Page 25 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

Chapter Fifteen

This is not happening!

Molly spooned the last of her trifle into her mouth to deflect a scowl while she watched Brec pore over stacks of photo albums on the dining-room table. Miss Lilly giggled up a storm as he made her laugh. Be it a funny story, anecdote, or question for every picture, since the break-in, Brec had single-handedly given Miss Lilly the best two weeks she’d had in a long, long time. With deep devotion, an abundance of Irish charm, and true affection, he’d managed to put roses in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, healing her body and soul like nothing else could.

Her only living relative who’d stolen her heart as a boy.

Now a man who was stealing it all over again.

Along with mine, apparently. Jaw tight, Molly rolled the spoon in her mouth, as she pierced Brec McGill with a thin gaze.

When Miss Lilly had been in the hospital, Molly had had no problem deflecting her nephew’s charm, his reputation as a player always in the foreground of her mind to keep her on point. Yes, watching him play games of poker and fluffing his aunt’s pillow at the hospital with little-boy grins and awful jokes had lowered her defenses, certainly. But once she and Brec returned to Emerald Cottage, the walls went back up, Molly ever mindful of just how dangerous a relationship with Brec McGill could be.

But this was just too much! One of Europe’s most notorious charmers, who scored hearts as easily as he scored goals, attending to his aunt’s every need with such tenderness and devotion that Molly almost felt like an outsider. Spoiling her with a fresh batch of trifle for each of the last two weeks, often for breakfast, usually for lunch, and always after dinners that could have earned Michelin stars. Interspersed, of course, with games of poker on the deck, wheelchair walks around the lake, and hours of reminiscing through stacks of photo albums as tall as Miss Lilly herself. Molly gritted her teeth against the spoon as she ate yet more trifle, not wanting to admit how loving and attentive this player could be.

Nope, this was not going to happen!

Miss Lilly slapped the last of the photo albums closed with a satisfied sigh. “Goodness, sonny, that trip down Memory Lane has done more for this old woman’s health than all the shots and pills at that darn poke palace, I can tell you that.” She patted a veined hand against Brec’s chiseled jaw, which was now shadowed with that dark pirate scruff that always made him look as dangerous as he was. Her raspy voice rumbled with affection. “Especially that picture of Harold’s missing minnows belly up in a pot of tap water in your closet!” She shook her head. “Sweet glory, I can still see Harold’s cheeks all puffed up a-tryin’ not to bust with laughter when you fessed up to filchin’ them for pets, sayin’ it twasn’t nice to stick a hook through anyone’s eyes.” She delivered an impish look Molly’s way. “He was always such a sweet boy, you know, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

No, just a woman. A grunt popped from Molly’s mouth before she could stop it, drawing a curious glance from Brec that immediately toasted her cheeks.

“Ah-choo!” Miss Lilly barely got her napkin to her mouth in time, the sneeze so loud, both Molly and Brec jerked around to stare at her in unison with saucer eyes.

“Now, where in heaven’s name did that come from?” Molly asked, jumping up to round the table. She pressed a gentle palm to Miss Lilly’s forehead, her own brow pinched in concern. “Mmm … you’re cool, but I did notice your voice sounded a bit scratchy, young lady, so have you gone and gotten a cold on me?”

“If I did, I either got it from you before I swam with the fishes or a-dodgin’ germs at that poke prison, I can tell you that, because my throat’s a little sore.”

Brec massaged the lymph glands on either side of his jaw. “Come to think of it, so is mine, but you couldn’t have gotten it from me because I just woke up with it this morning.” He shot an accusatory look at Molly that was tinged with a touch of tease. “I’m thinking Molly’s the culprit.”

Face flaming, Molly ignored both him and his insinuation, thinking if Brec had a cold, he had it coming after kissing her in her sleep. “So, do you have any other symptoms, Miss Lilly? Body aches, headache, congestion, runny nose?”

“Yeah, how do you feel?” Brec asked, rising to flank his aunt’s other side as he bent to rub her back.

“Oh, shoo!” The old woman waved them away with a hoarse chuckle. “I didn’t leave one poke prison to come to another. I feel just fine and dandy. A little tired, maybe, but otherwise fine as frog hair ‘cept with you two buzzing around like flies at a picnic.”

Glancing at her watch, Molly hurried over to the stove. “It’s after nine, Miss Lilly, so how ’bout I make you some Sleepytime tea?”

“I have a better idea.” Brec bent to press a kiss to Miss Lilly’s head, a fuzzy white cloud of babylike hair whose bobby-pin donut curls were long gone after a busy and humid day. He strolled over to snatch the kettle Molly had just filled, plopped it on the stove and turned it on. “In Aunt Lilly vernacular, shoo, Goldilocks, because I’m going to make my aunt my famous hot toddy—chamomile, lemon, ginger, and a secret ingredient—guaranteed to help her sleep like a baby and nip any cold in the bud.”

“Ah-choo!” Miss Lilly unleashed another rattling sneeze before she blew her nose, looking as fatigued as she had the first night home despite an afternoon nap. “Good, because I ain’t about to take any more of that voo-doo medicine the Doc prescribed, so a hot toddy sounds just fine by me.”

“Wait a minute—what’s the secret ingredient?” Molly asked, challenging him with a firm cross of arms.

“You mean besides my charm?” Aiming her toward the table, he massaged the back of her neck with playful tweaks as he led her back to her chair, his fingers doing funny things to her stomach. “It’s a secret, Nurse Stewart, but I’ll make you one, too, if you want.”

“No thanks.” Molly ducked away to reclaim her seat. “Not sure my trust factor is high enough after all the sherry you put in the trifle, Soccer Boy.”

“After?” He retrieved a lemon from the fridge, his knowing chuckle fluttering her stomach. “Don’t you mean ‘before’?”

Dismissing him with a swish of her ponytail, she sat down, trying to ignore the burn in her cheeks while she zeroed in on his aunt. For the last two weeks since the break-in, Molly had tempered her investigative instincts because she figured poor Miss Lilly had been through enough questions from Sloan, so she’d laid low. But the question had niggled as to why Uncle Hal’s office was the only room that was completely ransacked and nearly destroyed, and Molly wanted to know why. “So, Miss Lilly,” she said casually, slowly twirling her empty trifle bowl on the table, “I’ve been wondering something for a while. Did anybody else know about Uncle Hal’s coin collection and the fact he kept it in his office?”

“Humph. Just every single boy he ever gave doubloons to,” she said with a faint smile, “which is why Harold built the credenza with a secret compartment to keep his good coins in, then bought imitation doubloons to keep in the drawer for the boys.”

Molly paused with a squint. “But we didn’t find any imitation doubloons in the desk drawer, so do you think someone took them?”

“Oh, heavens no!” Miss Lilly poo-pooed that possibility with a wave of her hand as the teapot began to whistle. “I gave all those phony coins away over the years”—she shot a smirk over her shoulder to where Brec was steeping her tea and adding his ingredients—“including one to Li’l Pelé as I recall, but only God knows where that is now.”

A little-boy grin flickered across Brec’s face as he carried a steaming mug to the table, setting it before his aunt while a delicious aroma floated into the air. “Well, only God and me,” he said as he fished his wallet out of his jeans pocket to dig something out. He tossed a purple Mardi Gras doubloon in the air with a lazy grin that caused an unwelcome dip in Molly’s stomach.

“You kept it?” Miss Lilly said, shock lifting her voice several octaves.

“Oh, you bet,” Brec said as he joined them at the table with his own steaming brew. “Why, it’s been my good-luck charm over the years.” He slid Molly a shuttered wink. “And still is, apparently.”

Molly rolled her eyes, determined that no bad-boy sports celebrity would make any inroads with her. Yeah, right. Her lips pursed. That’s why that same playboy now starred in her dreams instead of Tyler. She shivered.

Correction: nightmares.

“Seconds on English trifle anybody? We need to finish it up so the temptation is gone.” Molly shot up from her chair, anxious to steer clear of any further complications with a rogue Irishman.

Said “rogue Irishman” suddenly rose so quickly, his chair rattled against Miss Lilly’s wooden plank floor. “Sit,” he ordered with a clamp of her shoulders, causing the stupid flips in her stomach to do flips. “It’s Irish trifle, Yank, and I suggest you neither trifle with it nor the Irishman who made it. I’ll get it.” He ambled over to the fridge, but not before he shot a lazy grin her way. “After all, since I made it, it’s only fair that I get to serve up the ‘temptation,’ eh?”

“Fine,” Molly said with a wobbly step back, heat roasting her cheeks with temptation that had nothing to do with trifle. “I assure you, Mr. McGill, that I have no intentions whatsoever of trifling with you or your trifle, so you’re safe from me.”

His laughter followed her all the way into the bathroom, where she promptly closed the door to splash her face with cool water, more than a little riled by the effect he obviously had on her. Oh, you bet he was “safe” from her! She scowled in the mirror as she patted her face.

But the question remained.

Was she safe from him?