Page 50 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

He almost laughed out loud at the relief that flooded her face when she sagged back, a near soundless exhale relaxing her shoulders. “Aye,” she said with a shaky grin, sounding so darn cute, he was tempted to fling the cobbler away and go for something much, much sweeter and far more tempting.

“Here.” He plopped a helping on a fresh paper plate and handed it to her. “Dig in because God knows we need something to chase the sour taste of that last conversation.”

“Actually,” she said, teeth tugging her lip in a manner that commanded his attention, riveting his gaze to her mouth instead of her face. “I was hoping we could pray about the situation first if you don’t mind.”

He blinked, cobbler halfway to his mouth. “Come again?”

Poking at hers with her fork, she gave a little shrug as she peeked up beneath thick lashes that framed a hesitant hope. “You know, pray about your unforgiveness toward your father so you can finally get some closure?”

Brec could only stare, mouth gaping. “He’s dead, Molly,” he emphasized with a duck of his head. “How much more closure can you get than that?”

He knew he was in trouble when she chewed on the edge of her smile with a look so tender, he couldn’t turn away. “A lot, actually, Brec—closure of the heart and soul, where light replaces dark, and peace replaces pain.”

A silent groan rose in his chest. Mouth pinched, he stabbed at his cobbler, wishing he’d just ticked her off with a kiss, so he could have avoided all of this. He shoveled a huge bite in and chewed hard, gaze thin as he stared straight ahead.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” she asked softly, gently fondling his arm. “I know Miss Lilly and I would because we care about you deeply. So if you won’t do it for yourself, will you do it for us? Because we both ache inside that you’ve been so very hurt.”

Join the club. He buried a grunt and kept eating. Maybe if he didn’t say anything, she’d let it go ...

Her grip on his arm tightened, dousing his hope. “Will you, Brec? Will you do it for us? Please?”

His eyelids lumbered closed the same time his fork lowered to his plate. “I don’t know how,” he whispered, thinking if he did, he would have done it long before now.

Her voice was quiet yet strong, gentle yet powerful. “You need to forgive your father, Brec, and your mother, too, if you blame her for ending her life like she did. Because unforgiveness will not only rob you of every joy forgiveness can bring, but also many blessings God has in store for your future.”

Head bent, he put a hand to his eyes. “You don’t understand, Princess”—he swallowed the pride in his throat—“I. Don’t. Know. How.”

“Well, lucky for you, I do, Soccer Boy. It’s called prayer.”

Hand still shielding his eyes, he shook his head with a smile, thinking Molly Lorraine Stewart might just be the death of him yet.

At least the old Breccan McGill.

Which, come to think of it—his mouth hooked left—just might be a good thing. “Sorry, Beauty, but I don’t know how to do that either.”

“Goodness, then you are one lucky boy, Breccan McGill, because I just happen to be a pro.” He jolted when she jerked his hand from his eyes to hold it in hers with a jut of her brow. “Ready?”

He seared her with a thin-lidded gaze, his mouth canting toward dry. “No, Goldie, but then it doesn’t look like it matters a whole bloomin’ lot, now does it?”

“Nope.” She wrinkled her nose with a sassy smile he was tempted to kiss right off. “Not even a little.”