Page 8 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

Chapter Three

Figures. Scowling, Molly first sniffed, then tasted the coffee Striker Boy just made and decided life wasn’t fair. Why on earth would a gorgeous athlete like Brec McGill not only know how to brew the best cup of coffee she’d ever tasted, but look annoyingly good while doing it? If his coffee was any indication, the man was probably as stellar in the kitchen as the tabloids claimed him to be on the field, given he’d offered to “whip up” a mean eggs Benedict in lieu of Jimmy Dean. And in the bedroom too, no doubt, Molly surmised, suddenly gagging on her coffee that such a thought would even enter her brain.

“You okay?” Brec rose to pat her on the back as she hacked like a seal with croup, grateful that at least the heat in her cheeks could be attributed to her coughing fit.

“Fine,” she managed to choke out, not at all comfortable with warm and firm palms slowly massaging her back.

“You’re not allergic to cinnamon, are you?” he asked, backing off when Molly waved him away. The concern in his voice made her ashamed at how she’d pigeonholed Miss Lilly’s nephew as a shallow player without feelings.

“No, of course not.” Her attempt at a sunny smile was probably as poor as her coffee while she wiped her mouth with the paper napkin. “I just took too big of a gulp, that’s all. It’s good!” she said in an overly perky tone, willing to concede that she needed to give Miss Lilly’s nephew a break and not ostracize the poor guy for being good-looking. And famous. And athletic. And probably rich. Even if he was a player.

Determined to give him a fair shake, she offered a genuine smile with a tease of a pout. “But I have to know—how can your coffee and my coffee brewed in the same pot be so different?”

Her extra effort showed on his face, which broke into a delighted grin. “Why, thank you, Miss Goldie. I suppose I do have a few tricks up my sleeve when it comes to making a great cup of Joe.”

Among other things, the thought came, and Molly mentally berated herself for being so judgmental.

“You have to start with cold water,” he continued as he lounged back in his chair, mug casually in hand while he propped a leg over his knee, “preferably filtered, which Aunt Lilly does not have, of course, then two tablespoons of ground coffee for every 6 ounces of water.”

“I do that,” Molly said with a tinge of defensiveness.

Brec held up a finger. “Ah, yes, but do you rinse your filter?”

“What?” Molly blinked.

“Your filter,” he repeated, head tipped as he studied her with a smile. “Rinsing it in hot water first removes paper odors, taste, and dust that can affect the quality of your coffee, plus it warms up your vessel. After I put my grounds in, I always add a quarter teaspoon of kosher salt per six tablespoons of coffee.”

“What?” Molly gaped, mouth dangling.

Who is this guy?

“Yes,” he said with a firm nod, “not only does salt cut the bitterness of coffee, but it also smooths out the stale taste of water stored in the tank.”

Molly could only stare. Who are you?

“The final step is to sprinkle cinnamon or cocoa on the grounds, or any other spice you prefer such as nutmeg, lavender, peppermint, or cardamom. Even extracts like vanilla or coconut.” A twinkle lit in his eyes as he took a slow sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. “Of course if you’re the daring type like myself, you can always go wild with whiskey or rum.”

Whoops. There he is. Molly shook her head with a smile. The player. She held up her mug in a toast, offering a broad grin as a truce. “Well, Beck—then all I have to say is that this is one heck of a fine cup of coffee.”

Surprise briefly flashed in his eyes before he lifted his own mug with a grin. “Why, thank you, Goldie.” He reached to clink his mug to hers before he settled back in his chair. “And the beginning of one ‘heck’ of a fine friendship, I hope as well.” Sobriety stole over his features as the grin disappeared from his face. “Now. Suppose you tell me everything you know about what happened to Aunt Lilly and please, start at the beginning.”

So she did. Every single moment beginning with the night Chase had taken her aside after one of the church’s bi-monthly volleyball games to ask her to move in with Miss Lilly. All the way up to last night when Strike-out Man had taken advantage of Molly in her sleep. From Miss Lilly’s first sprained ankle while sleepwalking, to the second one on the steps a month or so later, to the night Molly had pulled the dear woman from the lake unconscious, landing her in a coma for several days.

“When did she wake up from the coma?” Brec asked quietly, his tone as pained as his look over all that his aunt had been through.

“Two days ago, and although she’s still pretty fuzzy and weak, the doctor said she’s holding her own.” She rose with her cup and reached to take his, offering a comforting pat to his shoulder. “More coffee?”

He shook his head as he plowed shaky fingers through his hair. “No. I’m about ready to jump out of my skin as it is, with all you’ve told me.” He looked up, the worry in his eyes more than real. “Any other complications?”

Molly emptied both mugs in the sink and proceeded to wash and dry them while she cast a sympathetic glance his way. “Yes, a urinary tract infection, as a matter of fact, which isn’t surprising since I pulled her out of the lake and certainly accounts for the fuzziness.”

“Fuzziness?” He squinted at her.

Molly gave a slight lift of her shoulders as she put the mugs away. “Sudden confusion or delirium that can result from a UTI in older people.”

“What kind of delirium?” he asked, corded arms crossed on the table. “Like she doesn’t know who you are?”

Folding the towel neatly on the counter, Molly returned to her seat with a twitch of a smile. “No, she knows me and everyone else, and the nurses can certainly attest to her feistiness, which is a good sign. But apparently she’s convinced someone is trying to kill her.”

“What?” Brec sat straight up, those remarkable blue eyes spanned wide.

Molly held up a hand, trying to reassure him with a gentle smile. “The doctor thinks that’s the delirium talking and so do I. Even if it’s not, Miss Lilly clearly sleepwalks, Brec, although she’ll swear up and down that wasn’t the case with either her trip on the stairs or ending up in the lake. But you know how stubborn she is.”

The seed of a smile squirmed at the edges of his lips. “Yes, I know how stubborn she is.” Glancing at his watch, he let loose with a heavy sigh while he stood and pushed in his chair. “I want to see her,” he whispered, “now, visiting hours or no.”

“And she wants to see you, too, which is why she gave strict instructions to contact you if anything ever happened to her, Brec.” She followed suit and pushed in her chair while a grin tugged at her mouth. “Or maybe I should call you what I heard her call you once—her ‘Little Pelé,’” she teased, referencing the most successful and popular soccer star of the twentieth century.

She blinked when a ruddy flush crept up his face while he cuffed the back of his neck, his faint smile almost that of a little boy as he veered into a faraway stare. “She always did believe the best in me,” he said quietly, “encouraging me when no one else ever did, God bless her.”

“Well, it certainly seems like He has, then.” Molly grabbed her purse off the counter and dug out her keys before she headed for the front door, tossing a wink his way. “By bringing her favorite prodigal nephew home when she needs him the most.”

“Her only nephew, lass, or living relative for that matter,” he said in a dry tone while he made his way to the stairs, lobbing a crooked smile over his shoulder, “but I’ll take it. Let me grab my shoes and wallet, and I’ll be right down.”

“Well, make it snappy,” she said as she opened the front door with a chuckle, “because God knows the woman has already waited long enough.”