But it still surprised him when he realized what was happening. All the repairs Matthew had done to the farm meant he had a well-stocked woodworking studio, and he’d asked Connor if he’d make a new sign for the entrance. It wasn’t cooking, but wasn’t that the point? Connor got to work.
He’d drawn out the style, gotten thumbs-ups from Matthew and Kristen, and gone out to the tools in the back of the shed to make a sample. Only when he passed the wood through the cutter, what came out wasn’t a sign for Branding’s Farm.
The first attempts weren’t quite right, and he had to keep checking the pictures to get the curve of the letters, the slant of the apostrophe. It meant late nights revisiting his mock-ups and early mornings out with the tools while he was supposed to be finishing the sign for Matthew, putting in the baseboards around the new barn, mending a fence that had broken in the far field.
But somehow, he couldn’t stop focusing on what he shouldn’t have been doing long enough to finish what he should.
He could tell it was going to be a hot day on the morning he mounted the cutter between the two tables of the jointer and decided he was ready to stop practicing on small samples and build the real thing. Carefully he lowered the infeed table and passed the board across the machine, flattening the face of the wood until it was smooth and the edges square and straight. When he was satisfied, he pushed the wood through the planer, checking the thickness as he went.
He’d practiced on smaller pieces until he could trace every cut in his sleep, but he still had to steady his hands as he brushed sawdust off the surface. In construction, you could take as much time as you needed to measure and mark. But when it came time to cut, you got one shot—and there were a lot more chances to mess it up than get it right.
Funny how that felt exactly like his life.
He looked up in time to see Matthew walking down from the house, carrying a large thermos and two mugs. Connor had slipped out there early, getting a head start before breakfast, and while he was grateful for the coffee, he’d been hoping to have more time on his own. Hastily he powered off the tools and slid the smooth, finished wood under a pile of lumber. When Matthew barged in, it looked like he was busy selecting pieces for the fence he still needed to fix.
“Since when did you become such a go-getter?” Matthew asked as he picked his way over old wood. “I keep seeing you out here in the mornings but seriously, you don’t have to rush.”
Connor used to think of his brother as so much smaller, but recently it was like looking in a mirror. Not quite as tall, filled out with more muscle in the shoulders from farm work, his beard more fully grown in. The eyes were the same, though, the shape of his jaw and the set of his mouth. The way he carried himself, they could almost be twins.
Connor smacked his hands against his jeans to get out the dust. “Figured it was time to get cracking on that fence I promised you. Do you have more wire, or should I pick some up?”
“I told you,” Matthew said, pouring coffee into a mug. “There’s always going to be more work. You don’t have to kill yourself getting it done.”
“And I told you, I’m not here for handouts. Thanks.” Connor accepted the mug and lifted it to say cheers. “I needed this.”
“I figured. I saw you come out here an hour ago. You’ve been working that long and you haven’t even managed to pick out which pieces of wood to use?”
Connor’s hand froze with the mug partway to his lips. “Am I too slow?”
Matthew blew on his coffee and laughed. “Come on, don’t be an ass. I’m just wondering what you’re up to.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Connor decided there were definite drawbacks to having someone in your life who knew you well enough to predict when you needed coffee and could tell when you were lying through your teeth.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, looking away as he took such a huge gulp of coffee he burned his tongue.
“I don’t believe you for a second,” Matthew said, cupping his mug, and Connor began to suspect this little coffee run had nothing to do with caffeine.
“I know it’s been an adjustment,” Matthew went on. “To be honest, even when Dad said you were coming, I hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly—or I thought you’d go back and forth more before you fully moved. If you fully moved,” he corrected himself, and Connor wondered why he was speaking so carefully.
“Matty.” He put his mug down. “What exactly are you asking?”
“Kristen sent me out here,” Matthew said sheepishly, the same boyish grin he’d once used to weasel out of trouble when he’d been caught stealing sips from their dad’s liquor cabinet or sneaking a girl into his room. “She said it was time for us to have a talk.”
“Sounds serious.”
Matthew laughed. “Not a talk talk. A check-in, I guess? I wondered if it was something Austin or Sam might have said. Or if—” He looked around, as though the woodworking could supply the end of the sentence. He looked back at Connor. “I’m just going to say it, okay?”
Connor nodded. “You have me nervous, baby bro. Out with it already.”
“If there’s something going on at Gold Mountain. If you want to go back—for a few days, a few weeks, or forever—you should totally, one hundred percent, feel free to do it.” He held up a hand when Connor began to protest. “I’m not kicking you out. I’m not saying we want you to go. I just want you to know that option is on the table. Kristen and I won’t be offended. No matter what Dad says, neither of us wants you to feel obligated to us or to the farm.”
“I told you I’d work for you,” Connor said. “I’d never back down on that.”
But he wondered, even as he said it, how much a commitment from him meant when he was so good at changing his mind.
Matthew, though, didn’t seem to doubt him. “I know that, which is why I’m telling you explicitly that I wouldn’t take it that way.”
“I appreciate that. I guess. But why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re my brother, and my best friend, and I want you to be happy. If this isn’t what you want, it’s okay to go back to Gold Mountain. Even if you thought it’s what you wanted but it turns out not to be, I’d rather have you there and happy than here and missing something.”
Connor’s face felt like it had lost all feeling. “Why would you think I’m missing something?”
“At first I thought you were crazy to open a restaurant with Mack.” At the mention of her name, Connor inhaled, the air filling him too fast so that he thought something in him might burst. Anyone else might not have noticed, but this was Matthew. He narrowed his eyes.
“But I wonder if maybe that’s what you need,” he continued, still giving Connor that careful look, alert to every breath.
Connor pushed out a laugh. “You think I need a heart attack waiting to happen?”
Matthew smiled. “I think you need to be cooking. Even better if you’re doing it with someone who keeps you on your toes.”
“Trust me,” Connor said, picking up his coffee again. “There are plenty of ways to keep life interesting without that particular brand of stress.”
“Are there, though?”
Connor stared at him blankly, not understanding.
“I’m talking about having someone around who challenges you,” Matthew went on. “I know building fences isn’t the same kind of work as being in a kitchen, and even if you think you want the change, I’m afraid you’re going to miss it. You will,” he said when he saw Connor’s expression. “I’m afraid you miss it already. Face it, Kristen and I love everything you do for us.” He laughed. “But is that enough?”
Connor realized Matthew meant it as a real question. “Of course it is,” he said. “It’s better than constant uphill battles.”
But he didn’t feel like Matthew believed him. And he wasn’t sure he believed himself. Was it a fight Mack had provided, or something else?
And if he didn’t want her attention, her feedbac
k, her presence in his life, then why did he pull out the wood he was working on as soon as Matthew left?
If staying with Matthew and Kristen and working on the farm were enough, why was he still thinking of Mack?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mack sighed and skimmed through her notes again, the pro and con lists she’d reworked so many times they no longer made sense. “Between our top two candidates, Mitch has more experience, but Allie seems more interested in being here and working with the culture of the restaurant.”
“But who has better food?” Sam asked, and they were back to that again, trying to make a choice between two people when the one they really wanted, they couldn’t have.
It was better making these calls with someone who trusted Mack’s opinion and didn’t second-guess her at every point. But Sam put so much faith in Mack, it was frustrating, too. Where were the hard questions, the debate that forced Mack to reconsider and hone her points? Where was the sense that when she defended something, it was because she meant it down to her guts?
Sam reminded her that if their first choice didn’t work out, they could always find someone new. Either candidate would be fine.
But Mack didn’t want fine. She wanted this to be perfect the first time around. Even as she knew her quest to control the uncontrollable was part of what had driven their best option for a head chef out of the kitchen. And her arms.
The truth was, she missed Connor. The longing was a physical ache, a soreness she carried with her like a companion. It was a constant reminder of the ways he’d hurt her—and all the ways she’d fucked up.
She missed his cooking, his energy, his barrage of ideas. She missed his commitment to the restaurant and to making things better. She missed his laugh, even when his jokes were bad or it wasn’t the time to be kidding. She looked at the bar and she missed the feel of his hands, the slide of his skin, the weight of his body as he turned her and pressed into her, whispering her name. She missed his touch, his scent, the way she’d thrown back her head and let herself go in his arms. Not perfect, not in control. But entirely his.
Sam said, quietly, “I wish he were here, too,” and Mack realized it must have been obvious. Her sadness. Regret. Sam didn’t know the half of it, but she knew enough. She knew that regardless of whether they chose Mitch or Allie, it wouldn’t be the same.
She should have savored him while she had the chance. She should have spent every night in his bed while she could.
She gave Sam a half smile. “You talk to him recently?” she asked.
Sam gave a noncommittal shrug. “Austin’s in touch with him. I know he’s at his brother’s. There was talk of some fence he’s building.”
“Sounds like fun,” Mack muttered, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Whenever she thought she was going to turn to jelly from missing him, anger surged up to claw at her chest. How he’d abandoned them for something completely different. How he’d made a promise to their restaurant, and then up and left.
“Come on,” Sam said with forced encouragement. “It’s decision time.”
But before they could get into it again, the sound of tires on gravel made them both look up. It was the weekend, and the work crew had the day off. They’d finished painting the insides and putting in the tables and were getting ready to pick out the final decorations before completing the finishing touch: the sign outside. But that was supposed to be coming next week. Mack wasn’t expecting anyone to stop by, and the surprise on Sam’s face said neither was she.
It was an unfamiliar truck, dark red, and something huge was wrapped in opaque plastic and strapped to the roof. The thing was long and flat and so big it must not have been able to fit in the bed, which was covered with a tarp. “We don’t have a delivery scheduled, do we?” Mack asked.
Sam scrolled through her calendar. “Nothing I wrote down. It’s probably someone lost or turning around.”
Sam went back to her phone, but Mack watched as the truck pulled into a parking space across from them. The license plate was from Oregon and there were three stickers on the bumper. One said PDX, for Portland. One had a silhouette of Seattle’s Space Needle. And one had three letters, MTN, in black and gold. The logo of Gold Mountain, with a line drawing of the peak behind the lettering.
There were something like four million people in Oregon. Quite a few of them had trucks. With state license plates, obviously. Gold Mountain was a bit of a hike from points south, but plenty of visitors flocked here in all seasons. Mack knew it didn’t mean a thing.
She was supposed to have purged him from her thoughts, not still imagine she saw him in every bearded face in Safeway or behind the wheel of some random truck in town.
Ever since she’d had that wild, fleeting fantasy that Connor had come back to her and opened the door to Sam instead, she’d vowed to keep her head out of the clouds. Double down and focus—that was her motto. No pining. No longing. No hungering after what-ifs and second chances and hopes for something more.
And absolutely no entertaining the notion that he might, when she least expected it, show up saying she was the one.
It’s not him, it’s not him, she repeated to herself as the engine cut off. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
And then the door opened, and Mack discovered that people who said their heart skipped a beat weren’t kidding. She almost had to hit the thing to get it restarted, so completely had she frozen at the sight of leather boots, frayed jeans, a tanned arm followed by a dark T-shirt fitted to his form.
Trim beard, chiseled cheekbones, brown hair angled over bright blue eyes.
He must have been doing heavy work on the farm, because his shoulders looked thicker, the contours of his chest visible though his shirt. He slammed the door and ran a hand through his hair. A quiet damn escaped her mouth. He was rugged, beautiful, and obviously her brain had been trying to fool her into forgetting how much she’d lost, because even in her late-night fantasies reliving every glance, every touch, he hadn’t come close to looking this good.
He paused, and there was a beat in which Mack thought for sure he was going to run to her. She could feel her body melting into him at the heat of his touch, the rightness of his arms.
But he didn’t.
Because this was her life, not a fantasy, and it wasn’t going to work out that way.
He waved to Sam, who was standing beside Mack. And Mack felt something wrench inside, a crack that was her whole heart breaking with a finality she hadn’t experienced even when he walked out. Because then there was confusion, uncertainty, and the possibility, however small, that his absence was temporary. Something they could work through.
Now, she realized, it was real. It was over. Because it had never really begun. His presence made clear how meaningless their dalliance had been. How little he was hers.
Connor was back to see friends, to check on the restaurant, whatever. He wasn’t back to see her.
She had to keep it together. She had to get through this moment, and the next one, and the next. She couldn’t let him see her cry.
“I brought you something,” Connor said.
Mack was so full of her sudden realization that she wasn’t sure who he was talking to. He still hadn’t greeted her, hadn’t given her that same warm, open, uncomplicated smile he’d given Sam. He hadn’t even come over, like she might warrant a handshake, a hug—let alone a quickie out back, for old times’ sake.
He walked around the truck, and Mack made herself follow Sam down from the patio. Her joints felt soldered together, like she could barely move. The pain in her heart was physical, an actual rip. In the different kinds of heartache she’d experienced—the people who were supposed to love her but left, the ones she was supposed to trust but let her down, the one who’d protected her but died before his time—she’d never felt anything like this. She’d never watched someone she loved—not for now but for always—truly not love her back.
Then he threw off the tarp covering the back of the truck.
Hundreds of sunflowers, to be precise, beaming their wide-open faces to the sky.
It couldn’t be. It didn’t mean what her heart wanted it to. He was taking them somewhere. They were for someone else. They weren’t for anyone. It was a coincidence. She’d made that comment about liking sunflowers in passing. There was no reason for him to remember. There was no reason for him to—
“Sam, can you help me with this?” he said, and began cutting through the twine holding the thing on top of the truck in place.
Sam clearly had no more of a clue what was going on than Mack did, but her limbs still worked, so she helped Connor untie it and unwrap the plastic covering.
Sam was closer, taller, and could see more. As the plastic came off, all Mack could see was that it looked like a huge slab of wood. She had no idea what it was supposed to mean. Flowers and something nicely polished, so what? But Sam let out a gasp as her hands flew to her mouth.
“Is it okay with you?” Connor asked.
Sam said, “It’s not up to me,” and suddenly they were both looking at Mack with such expectation, she had no idea what had happened. Or what she was supposed to do now.
“I think I’ll leave you guys to it,” Sam said, skirting Mack and hopping up to the patio to gather her things.
“Call me later,” she said to Mack, who stood there, slack-jawed, wanting to tell her to stay, because what the hell?
But Connor was reaching into the bed of the truck and handing her a sunflower, and she knew then why he hadn’t said anything to her. Sometimes there were simply no words.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Connor stood next to his brother’s truck and watched the face of the woman he loved snap shut like a trap, so inscrutable that no matter how many years he’d known her, he still couldn’t read what it meant. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake.
He’d made plenty in the past—leaving because he thought he had to stop himself from getting too close, falling too deep, opening himself to the kind of hurt he’d done everything in his life to avoid.
Make Me Beg (The Men of Gold Mountain) Page 17
