“Yes. But it usually encompasses gossip.” Carly cocked her head expectantly, tossing her coat over the back of the couch in the cozy living room.
“How’s Jackson? Are you guys making do with postponing your honeymoon until spring, when ski season is over?” Sloane took the bag into the kitchen and started flipping through the cabinets in quick movements, her skin prickling from Carly’s eagle eyes on her every step of the way. She should’ve known Carly would read too much into the whole let’s-have-coffee routine.
“He’s fine. How are you?”
Sloane placed two dishes on the counter and popped the paper bag open, taking a big inhale that made her mouth water. “I’m fine. Mmmm, cinnamon raisin muffins. You know these are my favorite. They’re the best.”
Carly frowned, placing a firm hand on each hip. “Are you trying to distract me with flattery and niceties?”
“Distract you from what? Coffee should be done in a minute,” Sloane said, jutting her chin at the burbling pot.
“You forget how long we’ve known each other, cucciola. Something’s going on with you. I know a cry for help when I hear it.”
“More like a cry for sanity.” Sloane’s mutter got lost in the depths of the incredible aroma drifting up from the paper bag. “Good God, these really do smell amazing.”
Carly’s attention wavered to the food, tempting Sloane into a sigh of relief. “They’re better warmed up. They only need a couple of minutes.” Carly motioned for the bag, and Sloane dutifully passed it over so Carly could put the muffins into the oven.
“So do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Carly threw a glance over her shoulder as she moved through the kitchen and suddenly, Sloane felt like one of those butterflies pinned down to a board, waiting to be labeled.
“Nothing’s going on. Don’t tell me you’re so mired in marital bliss already that just hanging out with your best friend on your day off is out.” Sloane laughed in an effort to cancel out any heat the words might carry.
Carly snapped a dish towel at her menacingly. “Don’t hate on married people. You never know if you’ll end up as one someday.” She let Sloane’s laughter run its course before continuing. “Of course I don’t mind spending part of my day off with you, but we haven’t had breakfast together in a while. Seriously, is everything okay?”
“Technically, I think this is lunch. And yes, everything is fine. Really fine, actually. I solved the rest of my cash flow problem.”
Carly stopped with her hand halfway to the coffeepot and stared. “You did? How?”
Sloane paused. She sucked at beating around the bush, and with Carly, there was no point, anyway. Plus, this wasn’t that big of a deal. She said, “I’m going to keep the nanny gig for another six weeks so I can pay my way to Greece.”
Much to Sloane’s surprise, Carly’s expression was way more satisfied grin than horrified shock. “I thought kids weren’t your thing.”
Sloane snorted, unable to help it. “I’m not going to have any. I’m just going to keep track of one for a little while. And like I said, it’s only temporary. Bree’s regular babysitter had a bigger emergency than she expected, and I really need the money, so I said I’d stick around and help out. It’ll make things tight for the book, but I should be able to get on a plane with just enough time to make it work.”
“You are quite the literary Fembot. I bet the minute you get there, the ideas will flow like the Aegean. You’ll crank that book out in no time.”
A rich, comforting aroma wafted across the breakfast bar as Carly poured twin mugs of coffee, but it did little to cancel out the feeling of unease brewing in Sloane’s belly at the mention of the b-word. God, getting down ideas for this book had been like trying to suck peanut butter through a cocktail straw. Finally having a solid plan to get to Greece and let the words loose on the page should be sending her into a joyful frenzy. And yet something she couldn’t identify still had her breath hopscotching through her lungs instead.
The longer she stayed in Pine Mountain, the worse it was getting.
“Well, I don’t have anything solid yet, but I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it. And now that everything’s falling into place, the words should follow suit,” Sloane agreed, punctuating her words with a reinforcing nod.
After all, this was how it always was. Her books started out as tiny glimmers in her head, growing and percolating and swirling around until the next thing she knew, she immersed herself in a locale and inspiration slammed into her like a literary hurricane. If Sloane showed up in Greece and soaked in her exotic surroundings, the words would spill across her screen, just like they always did when she arrived on location. She was sure of it.
The timing, the circumstances, the possibility for success—all of it was perfect, really. Except . . .
“So Gavin only needs you for six weeks, huh? Or did you tell him you’re on a deadline?”
Sloane took a gulp of too-hot coffee, choking it down with a sputter. “No, I, uh . . . I didn’t mention my trip to Greece.”
Carly’s brows winged upward. “Any particular reason?”
Sloane hesitated. “I . . . I was afraid that if I told Gavin I was leaving, he’d just rely on the babysitting service and get someone with more experience,” she said, rushing to add, “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I intend to take care of Bree for the whole six weeks like I said I would. But it doesn’t make me look very dependable if I have an expiration date stamped on my forehead, you know? I don’t want to push it and lose my chance.”
“True.” Carly canted her head in thought. “But it’s not like traveling isn’t a regular part of your lifestyle. You think he’d care that much?”
Sloane’s breath thickened in her throat. “Aside from winning the lottery, I don’t have any other way of getting to Greece unless I do this, and I can’t risk finding out the hard way. Plus, Gavin already has reason to think I’m a little . . . impulsive. I don’t want to make it worse.”
She booted herself with a mental kick for the hundredth time today. Sure, she’d just had to blame their heat-of-the-moment rendezvous on her capricious nature. Since when had marching to your own drummer become such a liability?
“Reaaaaaally? And what would make Gavin think you’re so impulsive?” Carly’s eyes sparkled over the word as if it rated a perfect ten on the naughty scale, and Sloane realized her gaffe too late.
“Well, it’s possible that he . . . has some firsthand knowledge in that department.” Her cheeks heated, no doubt highlighting her guilt with a blush of admission.
“Sloane,” Carly intoned playfully. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No?” It came out like a question, and Carly’s jaw popped so wide, her molars flashed.
“You’re a terrible liar!” She broke into a grin that would make the Cheshire cat slink away in defeat. “You besmirched my restaurant manager, didn’t you?”
“No!” The laughter welling up in Sloane’s chest rode a tide of nervous energy, but she knew when she’d been beat. She admitted, “We may have, ah, kissed, but technically, there was no besmirching.”
Carly shook her head with a laugh of her own and bent to slide the warm muffins from the oven. “To be honest, I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”
Sloane made a rude noise and turned to stare at her friend. “Excuse me? Unless I’m mistaken, I don’t have a habit of . . . besmirching the people you work with.” She might be a touch impetuous, but come on! It wasn’t synonymous with easy, for Chrissake!
“Oh, don’t get your panties in a tangle. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that with all the sparks flying between the two of you at La Dolce Vita last week, I figured you’d either end up killing each other, or in bed together. That’s all.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s going to be none of the above.” While Sloane didn’t have too many personal limits as a rule, she knew better than to mix business with pleasure. “The last thing I need before getting out of Dodge is t
o be distracted.”
“Distracted, huh? Sounds like a hell of a kiss,” Carly said, and although Sloane recognized the subtle bid for information, her resolve didn’t budge.
“Even good distractions are still distractions. Now fork over that muffin, would you? I’m starving.”
Sloane dug into the crumbly cinnamon perfection with a less-than-dainty grunt, losing herself in thought as the jamlike sweetness of the warm raisins and the rich, dark cinnamon melted in her mouth. Okay, so she’d left out a teensy part of the equation, and it rattled around in her brain like a marble in a glass box.
Gavin thought she was good enough to look after the one person in life who meant more to him than anything else. He’d even said so, and the words had nearly derailed her to the point of saying no. But then he’d mentioned her book, and everything had whipped into startling focus.
Trying to write a book in Pine Mountain had been an exercise in futility. If she wanted to save her career, she had to go to Greece. And that meant she had to say yes. So not only would she stay, but for the next six weeks, she’d be the best damned babysitter to ever set foot in the Blue Ridge.
Sloane couldn’t let Gavin see how wrong he’d been about her being good enough. Her livelihood depended on it.
Sloane crunched her eyebrows over the scribbled notes on her legal pad, rereading each of the six pages she’d written with growing confusion. The words made sense—in fact, they made wonderful sense, evoking an excitement from deep in her belly that she hadn’t felt in far too long.
But she had no idea where they’d come from, and the word Greece didn’t appear on the pages. Not even once.
“Great. Now what am I supposed to do with it?”
Her semisarcastic mumble was punctuated by the sound of a key in the lock, and Sloane tossed her legal pad to the couch just in time to catch the blur of haphazard ponytail and threadbare jacket that signaled the arrival of her charge.
“Hey, you. How was school?” She pulled her writing hat to her lap, twisting the thick cotton edges absently between her fingers.
“It was school.” Bree shrugged, slinging her backpack from her waiflike shoulder with a heavy thud. She made her way to the kitchen, and Sloane followed suit.
“At least it’s Friday,” Sloane volunteered with enough shiny enthusiasm to make herself slightly nauseous. All week, she’d been pouring effort into making sure Bree was one hundred percent well-cared for, stopping just short of tucking the kid in at night. And all week, Bree had given absolutely zero indication that she cared one way or the other, let alone liked Sloane enough to specifically request her for a babysitter.
Who knew kids were so damned infuriating?
“I guess.” Bree lifted an arm to slide a glass from the cupboard, revealing a quarter-sized hole in the underarm of her shirt.
“Whoa, your shirt needs a little surgery there.” Sloane gestured to the split in the fabric, and Bree jerked her head toward it for a churlish inspection.
“Again?” She mashed her arm flat against her side as if to smother the hole into submission, shifting her weight to accommodate her new stance.
Even though she knew she risked Bree’s ire by doing it, Sloane gave the girl a long, up-and-down appraisal, and her heart panged with realization. It took a close inspection to realize it, but the sleeves on Bree’s shirt revealed just enough of her wrist to be too short, and the fabric sat a touch too snugly over her arms. If she lifted a hand just right, she’d pop that underarm seam like a grape.
How long had it been since Bree had gone shopping for new clothes?
Sloane opened her mouth to put words to the question in her mind, but Bree’s pink cheeks and reinforced scowl made her stop midbreath. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Bree embarrassed easily, and putting her under a microscope, even with good intentions, certainly wouldn’t get Sloane in her good graces. Maybe she should just let it go.
Bree stooped down to pull a soda from the fridge, and the gap between her shirt and jeans revealed the bunchy, shapeless waistband of her underwear. Lord, they must be clinging to life by a literal thread. No way could Sloane turn the other cheek. But how could she possibly make headway with this kid without getting shot down, just like she had all week?
Unless . . .
“Hey, did I ever tell you that when I was thirteen, I grew so fast that my father tried putting The Complete Works of William Shakespeare on my head to get me to stop?” Sloane cocked her hip and leaned against the countertop, trying to look as bored as possible.
Bree’s eyes flashed, chocolate brown and wary, but she didn’t say anything. Sloane’s gut gave a twinge of defeat, but she stuffed it down.
“He was kidding, of course. But man, I think I grew four inches that summer alone. I was the tallest kid in the eighth grade.”
“Even taller than the boys?” Bree’s voice sifted past the hum of the fridge, barely audible.
“Oh, yeah,” Sloane said, meeting the question with an easy laugh. “They totally made fun of me.”
Bree’s brow folded over a look of disbelief. “Of you?”
She nodded, putting up her hand as if taking a solemn oath. “Yup. Too-Tall Sloaney Baloney, at your service.”
A burst of genuine laughter spilled from Bree’s lips to fill the kitchen, and Sloane felt a bolt of shock at how girlish it made her look.
“So what did you do? To get them to stop, I mean,” Bree said.
“There wasn’t much I could do, really. My older sisters told me the boys were just embarrassed that they hadn’t grown so tall yet, and that made sense, but it didn’t help much. Once we got to high school a year later, lots of the boys were as tall as me, even taller by the time I graduated. And everyone kind of forgot about it.”
“Does anyone still call you Sloaney Baloney?”
Sloane cracked a self-deprecating grin. “Not if they want to live to tell the tale.” She paused, dipping her chin to meet Bree’s eyes across the counter space.
It was now or never.
“You’re growing too fast to keep up with your clothes, aren’t you?”
Bree wound her arms around herself in a flash of long limbs. “Nobody’s calling me names over it, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Well, I’m glad no one’s calling you names. But I respectfully disagree about it being a big deal. Can I ask why you’re hiding it from Gavin?”
“Who says I’m hiding it from him?” She angled her body away from Sloane on the other side of the breakfast bar, but didn’t flee, so Sloane proceeded with gentle caution.
“Because if he saw that shirt, he’d take you shopping in about ten seconds flat.” Sloane had no doubt Gavin did his best to take care of Bree. But if she’d been hiding her ill-fitting clothes from him, he wouldn’t have the chance. Plus, noticing the length of her shirtsleeves was probably the last thing on his mind, considering everything they’d been through.
Bree huffed softly. “Would you ask your older brother to take you shopping for clothes? For . . .” She lowered her voice to a thready whisper. “For underwear?”
Eh. The kid had a point. Sloane sighed. “I hear what you’re saying, Bree, but maybe you should give him a little credit. It might not be as bad as you think. And pretty soon, you’re going to run out of shirts. You need clothes that fit.”
“I can fix this.” Bree lifted her arm again, twisting to get a closer look at the tear. Something utterly strange ripped free in Sloane’s chest, and before she could even process the sensation, she was moving with swift intention. She pushed away from the counter and took a step around the breakfast bar, then another and another until they were close enough for her to see the shock in Bree’s eyes.
“I know you can, but you don’t have to. Now go get your coat.”
“What? Why?”
Sloane marched over to the kitchen cabinet where Gavin kept the coffee and propped it open with a decisive tug.
“Because your brother has a hundred dollars in
here in case of an emergency, and today’s emergency is a trip to the mall.”
Chapter Fourteen
Gavin raked a hand through his hair as he made the turn onto Rural Route Four, finally succumbing to the delicious exhaustion that signaled yet another successful Friday night shift. He’d never been a nine-to-five kind of guy, and while the weariness wasn’t exactly relaxing, it was the sign of a job well done. At some point, he’d probably pay for it, but come on. He was only thirty-two. There was plenty of time before he had to worry about his body yielding to the long hours and brutally hectic nature of his job. Of course, he’d thought there would be plenty of time for other things too. Things that could vanish in the blink of an eye, without warning.
Things that mattered a lot more than a couple of aches and pains from a double shift or two.
“Great attitude there, Carmichael,” he grunted, guiding the Audi up the shadowy driveway toward the cottage. While things with Bree weren’t all hearts and flowers, there had been some hopeful glimmers lately, and in truth, those tiny moments had saved him. She wasn’t the fun-loving little girl he’d left behind with their mom in Philly, although the three years he’d spent traveling for work had gone by so fast, they’d been reduced to a smudgy blur of cities with restaurants desperate for rescue attached. The bakery bistro in San Francisco—his first big break into management—had been a grueling series of trial and error for eight months. But after going to culinary school and doing his time to move up the ranks in Philadelphia’s bustling restaurant scene, he was hungry for the backbreaking work of managing his own place. When that job opened up in San Francisco, he’d pounced on the chance to go.
Gavin put the car in Park, and rather than fighting his thoughts like usual, he let them spin backward, into his past. The success he’d felt at righting the bistro, at going in to fix what needed fixing in order to make the place flourish, had been addicting, so much so that he’d wanted to do it again. San Francisco became Santa Fe, which then morphed into Chicago, and before Gavin could turn around, over three years and just as many restaurants had passed, not to mention half a summer’s worth of European wine tours in between.
Stirring Up Trouble Page 15
