Dutton
Chapter
Seven
I've done some pretty dumb stuff in my life. But right now, standing outside of Brooke’s house, I think I've hit the dumbest of all. I take a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other, taking in the way her yard is the perfect shade of green, perfectly mowed with lines, and every flowerpot around her front door is in full bloom in various colors. She’s got the layered welcome mats you see on home shows, and everything on the front step is set up as if it were picture-ready.
Actually, it’s all a little too perfect.
Shouldn’t some of this be dying by now?
I pause, bend over, and touch one of the pedals. Nope, not fake. I guess she really doesn't fake anything. I was kind of hoping I was going to find a flaw here, but Brooke just seems to be on top of everything.
Except, it seems, when it comes to her finances.
Of course I want to know more, but pushing her to answer my questions will only encourage her to push back for mine.
I just need to trust that giving her money is going to give me what I want in the end, too.
I knock on the door three times, and when she doesn't answer, I let myself in. If we're going to be friends, I may as well make myself comfortable.
She comes jogging down the stairs and slips when her sock-covered feet meet her laminate flooring, catching herself on the railing.
“Oh, I didn't realize you were just going to walk right in.”
I pause just inside the doorway. “That's what friends do, right?”
Her gaze narrows as she studies me, slowly taking me in from head to toe. Her expression is neutral, so I can’t read what she’s thinking. Which is probably a good thing.
If she could read my mind, she'd know that this right here, standing in her entryway with her, has me on edge in a way I’ve never felt before.
I close the door, shrug off my jacket, hang it on one of the hooks by the door as if I’ve done it a hundred times, and then lead myself into her living room and take a seat.
“Now what?” I ask as she continues to study my every move.
“Well, I made a list,” she says, wearing another one of those spandex shorts and sports bra combos, only this time it’s navy blue and she’s wearing a cream oversized sweater with it.
I pull my eyes from her midsection and say, “Perfect. Another list. Why am I not surprised?”
“Well, a fun fact about me is that I love lists. And as long as we stick to them, things always go according to plan.”
“Minus the fact that you can't expand the bakery without my help. Seems you strayed from the list on that one.”
Her body stiffens for the briefest of moments before returning to her natural composure.
“I'm sorry,” she says as she crosses her arms. “Do you want to do this so that you can get what you want out of this deal as well? Or should I just open the door and you can let yourself out to go find a new solution to your problem?”
I always knew Brooke had some sass, but there's something about being alone in her house that makes it turn me on even more.
I nod and keep my mouth shut. Seems like the right move for that comment.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asks, moving closer. From my spot, I can see that the open living room leads right to the entryway, to the stairs, and then there's a small nook in the middle of the room, giving you the option to go on either side to reach the kitchen.
Damn. Everything from the frames on the wall to the plants in the corner by the window to the way she has her books placed by size and color on her giant bookshelf screams perfection in here, too.
“I'm good, thanks.”
“Okay, well, I'm going to make myself a quick drink, and I'll be right back. Do you have your list ready?”
“I wasn't aware we were making a list.”
She stares at me with a blank expression, and I hate that it makes me want to smile. It’s not often that I can leave this woman speechless.
“Okay, well, there's a notepad right there in front of you. Why don't you get started?”
And then she disappears into the kitchen.
I glance at the notebook and pen and then lean back, taking in the arrangement of pictures of her and her dad and sister on every wall.
Her mom's not in any of them. Again, that doesn't surprise me.
When we were in high school, people talked about her mom a lot.
Most of the time it was never in a positive light either.
I imagine it was tough on her as a teenager.
The stares, the whispers. That feeling of wondering if people will compare you to them.
I have that, and I only caught Henry doing bad things.
I don't think anyone else knows about it besides him, my mother, and me.
I can't imagine what life would be like if I had the entire town talking about one of my parents.
Which brings me back to why I'm here. As long as I'm in charge of the lodge, I can make sure gossip like this never reaches my siblings or this town or hell, the country.
When Brooke comes back into the living room, she has the option of sitting in either of the recliners or on the couch next to me. Shocker, she plops down next to me, tucks her legs crisscross right under her, resting one of her knees on top of my thigh.
“That's literally the only spot you could have picked?”
“Hey, we're friends now, okay? Friends sit close to each other. You have to get used to it.”
I let out a sigh of annoyance. I still don’t see how us being inside her house is going to be useful for my side of the deal.
“Don't you think you're taking this a little too far?”
“No, it has to be believable, and for me, I’m comfortable with my friends. Meaning, I need to be comfortable with you.”
“How are you not comfortable with me as it is? You’re not afraid to tell me off or kick me out of your bakery or even ask me for money. I’d say you’re pretty fucking comfortable around me, Brooke.”
She grins, looking at her checklist, but doesn’t say a word.
“Why don’t you just tell me like five or six little details about yourself that everyone else in the town knows that I don't know yet and we call it a night?” I suggest.
“Um, that's not going to work. We need to be actual friends. I told you, I'm not faking it.”
“Come on, Brooke. Do you think the two of us can actually be friends?”
“Oh, funny that you say that, because I also don't think this is possible. We finally have something in common.”
Her phone pings, but she ignores it.
“Lacing your voice with sarcasm isn’t going to get me to do what you want, Brooke."
She forces a smile.
“Telling me that this is only going to go your way isn’t going to get me to do what you want, Dutton.”
Her gaze never strays from mine. I press my lips together and let out a growl of frustration.
Great, a staring contest.
Her phone pings another time, but she doesn’t move.
Then it goes off again.
And again.
And again.
“Am I keeping you from something?” I nod toward her phone, still not breaking eye contact.
“Nope.” She smiles, winks, and then grabs her phone, taps on the screen quickly, and places it face down back on the table.
A sure sign that she's hiding something.
To be fair, seeing as how we are just now becoming friends, she doesn't have to tell me everything.
But she seems to have this whole philosophy that we have to hang out and get to know each other if we're going to be friends.
So, friends shouldn't keep secrets, right?
“What's on your phone?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You can tell me.”
“I don't have to tell you everything,” she says. It almost sounds like a singsong.
“Well, good friends don't keep secrets.”
She stops writing whatever she’s adding to her checklist. She glances up at me, and her gaze narrows the way it always does when she looks at me.
I smirk.
I've got her. Now she has to tell me. Not that I really want to know that badly. But the fact that she's trying to get out of it does actually make me want to know more.
“If you must know, it is notifications from an app.”
“What app?”
“A social app.”
“Like your Instagram or Facebook? Do you have a huge following that I'm unaware of?”
“Do you follow me on Instagram or Facebook?”
“No.”
“Okay, then sure.”
“So, it is a social media app.”
She groans loudly and flops back on the couch, letting her notebook drop to her lap.
“No, okay, it's not a social media app, but quit asking questions. These are things you don't need to know.”
“I don't know. Friends sure seem to know a lot about each other.”
I swear, if looks could kill, I'd be dead on this couch in a heartbeat.
“It's a dating app.”
Normally, I would chuckle, but something about this is unsettling.
I've heard and read too many horror stories about women on dating apps.
Add in the number of documentaries on TV these days and dating apps should be banned, or require intense background checks.
Not to mention that I caught her crying the other day.
Seems like a friend would be concerned and ask more.
“Why are you on a dating app? To date? Have you ever been in a relationship?”
“Oh my gosh, you're just going to jump right in with questions about relationships, are you?”
If Brooke was dating anyone, this town would know about it. Which means she’s kept whatever she’s up to on the down-low, and that’s sketchy as fuck.
I’m not a fan of secrets, as anyone who actually knows me would know, but also, what if she dates someone and no one knows about it and she disappears?
“Well, we are supposed to be getting to know each other, and apparently, we're doing it by a fucking checklist instead of actually going out and interacting in the everyday world. Which I feel would be the best and surest way to get to know one another. And it would let the town see us together—you know, for my sake.”
“Oh, so you think we should just jump right out in public together.
What are we going to tell them, huh? What is your excuse when people ask, oh, what are you two doing together?
Are you going to make up some crazy lie, or are you just going to be like, we're hanging out and make it sound believable?”