“Oh, Emma.”
He crossed to her in three long strides and pulled her into his embrace, surrounding her with the smell of hot cotton and sunshine, and she completely fell apart.
He held her as she cried, rocking her and whispering wordlessly into her hair, his hands soothing her with tender touches while his arms offered sanctuary. Minutes later, she understood what he was whispering.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he said, over and over into the hair at the crown of her head.
Collecting herself, she stepped out of his embrace and wiped her face. “I apologize. I had no business crying on you.” And over cookies, she realized, mortified. Her mother was likely spinning in her grave so hard she was pulling three g’s.
“You had every right to cry, honey.” Cade’s tone was melted chocolate poured over honed steel, a sharp edge dividing his tone into equal parts compassion and ferocity. “Don’t ever apologize for tears shed over a wrong done you.”
“It’s so long past, Cade. Crying isn’t going to change what was any more than it will affect what is.” She went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll get you the bill of lading for the furniture delivery.”
“Furniture doesn’t arrive for another couple of days.”
“It arrived this morning, actually.” She offered a small, unsteady smile. “I got on the phone two days ago and had the company’s ass for breakfast.”
He shook his head and chuckled. “I’m learning to never underestimate you, Ms. Graystone.”
“Wise man, Mr. Covington,” she responded, forcibly settling her world on its axis once again and giving it a mental nudge to set it spinning.
He gave a single dip of his chin. “I’m at cabin eleven. Bring that bill of lading down when you’re done here.” He was halfway across the living room before he stopped and gave her his profile. “Five bucks says your cookies kick ass.” And then he was gone.
A genuine smile stole across her face.
Wouldn’t that be something?
CADE HUNG THE last shutter on the final cabin before slipping his hammer into the loop on his tool belt.
He pulled up his shirt and wiped his face, neck and chest before tossing the tee into his tool bag.
The area was well lit by new arena lights, casting long shadows even though it was way past dark.
He climbed down the ladder and stepped twenty or so feet away from the cabin to take in the completed job.
A sense of fierce satisfaction wound through him, and he wondered idly, as he dug a cookie out of the cooler, if Emma had experienced the same sense after her first—very successful—attempt at cookies.
Since he was the last one working tonight, Cade was left putting away all the tools before heading to the barn to shut out the lights.
His horse, Ziggy, nickered, demanding attention.
Glancing around a little guiltily, he went to the fridge in the tack room and grabbed a can of Coke.
Taking it to Ziggy’s stall, he opened the can and set it on the wide sill of the stall door.
The horse picked up the can and tilted his head back, spilling as much of the soft drink as he managed to get down his throat before dropping the can and tossing his head.
If a horse could express glee, Ziggy’s face was radiant with it.
The Coke was their little secret—Ziggy was a sugar addict and Cade was his supplier. Whatever. It clearly worked.