Dutton
Chapter
Fifteen
“I can’t believe your fancy plan was to come to my house,” Brooke says as I pop the cork on the second bottle of wine.
We drank the first over her telling me about her day and how Mrs. Buckley came in with the flowers and Brooke ended up coming to see me to celebrate.
Somehow, she decided the first bottle of wine was the celebration for me taking someone off the list, and then she found some desserts and repeatedly told me how proud she was of me.
Is it weird that I basically sipped two glasses of wine and just let the sound of her voice soak into my skin, relieving all the bullshit of my day?
Brooke does that to me.
No one has ever done that to me.
My father had been on my ass about pointless shit since the moment I got to work. Gavin was pissed, because if the AC wasn’t broken, it was the heater, and he’s convinced someone is doing this shit on purpose.
I’m starting to agree with him.
Add in the fact that my mom stopped by looking for my dad to go to lunch but couldn’t find him … I just needed something to take it all away.
Then I saw the book Brooke and I are reading, which then led me to think of her, and slowly, my day improved.
Then she showed up and it was like I could breathe again.
Maybe that’s what happened yesterday at the festival. Maybe I subconsciously put it all together and now I don’t know what it means.
I watch her rosy lips move, and with every word of her story, I can't help but wonder how they’d feel against mine or what they’d taste like. Would they taste like sugar, or would they taste like wine?
Probably wine.
The culprit for these thoughts.
And yet, after only a few weeks, I can tell you right now, going back to a life without Brooke in it isn’t an option for me.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” she asks.
I sigh.
I won’t lie to her, but I sure as shit won’t tell her what I was really thinking either. To say my thoughts of the woman standing before me are complicated is an understatement.
“No.”
She nods. “All right. Then let’s change the subject. Do you want to see the website I’m building for the online store I want for the bakery?”
Just like that. She’s not mad at me for not listening. I gave her an honest answer, and she just … accepted it.
That right there is what has me so … so … I don’t even know.
“Yes,” I say. She has my full attention now. “I didn’t know you were building a website.”
There is no missing the amazement in my voice.
“Well,” Brooke says, and I swear her cheeks turn a new shade of pink. “There was always a website, but it really just had a static page with the phone number, address, and hours. I added to it.”
She grabs her computer and sits on the floor in front of the couch, stretching her legs out in front of her, the laptop resting on her thighs.
Her bare thighs, might I add, because she’s wearing another one of those spandex shorts sets. She changed into it the moment we walked through the door.
I’m still in my slacks and shirt, although after the last glass of wine, I removed the button-down and left myself in one of my crew necks.
I debate whether to sit on the couch behind her where I can still see, but this feels like a sit-on-the-floor-with-her moment.
So I do.
Our shoulders bump, and it’s clear I might have sat a little too close, but if she noticed, she doesn’t show it.
She simply turns the screen to me.
An “about the” bakery page is staring back at me, and the picture at the top is one of Brooke, Sadie, and Sadie’s mother.
“The history of B’s Bakery,” I read out loud and grin. “How old were you in this photo?”
“Ten, I think. Same for Sadie.”
I read over the first paragraph of the page and then lean back.
“Does Sadie know you’re doing this?”
Brooke nods and turns the computer back to her.
“A few years ago, when the whole thing with Sadie’s memory went down and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep running the bakery, I brought up the idea of expanding the website and including a store with it.
We could sell little baking kits for people to make treats at home, and it could simplify the way people order.
Calling is fine, but there is an entire audience out there who doesn’t enjoy talking on the phone. This would reach them.”
Wow. She has dreams for the bakery, and by the smile on her face, she loves what she does.
My dream is that I don’t want my siblings to suffer for the choices Henry made. Do I love the lodge? Sure. Do I have the kind of grin on my face when I talk about it the way she talks about the bakery? Not even a fraction.
“What did Sadie say?” I ask.
“Not much, and then a short while later she asked if I wanted to buy it. I couldn't at the time, since I'd just bought my house, but in every sense of the matter, I became the owner. She knows I want to buy her out completely someday, but …”
“Then someone stole your identity and messed that up.”
“Yeah,” she agrees with a breathy laugh. “It was my mom.”
Shit.
If anyone knows a thing or two about shitty parents, it’s me.
“And then I just so happened to show up at your door,” I say to keep the conversation lighter, but now I finally know why she was crying that day.
“Mm-hmm, and I was desperate enough to take you up on your offer.”
Then her face drops into her hands and she groans. “I still can’t believe I went in there asking for money. I never do that. I never have that kind of courage.”
Before I have a chance to respond, her computer dings and a notification pops up in the corner. It takes me less than a second to see who it is.
Even if I hadn’t, the way Brooke’s body stiffens next to mine is a dead giveaway.
“You’re joking, right?” I ask and grab her computer.
She doesn't even try to fight me. I open the message to a shirtless photo of the guy who just can’t seem to take a hint. Immediately, my eyes scan up to see all the times he’s messaged her.
One chance, please.
I’ll make it worth it.
You could regret this.
Oh, you're going to be that bitch are you?
I scroll through at least fifteen messages, all unanswered by Brooke.
Slowly, I turn to look at her and the expression on her face is completely blank, as if she’s checked out.
“Brooke,” I say softly as I move the computer and shift my body to face her completely. “Talk to me.”
“I …”
Her bottom lip starts to shake when she can’t form words.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I’m blocking him for you.”
I grab her computer and block him, then close the laptop and place it back on the table.
With a finger under her chin, I gently press until she lifts her head and her eyes latch onto mine.
“If he contacts you again, tell me. I can’t keep you safe if you don't tell me what's going on, Books.”
She nods slightly but still doesn't say anything.
I’ve said what I needed to say and I trust that she’ll come to me if it happens again. I don’t push her to say anything because I can’t even begin to understand what she’s feeling, but I can redirect the conversation back to before the message popped up.
“You’re not going to make me go broke when I have to give you all my money, are you?”
She lets out a choked laugh and then grabs her wineglass, quickly finishing her brand-new pour.
“I don’t think wine is for chugging.”
She pats her chest and nods.
“Definitely not, but the moment called for it.”
“Why? Because you want all my money?” I say, poking her side playfully.
“Because even as I said it that day in your office, the urge to tell you that I can’t take your money was there. I mean, we’re friends now. Real friends. Taking money from you feels so wrong.”
Her eyes glaze over as if on the verge of tears.
Whatever is going through her mind is taking a toll on her, and I hate the fact that I have anything to do with it and that I can’t control the rest of it.
I put my hand on hers. “We made that deal before we knew what was going to come of it, Books, and even if you tried to tell me that you wouldn't take my money, I’d still find a way. I made a deal, and I never break those.”
“But it’s a lot of money, Dutton.”
I rest my forehead against hers.
“And every penny is worth it.”
“Really?”
“Yes, what you’ve built and plan to do is impressive as fuck, Books. I’m proud as hell to call you my friend.”
For the first time since this started, calling her my friend feels wrong in every sense.
She jerks back, and her entire face lights up.
“You’re proud of me?”
“Fuck yeah, I’d be a fool not to be.”
“Oh,” she says and then breaks into tears.
Shit. What did I say?
I scoot closer, as if it’s even possible, and wrap an arm around her, pulling her close.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I tell her, reaching for her chin to turn her gaze to meet mine.
“You didn’t,” she whispers when our eyes lock.
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because … I …” Her words trail off. I wait on bated breath for her to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t. Instead, she jumps up and moves to the kitchen, swiping any trace of the tears on her face away with her hand. “We need snacks. Lots of them.”
She doesn’t even look back as she rushes away.
Huh.
She sure likes to keep me guessing.
“All right, so you started with holiday Hallmark movie-type romance books, and now you read books where the couple like to play prey and hunter in the woods before they fuck against a tree.”
We're on the floor still, only this time her coffee table is moved back so we can stretch out our legs and fit the makeshift picnic of snacks between us. It was a smart call on her part, even if the idea was spurred because she was avoiding telling me something. That was a couple of hours ago and we’ve moved on, but I haven’t forgotten about it.
“Yep.” Brooke giggles, pouring the last of bottle number three into her wineglass. At this rate, we will be done with all four bottles far too soon for my liking.
I hold up the book I’d been reading earlier today.