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“We’ll just have to agree to disagree, I guess. But thanks for letting me know.”
Sloane’s smile returned, albeit at half the wattage of before. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. After the novelty wore off, she muttered something about looking like a clown and then she wiped it off.”
“Oh. Good, then.” His words were like over-starched shirts, stiff to the point of breaking.
God, when had he gotten so old?
The urge to talk about it, to air his frustrations with someone who might get it—hell, someone who’d just listen—pushed its way to the surface.
“Sloane?”
She froze, one arm encased in the red wool of her pea coat, the other one halfway in the sleeve. “Yes?”
For a split second, he wanted her to stay. She seemed to have some insight on Bree, and the simple snippets of conversation they’d shared both yesterday morning and again tonight had strummed up a long-forgotten feeling of ease in his chest. Gavin opened his mouth to ask her if she wanted to stay, maybe have a glass of wine, when his conversation with Adrian punched through his memory with startling clarity.
That woman is going places even in her sleep.
Who was he kidding? She wasn’t going to stick around, and after Mrs. Teasdale returned, he wasn’t going to see Sloane again. There wouldn’t be any more conversations, and anyway, airing out his personal life would only stir up trouble. He’d have to figure this out on his own.
Gavin served up a cool, professional smile, one that he knew from experience didn’t reach his eyes. Walking her to the door, he said, “See you on Tuesday. Have a good night.”
8
Gavin spared a glance at the clock, as if the numbers would change simply because he’d willed them backward.
Nope. Six A.M. pretty much sucked no matter how you sliced it. And when it followed a restless night’s sleep spent trying to get rid of a gut full of unease, getting out of bed on his day off was just that much tougher.
He padded across the cold floorboards to place a hand on Bree’s door, only to find it open and her room vacant. A faint glow edged out from the bathroom doorframe, and the steady hum of running water confirmed the fact that Bree was already up and getting ready on her own. Damn, he simultaneously loved and felt sick at how well she could take care of herself, like it had snuck up on him and transformed her from a kid in a car seat to a capable young adult overnight.
Then again, considering some of the choices she’d made in Philadelphia, plus failing English here in Pine Mountain,capablewas a bit relative. The whole makeup escapade with Sloane yesterday was really just the cream in the cannoli, hammering home the fact that he couldn’t leave her alone. No matter how much she hated him for it.
Gavin swept a hand over his sleep-mussed hair and headed for the kitchen, putting just enough water on to boil before beelining for the bag of coffee beans behind the sleek, white cabinet doors. The stainless steel coffee grinder released a chorus of soft clicks as he poured the beans into its belly, and the familiar, calming sound polished the rough edges off his nerves.
The rhythm of being in the kitchen, of filling the French press with precise tablespoons of fresh grounds, the earthy, complex aroma of the hot water meeting the coarse coffee grounds as he poured it into the pot—all of it unfolded over fresh calm. By the time Bree trundled into the kitchen wearing a pair of faded jeans and a scowl that looked more sleepy than surly, Gavin had assembled half a dozen ingredients on the rolling butcher block island. The comfort of feeling the food beneath his hands fled at the sight of Bree’s frown.
“You don’t have to get up early just to make sure I get on the bus, you know.” The intensity of her expression slipped a notch as her eyes rested on the carton of eggs lying open on the smooth wooden square of the butcher block, but she didn’t move from the doorframe.
Ah, right. Their favorite morning argument. Only today, something told him not to bite. “I’m making omelets. You want one?”
“No.” The word crossed Bree’s lips at the same moment her stomach growled, and she surrendered a heavy sigh. “Okay, maybe.”
Gavin bit back his urge to smile in case she caught it and decided to bolt after all. “French okay with you?” He slipped a knife, thin and gleaming, from a slot in the side of the island, and the smell of fresh-chopped parsley met him like an old friend at the door.
“Whatev—I guess.” Bree corrected herself with a shrug, and although the noticeable hitch made his curiosity uncoil, Gavin didn’t pursue it.
“Anyway, I don’t get up early just to make sure you get on the bus.” He meant the words as a peace offering, but her disdainful eye roll negated his good intentions.
“I’m not going to do anything stupid with you right down the hall. Plus, you’d wake up if I did.” Bree kept her focus firmly on the butcher block, her frown locked into place.
Gavin’s irritation spurted. “I said that’s not why I get up early.” He looked down, only to see that his hands had stopped moving and his knuckles were as blanched as raw almonds. Shit. This was so not the early morning chat he’d envisioned. Time for a redirect.
“Anyway. How was your weekend with Sloane?” he asked, pulling the thin leaves from a sprig of tarragon a lot more smoothly than he’d changed the subject.
“Fine, I guess. She’s kind of weird.”
The sound of Sloane’s quirky, full-bodied laugh ribboned through his memory, and the potshot it took at his gut made him glad he’d put the knife down. Talk about ruining a guy’s concentration.
“Weird how?” Gavin knocked two eggs together in his palm, splitting them into a shallow dish one right after the other before repeating the process with the four remaining eggs.
