AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Bree nodded, gesturing to Sloane’s borrowed sleepwear. “You stayed.”
“Oh.” Sloane glanced down at the pajamas. It was painfully obvious from the baggy fit and masculine plaid that they were Gavin’s, but she didn’t bat an eye. “Yeah. I was worried about you, and then your brother, ah, asked me to stay. So, I did.”
While the conversation had a dangerous amount of awkward potential, being straight with Bree just made sense. After all, Gavin wasn’t the only person Sloane was staying here for, and dancing around the situation didn’t seem fair. Bree deserved to know the truth.
Sloane wanted to be part of their lives, plain and simple.
“Cool.” A smile twitched at the corners of Bree’s mouth, making a liar out of her indifferent shrug. “So, do you want breakfast? I don’t know how to make doughnuts like Gavin, but I could make bacon and eggs or something.” Her eyes lit up with a tawny flicker. “I could even teach you how to make them if you want.”
Sloane thought of her laptop sitting on the kitchen table, and she hesitated. She didn’t want to wait another minute to write that e-mail now that she’d decided to take the plunge, but it wasn’t something she could just rattle off and send. “Well, breakfast sounds great, but…”
Bree’s expression faltered. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I just thought the cooking part might be kind of fun. Sometimes we do it, you know. As a family.”
The true implication of what Bree wanted knocked into Sloane with all the force of a palpable shove. How could she not have remembered how much the idea of making doughnuts with Bree had meant to Gavin? Or how reverently he’d left her that omelet the first time she’d stayed over, wrapped up nice and neat in the fridge?
For Gavin, food was an expression of caring, and whether or not he realized it, he’d passed it on to Bree.
“In that case, you’re on. But I’m telling you now, the best thing I know how to make is reservations.”
* * *
Sloane frownedat the sheer volume of food items and kitchen-type gadgets covering the butcher block island. Simplicity, it seemed, was not the theme of the day.
“Are you sure we need all this? It’s just bacon and eggs.” She picked up a stainless steel whisk, surprised at its lightness in her hand despite the heavy-looking handle.
Bree shot a grin over her shoulder from her station in front of the fridge. “This is nothing. You should see Gavin make his home fries casserole.”
Sloane’s stomach spoke up with a growl. “That sounds good.”
“It is. But you don’t want to be on cleanup duty afterward. It takes forever to wash all the stuff he uses.” She joined Sloane at the butcher block, plopping a half-gallon of milk on the careworn surface. “Okay. So, the first thing you do is get the egg mixture ready.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.” Sloane popped the top of the cardboard carton and passed an egg to Bree. She cracked it easily against the butcher block and emptied the contents into the bowl one-handed.
“Now you try.”
Okay, this was going to be a piece of cake. Sloane took an egg between her fingers and mimicked Bree’s movements. Right up until the egg exploded all over the countertop.
“Shit,” Sloane muttered, her head springing up at the sound of Bree’s giggle. “I mean, uh, darn.” She looked down at the mess and winced.
“It’s okay,” Bree laughed. “We can just clean it up.” She passed over the paper towels, and Sloane wondered if Bree had them so handy out of luck or because she’d suspected they’d need them.
Sloane wiped the mess from the counter to the trash can. “So, I take it there’s a trick to that.”
Bree nodded, and showed her. “You learn it by feel. And by crushing a bunch of eggs in practice.”
By the time they got to the sixth egg, Sloane got the hang of it. “You’re pretty good at this, you know.” She watched Bree add some milk and start whisking.
“We used to cook a lot, even when I was little.”
Sloane clamped down on her ironic chuckle, not wanting to discourage Bree from talking. “Ah. Well, no wonder you’re so good then.” She paused, letting the metal on metal rhythm of the whisk against the bowl thread between them. A thought that had taken root as Sloane sat curled in the chair by Bree’s bedside worked back through her brain, and she gave it voice.
“I’ve been thinking about something you said last night. I’d like to talk to you about it a little, if that’s okay.”
Bree’s hand stilled over the bowl. “About my nightmare, you mean?”
“Yes.” Sloane took the bowl from Bree’s hands, her own attempts at whisking horribly clumsy in comparison. “Have you ever talked to Gavin about it? Like right after, when it’s scariest?”
“No.” Bree’s forehead creased with lines way too worried for her thirteen-year-old face.
